Take a chance on Paris E-Book

Petra Coltat-Gran

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 458

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Alba triumphs. She has finally put her decision into action: Away from Germany and into dreamy Paris. She has high hopes for the city with the Eiffel Tower. But when Alba sets off on a cold September morning, leaving everything behind her, she has no idea of the dangers and traps that await her. Initial successes reward Alba for her boldness. She discovers famous places, meets fascinating people and makes friends with young, spirited women. There are even exotic love affairs in the offing. However, Paris soon reveals its merciless side. Gradually, Alba finds herself in unbearable situations that come to a dramatic head. To make matters worse, she suddenly finds herself in the middle of criminal machinations.

Leseprobe

Introduction

Petra Coltat-Granwas born in Germany. As a young adult, she made the decision to move to Paris, where she pursued studies in French literature, business administration and management. Her professional experience spans Franco-German and international contexts. For over twenty years, she has been dedicated to teaching at Parisian universities and business schools. She teaches “International Trade" and "Intercultural Management", while serving as the director for various training programs. Her novelDangerous Bet on Parisoffers a glimpse into authentic Parisian life, with its dramas, extravagant settings and peculiar characters. A young woman leaves her German homeland to seek her fortune in Paris. Just as she overcomes her first hurdles, she becomes entangled in a web spun by sinister characters, drawing her into a criminal affair. The situation spirals into despair. Throughout these confrontations, she encounters people from various countries, including a spirited “Kölsch” girl (girl from Cologne) and a confident young woman from Verona, Italy. Together, they face highs and lows, each chasing personal ambitions while confronting extraordinary challenges. Some meet bitter and dramatic ends. The reader follows the fates of the main characters witnessing the resilience of strangers striving to find their place in a cosmopolitan yet often ruthless city.

Information

This book is a novel. Plots and characters are fictitious.

Quote

"The moment you finally commit yourself to a task, providence moves. All sorts of things that would otherwise never have happened also happen to help you. A whole stream of events is set in motion by the decision, and it provides in your favor numerous, unforeseen coincidences, encounters and help that no human being could ever have dreamed of. Whatever you can do, begin it. Boldness generates genius, power and magic. Begin now."

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 1

1https://quozio.com/quote/2f81d90d/1025-2fd0f/in-dem-augenblick-in-dem-man-sich-endg%C3%BCltig-einer-aufgabe. 04/04/2024

Dedication

For everyone who dreams of Paris. For people who leave their homeland for whatever reason, for Sister Fidelis and my mother.

PROLOGUE

Today, thousands of urban voyagers flow again through Châtelet metro station, a sprawling hub in the heart of Paris's underground network. A seemingly endless labyrinth of tunnels and platforms! Among the crowd, three dark fellows navigate with uncanny ease. Like predators in their element, they weave through the maze with a single goal: to execute yet another flawless theft. Two years of experience in this criminal activity have made them masters of their craft. Their preferred method, the infamous "jostling trick," enables them to deftly snatch wallets, jewelry, cameras, cell phones and ID cards, all in the blink of an eye.

Tonight, they’ve planned their operation in a narrow corridor along Line 14. They’ve learned to avoid train compartments and platforms, as public awareness campaigns have made passengers more vigilant. A recent failed attempt only reinforced this lesson: a woman, sensing danger, had clutched her bag tightly before boarding. Their plan had crumbled in an instant, leaving them to retreat empty-handed.

"Alright, time to dive in!" the gang leader barks. "Remember, we're hitting the metro corridor. Stay cool; they’re all rushing to the platform and won’t even notice us. But be careful!" His sharp tone silences any hesitation.

The clock strikes six. The rush hour crush is so intense that gaps between people barely exist. The pickpockets slip into the crowd like phantoms, each taking their assigned role. The smallest of the trio, nicknamed "Little One," is tasked with the actual theft. His burly accomplices, broad-shouldered and towering, create a diversion by jostling the target. Tonight’s victim is a tourist in his mid-forties, clad in sportswear and carrying a sturdy green-and-black rucksack. His appearance screams affluence, and his slight build suggests little resistance.

The gang approaches, the sea of voyagers pushing them ever closer to their prey. The attack can begin. The two large men shove the tourist with calculated force, leaving him momentarily paralyzed by surprise. One steps aside, while the other grabs the man by the shoulders, grinning with a disarming mix of mockery and charm.

"Oops! Not so fast, Sir. That’s what happens when you’re not paying attention," the giant says, his deep voice reverberating through the corridor. The distraction works. As the tourist stares at him in bewilderment, the "Little One" unzips the rucksack from behind, extracting a black leather wallet and a smartphone.

The person under attack notices something, senses the theft and spins around, catching the culprit in the act. Without hesitation, he punches the pickpocket square in the nose, reclaiming his belongings in the scuffle. Disoriented and furious, the tourist cries for help, but the crowd moves on, indifferent. "Police! Police!" he shouts, collapsing to the ground in pain as the thieves vanish into the chaos.

