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“What kind of an idiot goes to the most romantic city on earth all by herself to get over abroken heart?”
That would be me. And the slightly nasal voice in my head asking that question belongedto my best friend, Kelly. That voice continued to nag me about how dangerous it was tobe in a foreign country with a broken heart as I stood in the long line at Customs atCharles de Gaulle airport. It even had the nerve to follow me when I boarded the tram tobaggage claim. She wouldn’t shut up. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t an idiot and myheart wasn’t
that
broken. But shrieking like a crazy person in the middle of the airport?Not such a good idea, mainly because handcuffs and a straitjacket wouldn’t go with myoutfit.By the time I’d arrived in Paris that morning my emotions were bouncing from oneextreme to the next. I was extremely tired from my sleepless overnight flight, extremelyexcited to finally be in Paris and extremely scared because I had come all alone to aforeign countrywhere I barely knew the language. Maybe Kelly was right. Maybe Iwas an idiot. But it was too late now. I was already here. And I was going to enjoy myself if it killed me. I just needed a little sleep and then Kelly’s voice would disappear just likemy last boyfriend.“Ah, Madame Sinclair, our solo traveler has arrived,” exclaimed a dapper Frenchmanholding aclipboard when I finally managed to locate my tour group in terminal 2C.The man’s badge read Sebastian Marcel, TransEuro Tours. He was dressed in a neat bluethree-piece suit with a striped shirt and red bow tie. A white handkerchief poked out of his jacket pocket. He sported a head full of thick snow-white hair and wire- rimmedglasses perched on the end of his narrow nose.“Bonjour,” I said to Monsieur Marcel and the group. Curious stares and a few friendlynods returned my greeting. My gray eyes, honey-colored skin and long, thick dark hair are always a source of speculation. I could see the unasked questions frozen in everyfurrowed brow and narrowed eye. But they’d be stunned to know that I was just ascurious as they were about my origins. My mother had been African- American. I haveno idea about my father. The answer to that mystery died with my adoptive parents.“I trust your flight was pleasant?” the tour guide inquired.“Yes. Thank you.”A quick perusal of the twenty or so people gathered confirmed my worst fears. The tour
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