Sleeping With Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

Monsieur ,” I responded with a tired smile. “ 15 boulevard Jourdan, au quatorzième, s’il vous plaît .”
    I asked him to take me to my new address in the 14th arrondissement, where I would begin my new life. I rolled down the window and rode along in silence, taking in the early-morning hustle bustle of the city.
    Miniature cars buzzed in and out of the skinny, winding roads, their drivers not paying any attention to road signs or stop lights. Rows of black balconies with splashes of pink and white flowers lined the endless view of gray apartment buildings. Slim Parisians donned long sleeves and dark pants, despite the humidity that weighed down on the city like a ton of bricks. Puffs of cigarette smoke billowed from their mouths as they strolled toward the metro, not seeming to be in any kind of hurry. As we passed by a boulangerie , the scent of warm, buttery croissants drifted into the cab, but even so, I didn’t feel an ounce of hunger.
    It had been almost five years since I’d last visited Paris, and as I sat alone in the sweaty, leather seat of the cab, listening to the bizarre sound of French sirens race past, my stomach churned. I didn’t feel good about being here. It felt forced and wrong. In my rush to get away from Jeff and the hurt he had caused me, I hadn’t dealt with any of it. And now here I was—alone in France, with no friends, no fiancé to go home to, and the thought that Jeff probably had someone to go home to tonight. Brooke. How depressing.
    After an hour of nauseating stop-and-go traffic, we pulled up in front of a massive brick building on boulevard Jourdan. Happy to rid my lungs of the stale taxicab air, I handed over the equivalent of my life’s savings in cab fare, lugged my bags up to the information desk and collected the key to room number 360. God, I hoped it was nice.
    As I let myself into my new abode, I dropped my suitcases onto the dirty tile floor and scanned the room. It was tiny. So tiny that it wasn’t even half the size of my studio apartment in DC, and the “bed” was actually a flat little cot with a thin plastic mattress. A grungy sink stuck out of the pale blue wall and a rusty mirror stared back at me, making me realize I didn’t have my own bathroom. Ugh. I couldn’t believe I was going to have to fit all of my stuff into this space and try to get a good night’s sleep on that cot while sharing a communal bathroom with complete strangers. The pictures of the building on the Internet had given the illusion that the rooms would be nicer than this. Or I’d been in such a rush to get away from Jeff, that in my delirious state, I’d agreed to the first place I could find. Not the best planning I’d ever done.
    My room did have one thing going for it—a giant window framed by a set of deep red curtains. I stuck my head through the wispy drapes and spotted a few other international dorms and a sprawling lawn filled with students playing soccer, or “ le foot ” as the French called it. It was charming, but it didn’t matter at that moment—I was exhausted and alone.
    And despite everything, I missed Jeff. Maybe I had acted rashly, never giving him a chance to explain, never even considering working things out. I lay down on my rock hard cot-bed thing and wallowed in self-pity for a while. I felt horrible. Why did this have to happen to me? I was supposed to be with my fiancé, lying in a cushy, king-sized bed in abeautiful apartment overlooking the Seine. Not miserable and alone in this dingy little room on this piece-of-crap bed.
    My desperation was reaching new heights. I needed to talk to someone, so I reached for the phone and dialed home.
    “Hello?” my mom answered anxiously, clearly hoping to hear my voice on the other line.
    “Hi, Mom,” I greeted her wearily.
    “Charlotte!” she said in her panicky mom voice. “Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?”
    “Don’t worry Mom, I’m in Paris. I made it here just fine.”
    “Where are you