Panting and disheveled, the gang escapes through a nearby exit. "We’ll have to rethink this," mutters the "Little One," his black hair matted with sweat. His fingers trace the long scar on his cheek, a keepsake from a knife fight with a rival gang. With a deep sigh, he glances at his companions. "It’s getting too risky in the metro," he grumbles, barely catching his breath.

A tense silence follows as the trio gasps for air, lost in thought. Suddenly, the leader’s eyes light up, and a wicked grin spreads across his face. "Wait! I’ve got it! A brilliant idea just hit me," he exclaims, his voice sharp with excitement. "Come on, brothers!" Without waiting for a response, he strides toward their usual hideout, a café named “Annexe”.

Once seated, legs stretched out in apparent triumph, the leader unveils his new plan. His accomplices lean in, hanging on his every word. "All we need is to lure some ‘young darlings’ into our net," he concludes, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"Brilliant!" his companions echo, their voices in unison. The leader’s gaze shifts toward the language university across the street. "It’s teeming with naïve little dolls," he muses aloud. "Foreign girls too. They’re everywhere, even here in our café. It’s the perfect hunting ground."

The trio order a big bottle of mineral water—alcohol is forbidden in their faith—and begin working on a first battle plan. This time, it’s not just about theft. It’s about manipulation, charm, and a new kind of danger. The game is about to change, and the stakes are higher than ever.

FAREWELL AT DAWN

Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Moulin Rouge ... my little travel guide, which I leaf through with curiosity, is fascinating. "There is no other place like it in the world that has this unique flair. A touch of romance and seduction," promises the author. I can hardly wait to experience these sights live. I can look at the impressive color pictures in the book at my leisure, as the express train to Paris I'm on is almost deserted. There are only two older people in my compartment. After a sleepless night, I boarded the train at Saarbrücken station at seven o'clock this morning. As I'm not a fan of early mornings, I was overcome by tiredness as soon as the train started. The excitement of the night before - packing the last of my clothes, double-checking addresses, and poring over the metro map once more - was abruptly followed by the shrill ring of the alarm clock at five in the morning, turning me into a genuine zombie. That’s how I felt as I waited alone for my ICE, just before seven, eyes squeezed shut, standing on platform No. 5. None of my family wasted their time accompanying me. My farewell to my mother was taciturn and loveless. She was still in bed when I called out a curt "bye" before slamming the door behind me. I thought I heard her voice at that moment. Maybe it was a "goodbye" or an "adieu". This September morning was damn cold and foggy. As I waited on the platform, I shivered, resisting the strong wind blowing through my thin denim jacket. Despite the morning stiffness in my joints and my heavy luggage, I managed to quickly jump onto the train that had finally arrived. I almost knocked over a French conductor in the process. Arriving at my seat, I turned into a sack of potatoes and landed clumsily on my backside. “Compartment number 22, revolving door to a new life,” I thought. The heat inside had the effect of a sleeping pill. Just before I fell into a doze, I received a phone call. Despite the scowls of my fellow passengers, I answered it in a hushed voice.

"Hello Laura, did you fall out of bed? Great that you're thinking of me. And at the crack of dawn!" I greeted her, yawning.

"Of course, I'm thinking of you! Gosh! Fleeing to Paris at nineteen - and all alone, too. Did everything go well this morning?" Laura's voice sounded tremulous.

"It went according to plan. Don't worry about me."

"What are you thinking? Definitely I’m worried about you. Take good care of yourself. And don't let it get you down!"

"I promise."

"And please ... keep me up to date," were the final words of my school friend, without whose help I would have floundered in math. I quickly checked my diary for my first date at the language university where I wanted to take French classes. Only then did I sink into a deep sleep.

A loud "Tickets please" forced me back to life and my book after about twenty minutes of coma. Awake and engrossed in my reading, I suddenly hear my cell phone vibrate. A tersely worded text message leaves me perplexed:

"Hi Alba, on your way to Paris? I arrived in the city of Plön yesterday." With these lines, I can't stop the anger rising inside me. My friend Tom, or rather, my former friend Tom! How dare he get in touch? This is outrageous! Does he really think I'm going to give him an answer after what he did to me? Annoyed, I turn back to my guidebook and let myself be distracted by the chapter "Hidden gems of the city". After a few minutes, tiredness sets in again and my guidebook slips out of my hands and over to the seatnext to me.

"Issimess, Issimess", it suddenly rings in my ears. These words sound repeatedly. As I doze off and my mind floats in a fog, I can only think at a snail's pace. Hm ... what could that mean? "Issimess?" I notice that it’s moving more slowly now. A glance out of the window reveals that we are entering a train station. At the top right of the main building, I see a dark blue sign with the name "Metz" in large white letters. Another announcement confirms: "Ici Metz." The city brings back memories of my French teacher, Sister Teresa: a young woman in her early thirties with an oval, generous face, brown eyes, bright white teeth and a warm, good-natured smile. She was a pretty woman. Her appearance in class left little to the imagination. None of her hair ever managed to make its way out into the fresh air from under her hood. A broad, white band stretched across her forehead, smoothly pressing toward her dark eyebrows, as if had been ironed on. Under the long, black, religious habit, she wore a tunic with a wide belt that emphasized her slim, tall figure. "Be glad that as Saarlanders you have the privilege of being able to choose French as your first foreign language," she tried to motivate us. Sister Teresa was happy to provide a bit of history. "The US troops handed over Saarland to French units in July 1945. Saarland was then under French control, was given the franc as currency and its inhabitants were given French passports. The Saar region, in the interplay of territorial affiliations, is strongly influenced by French culture," she said in one of her last lectures. That's true, I have to admit. The vocabulary alone! There are lots of French words in circulation: porte-monnaie, canapé, visage ... along with amusing sayings that mix Saarland dialect with French. "Voulez-vous Kartoffelsupp avec verbrannte Klöss, non, non, Madame, ich danke schön, dann äss ich lieber Käs", I babble to myself amusedly. Sister Teresa had an inimitable way of livening up the lessons and saving us from falling asleep. She tried to teach us French with impressive vigor and verve - no easy task. "Soon I'll be taking the candle test with you," she announced one morning. Of course, we couldn't imagine what that meant. In fact, a week later, Sister Teresa brought sacrificial candles, like the ones you find in churches, into the classroom. She lit each candle herself and placed one in front of each of us. "Hold the candle about ten centimeters in front of your mouth," was her first command. We were then to pronounce the French word "papier", following her instructions: "The flame must not flicker, as would be the case with the German word 'Papier'." Please only articulate the 'p' softly, don't blow too hard over your lips! And don't burn yourselves!" We concentrated and did our best. But many candles were blown out immediately, which led to hilarious giggles in the class. Although Sister Teresa found our failure less amusing and expressed it with a pleading look to heaven, she kept her calm. When she came with her guitar, we breathed a sigh of relief as we escaped the relentless grammar lessons on such days. Instead, we belted out well-known popular songs such as "Frère Jacques, Frères Jacques" or "Un kilomètre à pied, ça use, ça use ... "Great language, I think now. It has always seemed inexplicably familiar to me. If reincarnation really does exist, I must have been in France in a previous life. Perhaps I will experience déjà vu in Paris, in front of “Notre Dame Cathedral” or some other impressive monuments, and suddenly think: I've been here before. "Five minutes to go," the announcement board in my compartment informs me. Three years ago, during a school trip to Metz, we experienced an adventure worth mentioning. With good humor and even enthusiasm, Sister Teresa led us into the city's imposing cathedral. As we walked quietly and reverently behind our teacher through the main avenue, her nervousness became palpable. "Please turn around, get out quickly," she suddenly shouted excitedly. "Everyone run out of the cathedral immediately!" she repeated sternly, waving both hands vigorously. I tried to understand what was going on and discovered an older man with his trousers and underwear down right in front of me on the left side of the altar. With a broad grin and a mischievous look, the deranged man - or so he seemed to me - looked over at us girls.

Back from my thoughts and smiling, I watch now the people on the platforms. We have to stand here for another two minutes. I lean back until the whistle blows and the ICE continues its journey. As it reaches full speed, I listen in a bored manner to the monotonous, muffled sound of the train: "dadamm, dadamm, dadamm ..." Without a captivating distraction - I'm too tired for my book - I dive back into my thoughts. When my father died five years ago, my mother couldn't offer any support and my boyfriend signed up for five years with the army in the far north of Germany, I was pretty devastated. When Tom surprisingly described his plans to me in a matter-of-fact tone, it gave the impression of a farewell or, to be more precise, a definitive end. "After that, I don't know what will happen next," was his last sentence. This bad news hit me like a bolt of lightning. I stood there, rigid, confused and unable to react. "And what will happen to us?" I wanted to ask. But the words stuck in my throat. Why hadn’t he talked to me about it before making this decision? The word "reckless" comes to mind after this question. Yes, even the word “cruel” flushes into my head! My rising anger subsides thanks to an automatic switch in my subconscious that activates involuntarily and automatically. Once again, images of Sister Teresa appear. She attended my father's funeral. She stood like a rock in front of my classmates at the exit of the mortuary. It was so crowded that many people had to stand outside. After the eulogy, we left the hall in silence and approached the grave. I walked behind my father's coffin with my family and felt the presence of Sister Teresa. My grief was so intense at that moment that I could barely feel anything. A fuse had blown and switched off my inner source of energy. An infinite emptiness had spread and I simply had lost all feeling. My father was my everything. He was an extraordinary person. As I walked like this, slowly raising my head, I saw our sad teacher standing by the side of the path, her tear-filled eyes fixed on me. Her distorted face expressed deepest compassion and sincere sympathy, and for a few seconds I drew strength from it. This flashback is hard to bear. "Stop it! Stop the flood of stored emotions!" I command myself. I clench my teeth tightly to keep my focus on Paris, but my inner self urges me to keep reminiscing. It almost seems as if it is insisting that I take a broom to every nook and cranny and remove these experiences. Powerless, I let returning thoughts of Tom wash over me. Tom ... an unbelievable but true fairy tale story. I met him five months after my father died. I was fourteen years old at the time when we saw each other in an outdoor pool. Conny, a classmate, had fallen in love with him and was determined to introduce me to him. Even though, looking back, it wasn't a good idea.

"You wouldn't believe how cute he is..." she purred romantically, completely enthusiastic and, to be honest, quite silly. I didn't really understand why she insisted on introducing me to Tom. Even in the classroom, Conny and I ignored each other. I had no desire for a closer relationship with her, but finally gave in to her insistence out of sheer curiosity. “Well, if he really is that cute,” I thought mockingly. Three days later, I got to see Tom. He exceeded all my expectations. Our eyes met and it was as if we had known each other for ages. They say that soul mates share particularly intense moments together. Or was it love at first sight? I still find myself asking today. Tom was sixteen years old at the time and very handsome. Every facet of his appearance was impressive:strong, muscular legs, blond, semi-long hair, and green-brown eyes with a sparkling, penetrating yet warm gaze. In addition, numerous freckles on his face gave him a playful touch. Tom was simply unique compared to the others. It was impossible to escape his charm. We spent the whole day playing volleyball and having lively discussions. Conny seemed increasingly annoyed. "If I'm not needed, just let me know," she hissed as Tom and I talked about environmental issues. A few minutes later, she made a run for it. It quickly became clear that Tom and I shared a common passion: sports activities, especially team games. In the late afternoon, we went our separate ways and simply said "goodbye". Although we both still had something to say, we couldn't get a decent word out. We had even forgotten to exchange our phone numbers. With a swarm of dancing butterflies in my stomach, I made my way home. The next day, the funfair in my town brought the surprise. I had no better plans than to go there in the hope of meeting friends. As I stood in front of the rollercoaster, wondering if it might be time to take part in this adrenaline-filled experience, I suddenly felt the urge to turn around - and that's exactly what I did. Standing in front of me was Tom! “I can hardly believe it”, it flashed through my head. He had arrived on his racing bike, which he used to casually prop himself up and look at me with his sparkling eyes. His warm aura, still vivid in my memory, had its effect: my heart somersaulted and my mind whispered, "The angels sent him." I took slow steps towards him and we fell into each other's arms. I immediately felt at ease with him and perceived clearly that I belonged there. Under normal circumstances, I would probably never have met Tom. The likelihood of running into him was close to zero. So, the universe must have had a hand in it. Someone or something had orchestrated our encounter. Tom freed me from the suffering and the sheer endless forlornness that had tormented me after my father's death. From that day on, we were inseparable and met whenever we could. In the mornings before school started, we would meet at the train station in the town of Sankt Ingbert. I attended the so-called "Messe", which was run by the "Poor School Sisters". Tom went to the boys' school, which was in the opposite direction. I was the first one at the station every morning, impatiently looking in the direction he always came from. As soon as I spotted his blond hair in the distance, my legs would spontaneously perform a kind of hip-hop dance on the sidewalk. On many weekends, we went on sporty hikes in the picturesque surrounding woods. No matter what topic was being discussed - be it politics (we were involved with the “Jusos”, a socialist party for youth), travel, social aspects or spiritual considerations - there were no arguments or disagreements. It's hard to believe, but that's how it was. As if there was only us in the whole world, we walked closely together through streets and landscapes. In the fall and winter months, Tom wrapped me in his green parka. He was amused by the fact that even a light breeze was enough to make me shiver. Even my math teacher, who arrived at our station every morning and walked past us, made fun of me on occasions:

"Why don't you come to school in your snowsuit and don't forget your moon boots," he once joked. "Good idea! I'll do it tomorrow, it will be only 18°C " I replied, amused. We were usually out with friends on Saturdays and spent the evening in a disco called “the Eye”. On one of these evenings, Tom was standing at the entrance to the club. Engrossed in a discussion with a friend, I was standing a few meters away and simply couldn't take my eyes off him. I remember the exact moment when I felt a love so deep that it really hurt. It makes me think of "Love hurts", as you can hear from many heart breaking, famous songs. I can only fully agree with this statement. Such evenings naturally led to late home comings, which earned me an extremely grumpy welcome and several reproaches from my mother: "You are late! I was worried about you." Despite many years in Saarland, my mother, who comes from the East, still has a Saxon accent. Cramming and homework took place at Tom's, while his mother Hanna constantly provided us with cakes, fruit juices or buttermilk. She swore by buttermilk! Her whole family had to drink it every day. Her portrait is crystal clear in my mind's eye: a tall, strong woman who always remembered to give a smile. When she hugged me - which was the case every time she greeted me - I literally disappeared under her generous breasts. Hanna is undoubtedly the most lovable person I have ever met. Tom has definitely inherited a good dose of warmth from her.

My train hurtles into a new world at top speed, while I look disappointedly at the ruins of a friendship that was once thought to be indestructible. The last act of our togetherness was meaningful: Tom and I said goodbye at the station. No promises of seeing each other again, no more tears, no more words ... Tom boarded his ICE train, while I boarded my regional train, which was on the opposite platform. Tom's train started to move. With a serious face, he looked over at me from his compartment as he slowly moved away from me until he finally disappeared from my field of vision. A few seconds later, my train took off in the opposite direction - a symbol of our parting ways. “My journey today will take me much further away from Tom,” I think sadly. Despite my tear-filled eyes, a quick glance out of the window allows me to spot glittering lights in the distance. "Bar le Duc," suddenly comes from the loudspeaker, which makes me look at the station we are gliding past. After a short breather, there's another knock on the door of my soul. Oh no! My family history is imposing itself on me now. Should I really put myself through this? I don’t have time to answer this. The miserable movie plays automatically in a matter of seconds; another picture book story, but one that has absolutely nothing to do with a love story.

My two older brothers, Werner (32, from my mother's first marriage) and Daniel (22), are busy with their own affairs. That's understandable, of course. They each have their own burdens and problems. My older sister Christel, from my mother's second marriage, for some secret reason, seems to be ignoring me. A healthy ego allows her to focus exclusively on her precious "ME." On top of that, she has a really lousy personality that makes it almost impossible to talk to her sensibly. I have often wondered why she is so bitter. Maybe I'll get an explanation one day. My relationship with my mother swam in shallow waves. We had nothing to say to each other and only shared the same apartment. I was and still am convinced that she wants to get rid of me. At every available opportunity, she used to hurl at me: "You weren't a wanted child."

On the evening before I left, my mother had a conversation with a cousin from the East. An ugly person, in the truest sense of the word, whom we called Aunt Lina. Her appearance betrayed the dark soul of the septuagenarian, whose gray hair clung to her head like superglue. About forty kilos overweight, bright green eyes with a fixed cuckoo look, downturned corners of the mouth and, like Dracula, two long incisors, the tips of which protrude even when the mouth is closed, are an apt description of her appearance. In other words, a person you wouldn't necessarily want to meet at midnight. Standing in a room next door, I heard the venomous words of this poisonous snake through the thin wall:

"What a stupid idea to go to Paris. What's going on in your daughter's stupid head? I bet she'll be back within three weeks and continue to be on your back." My mother seemed to agree with this merciless, vile flow of words. "Answer her! Defend me!" I screamed inwardly. However, not a single word passed her lips. That hit me hard. It felt like a punch in the stomach. I swore to myself that I would never, ever return, even if I was doomed to die in a gutter in Paris.

As a conclusion: I'm leaving everything I have had so far, my home, my friends and acquaintances, even my first love - my only support. I will miss Saarland. The calming nature at the “Sägeweiher”, the “Triebscheider Hof” with its horse stud, the “Würzbacher Weiher”, the cozy “Geistkircher Hof” in the direction of the city of Kirkel, the “Kahlenberg”... In a moment of panic, I am overcome by the fear that I may never see it again. But I can't allow myself the luxury of falling into weakness and regain my composure. As my back is pressed firmly against the seat by the increasing speed of the train, I think of a French song that I have often heard. It deals with the subject of being alone. I sing it quietly to myself, in the French version of course (practice makes perfect): "celui qui n'a jamais été seul une fois dans sa vie..." I like the question posed in this song: can you really love if you've never experienced loneliness? To distract myself, I search the internet for the entire text, which keeps me busy and calms me down. I feel relieved now that the flashbacks are finally over. There's nothing left to rummage through. A stone falls from my heart and frees me to look forward. The wounds will probably remain forever, but will eventually heal into an almost invisible scar. My large compartment has two seats in each row. My adjacent seat has been free since departure, so I was able to place my guitar and sandwich on it. As the landscapes and towns whizz past me, I gaze at the wide meadows and fields, the small villages with their churches whose towers greet me romantically from afar. The forests impress with their golden yellow autumn colors. "La France! Belle France!" The peaceful nature that stretches out before my eyes makes it hard to believe that Germans and French once fought each other in this place during the wars and inflicted terrible suffering. I still have an hour's journey ahead of me, and my stomach is hungrily signaling that it wants food. No wonder, because the lump in my throat meant I couldn't eat anything this morning. I quickly take from a paper bag, the cheese sandwich that I bought at Saarbrücken station before leaving and enjoy it to the full. At the same time, I take a look at the metro map. My family, with whom I am to start as an au pair in Paris, lives in the eighth arrondissement, a classy district where the famous "Avenue des Champs-Élysées" is located. The job was arranged by a friend of my father who had worked in Paris years ago and knew an architect there called Mr.Marty. This friend had written to Mr. Marty at my request. The architect then placed advertisements in various media. A certain Demarnier family got in touch. I only received their address. I didn't receive any further information about the number of children, their ages or their parents' professions. "How do I get to 'rue Balzac'?" I asked myself now. The map shows: From "Paris East Central Station," take metro line 4 in the direction of "Porte d'Orléans" to "Châtelet" station, then change to line N° 1 in the direction of "La Défense," get off at "Charles de Gaulle Étoile." I quickly memorize all of this and send a text message to Ms. Demarnier:

"Hello Mrs. Demarnier, I confirm once again that I will be arriving at your place at around twelve o'clock today." Then I take a quick look at the display board. Ten minutes to Paris. I grab my things and get up. The train slows down, houses flit past me, their outlines becoming ever sharper. Funnily enough, it's only now that I ask myself: Why did my parents call me Alba? The name means "wise" or "sunrise" and comes from Latin. “It's more common in Spain or Italy,” I think, as I try to push my luggage through the narrow aisle of the compartment without constantly bumping into the backs of the seats. Paris draws inexorably closer and my new life becomes tangible. In my thoughts, I beg Paris to show me its sunny side. At the same time, I invite the wisdom that I certainly do not yet have to enter within me as quickly as possible.

Wow! The metropolis of Paris, the cosmopolitan city of Paris! One thing is for sure: I have no idea what's in store for me.

A new text message is coming in at an inconvenient time:

"Alba, what's wrong with you? Why aren't you answering? Write back! I'll call you tonight. We need to talk."

No Tom! You're now part of my past. Without answering, I put the phone back in my handbag.

My face relaxes. My upper body straightens up. My gaze sharpens.

Paris, here I come!

STRENUOUS START

The train is slowly pulling into “Paris Gare de l’Est” (east station). I had maneuvered my way to the exit door before anyone else, suitcase clutched in my right hand, guitar awkwardly wedged between my knees, and left hand gripping the door handle, poised to pull it open the moment the train stops. Impatient, as usual. "Not fast enough again, Alba," I muttered to myself, a familiar refrain.

Even though the French family knew I was arriving today, they hadn't mentioned their plan to pick me up at the station. Therefore, I don’t need to greet anyone upon arrival. A handful of pigeons fluttering about on the ground appear to be my only welcome’s, their heads bobbing in quiet acknowledgment. A quick glance at my mobile phone confirms the lack of response from Mrs. Demarnier to my text message. I jump down onto platform No. 21 and take a quick look around to get my bearings. Then I run to the Paris metro, which is about a hundred meters away. A large stream of people around me rushes in the same direction. Some of them give the impression that they are running for their lives. I've often been told that Parisians don't walk normally. On the contrary, they are running, always stressed, and like to behave aggressively, especially when driving. The central building of “Gare de l’Est” is also teeming with people standing around waiting or moving at a fast pace. What a contrast to the almost empty station this early morning! It's like being at the “Saarbrücken fair” when sausages from the swivel grill are handed out for free. Saarlanders are undoubtedly kings of swiveling! It wouldn't be surprising if the administrators of Saarland were already contemplating the logistics of sending a fiery grill to the moon, all in the name of delighting our local astronauts who might soon embark on their lunar journey.

In the station concourse, I spot a large "METRO" sign showing the lines available to take from here. Among them is line 4, which I now head for. After several attempts, I manage to buy the right tickets at a ticket machine. Then I plunge into the gloomy, giant maw of the Paris metro. After almost a kilometer of suitcase, bag, and guitar dragging, my right arm aches. My left arm has almost fallen asleep. In the underground tunnels, where a cool draught of air spreads a musty smell, I can hardly bear it. Always on the lookout for the "Ligne 4 Direction Porte d'Orléans" signs, I walk and walk in the seemingly endless corridors. Up the stairs, down the stairs, putting my suitcase down, picking it up and getting it back on the ground. You can't get far here without being in good shape - if you're not fit, you'll fall by the wayside. Nobody who walks past me offers to help. Their hurried indifference feels strange and unsettling, a stark reminder of how disconnected city life can be. I wonder if this is typical of Parisians or just bad luck on my part. Charity seems to be in short supply here! Everyone runs past me as if I were invisible. Maybe I should have spent money on a cab after all ... Fortunately, my top athletic condition is now paying off. I haven't run out of breath yet. I have my time as captain of my handball team to thank for that. Every weekend was filled with sporting activities and trophies. Some of them are still in my mother's living room cupboard. I wonder how soon she will throw them away. Handball wasn't just my hobby, it was my passion. This sport transported me to a better world than that of my bleak family. "Enjoyed participating in sporting events, appreciated by her peers," was written on my last school report.

Oh no, now I'm soaking wet! Damn, is there really no air in this narrow tunnel? It smells strongly of urine and a fat rat runs across my path at lightning speed. Nevertheless, I take a deep breath and continue walking through the underground tunnel, hoping to reach the right metro line soon. My blonde hair sticks to my forehead, cheeks, and neck. Drops of sweat running down my face burn in my narrowed eyes. Damn, I can hardly see a thing. At last! Blinking, I can see with great effort that there are only a few meters to go. Now comes the final spurt to the desired platform. According to the electronic announcement, it will be another three minutes before the next metro arrives. Just like me, many impatient people are standing or sitting here. Two bums beg for cigarettes. "Sorry, I don't have any," I reply politely. Finally, the metro slowly approaches with a squeak and then comes to a halt. As the doors open, a flood of passengers pours out of each carriage, pushing those who want to get on straight back. A veritable sumo battle ensues between those who want to get off and the hectic ones who want to get on. A duel from which no clear winner emerges in the first few seconds. At this moment, I am at a loss. How the hell do you get a chance to get on? Suddenly I remember a handball tactic: if several players collide and you're in the middle of a duel, you should duck quickly, run past the players' legs on the right or left, aim for the goal and charge toward it regardless! "Do it like this!" my sporting spirit tells me, and off I go. With one last swing of my hips, I manage to jump into the lane just as the signal sounds. I am able to pull my guitar toward me at lightning speed, which saves it from being smashed. A few seconds later and I would have been wedged between the closing doors like a slice of ham in a sandwich. I could never have mustered the strength to push them apart! I stand inside like a herring in a tin, surrounded by people of all kinds: old, young, tall, short, fat, thin. There are strong smells everywhere: sweat, food aromas (some people actually manage to eat here), odor from the metro equipment such as benches and handrails that people cling to convulsively, or oiled doors. I hold myself about an inch from the closed door, legs slightly apart to protect my guitar between them. My face slaps against the dirty window pane from time to time, depending on the level of vibration in the compartment and the jostling of the people behind me. By pushing hard on my right side, I manage to place my suitcase on the floor while resting my hand firmly on it. The long strap of my handbag allows me to convert it into a fanny pack. In this uncomfortable standing position, I experience involuntary physical closeness and oppressive feelings for the first time. Numerous fellow passengers in my compartment stare motionlessly into the distance, while others are engrossed in conversation. The volume of the surrounding noise forces them to raise their voices in order to be able to communicate at all. Suddenly I feel something sticky on my right hand. Yes, I realize, wet and sticky! Very unpleasant. Without looking, I swipe the back of my hand over the suitcase, assuming I've fixed the problem. However, I am far too stiff and surrounded to look down. After a few seconds, I notice that sticky feeling on my hand again! Now I want to know exactly and force my head to turn to the right. At the same time, my gaze slides downwards. "Oh my God!" There's a man standing there with his pants open, rubbing his contents on my hand. "Aaah! Aaah!" I can't help but scream. The metro stops, the door opens and the guy is gone. How utterly embarrassing and profoundly disgusting! Then Metz and now Paris! What's wrong with the French? Nobody in the compartment seems to care. Routine, I suppose ...

Looking out the window, I spot an advertising poster for a luxury brand on the wall in front of me. It shows a young couple kissing passionately in an oversized coffee cup. "Sex in the city; it looks like there’s lust everywhere” I assume. The door slams shut again and the journey continues with a jolt. As I had worked out in advance, I get off at Châtelet station, make my way to line one and finally arrive at the last station, Charles de Gaulle, after about ten minutes. Here I have to get off and look for the right exit. Again, I have to go through long, underground corridors. Here and there someone sings. A young woman is belting out the song by the famous Edith Piaf "Allez venez Milord". Vegetable sellers linger in various places with small stalls and limited, not exactly farm-fresh produce. A few meters further on comes the longed-for exit. An escalator takes me up to the upper end of the famous Champs-Élysées. My first glimpse is of the “Arc de Triumph”, one of the city's most famous architectural highlights. Stunning, this triumphal arch! A monument ordered by Napoleon I in 1806 in honor of the "Grande Armée," I remember. Under the arch is the tomb of the unknown soldier. High up on the top you can discover a circular terrace. Visitors stroll along it and enjoy the view of the wide avenues that extend from this point in a star shape in all directions. This must undoubtedly be a unique panorama, I believe. A visit there is already on my agenda. After an energetic turn, I continue on my way and walk about ten meters along the left side of the "Avenue des Champs-Élysées" in the direction of "Place de la Concorde". Meanwhile, I admire the majestic building of the "Flora Danika" restaurant in front of me with the imposing Danish flag flying proudly above the entrance. Just before it, I turn left into "rue Balzac". Just a few more steps and I will have reached the house of my host family.

My arms are aching like crazy. I'm hungry again and, to be honest, totally exhausted after such a train and metro journey, a tunnel marathon and endless lugging of luggage, coupled with strong, varied emotions. I walk along the rue Balzac with the last of my strength and after a few minutes, I stand relieved in front of the Demarnier family home. It is a magnificent and spacious detached house with three floors, which is described locally—according to the guidebook—as a "hôtel particulier" and is most likely owned by the family. At least that's how I imagine it, as it seems unlikely that wealthy people would just rent a house like this. Next to the door is a sign that reads "Docteurs Anne et Michel Demarnier - Dermatologues." No need for school knowledge to understand that they are dermatologists. Full of hope that the door will open quickly, I press my index finger firmly on the doorbell. No one appears. I repeat the gesture again and again... Disappointed, I realize that there is definitely no one at home. I stand here like an uncollected parcel and ask myself: "How much longer? Maybe until I put down roots, as they say."

After about an hour of standing around uncomfortably, a young lady approaches me, surprised to see me on the sidewalk with a lost expression on my face. Just before she stops in front of me, she takes a look at my luggage. "Puis-je vous aider? (Can I help you?)", she asks kindly, signaling her willingness to carry my suitcase. Using the best of my school French, I explain that I am waiting for my host family as an au pair and that there is no one in the house at the moment. "Ah," she replies spontaneously, "you're German. Me too! My name is Inge. Come with me; you can wait there more comfortably. The family is probably still at work."

"Why did the lady immediately notice that I'm German? Is my accent that typical?" I ask myself, puzzled. Whatever, this woman is like an angel from heaven. Of course, I immediately accept the kind offer with thanks. We walk a few steps to her apartment, which is on the fifth floor of an older building in the Haussmannian architectural style. As we stand in front of it, Inge explains: "Commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III, the architect Georges-Eugène Haussmann (1808-1891) undertook the demolition of medieval neighborhoods in Paris for the construction of wide avenues, new parks, and squares. The Haussmann buildings, also known as Haussmann apartment buildings, line the boulevards of Paris. Street blocks were designed as homogeneous architectural units. The facades were regulated to ensure that they had the same height, color, material, and general design and were harmonious when all seen together." As I take a closer look at the building, Inge adds: "Apartments in these buildings are in high demand and accordingly expensive."

Once at her place, she serves fruit juice and cookies, then we chat a little about life in this country. She has lived in Paris for ten years, is married to a French lawyer, and has two children: a daughter and a son. She works as a German teacher at a high school in Paris and says she finds it difficult to get used to the French. "They grumble too much. They're always nagging and complaining," she confides. Around five o'clock, I say goodbye to my hostess and thank her for her great gesture, which saved me from collapsing in the "rue Balzac." It's not long before I'm back in front of the Demarniers' house. I press the doorbell expectantly and hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Finally, the door opens. Standing in front of me is a perky blonde who I estimate to be in her mid-forties. She stands bolt upright at the door and greets me in French: "Ah, you're the au pair, aren't you? Please come in." Admittedly, I feel a little intimidated as I enter this magnificent property and discover the impressive entrance with its huge chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Mrs. Demarnier escorts me into the living room, which is immediately to the right of the entrance, and asks me to take a seat in a neutral tone. Her left hand points in the direction of the sofa set. The room is furnished with two long green sofas, separated by a flat pale pink marble table. Two red-brown leather "club-style" armchairs and a cherry wood bookcase complete the furnishings. This ensemble forms the living room's main equipment. I am very familiar with cherry wood furniture, especially because of my Aunt Annie who lives in the city of Saarlouis. She owns several of this kind of pieces, I remember. The walls are wallpapered in a deep shade of blue and decorated with an elegant golden floral pattern. Paintings are hung in various places, mainly depicting hunting scenes. From the living room, there is a direct view into the dining room, followed by an open kitchen. A spacious area of around one hundred square meters unfolds before my astonished eyes.

To escape from feeling so lost, I avoid the endlessly long sofa. I prefer one of the beautiful, comfortable leather armchairs, on which I sit down carefully. Raising my head and looking expectantly, I signal to Mrs. Demarnier that I am ready to speak. This is followed by about five minutes of banal questions: "When did you arrive? What's your name again...?" As soon as she has finished the exploratory phase, she wants to show me my room on the second floor. The access for this is located on the left of the entrance, and she marches in that direction. We hurry up the wooden stairs, which are covered with a dark red velvet carpet. Up here, I discover a pretty room with a single bed, a simple desk, and a small plastic closet with a zipper. There are several bookshelves on the walls. In the far right corner is a door that leads to a tiny shower room with a toilet. "Leave your things here for now," I hear clearly in easily understandable French.

She and her husband sleep on the second floor. I am told in a stern tone that I am not allowed to go there. With a serious face, she adds: "Under no circumstances should you go in there!" I learn also that the doors to the rooms are always locked and that only the couple has the keys that grant access to these obviously secretive rooms. This fact seems strange to me. However, I don't ask any questions and remain discreet. The basement of the house features a furnished room, approximately forty square meters in size, currently rented to a young man who resides there. The way to his accommodation is via a marble staircase opposite the main entrance door. He is present when Mrs. Demarnier takes me to the place, glancing up briefly before raising his hand in a casual wave to greet us. The medical student makes an extremely good impression on me.

It is now six o'clock. The doorbell rings. Mrs. Demarnier skips happily to the door, opens it, and welcomes her mother with exuberant joy. I catch sight of a petite blonde woman in her early seventies. She looks extremely elegant in her Chanel trouser suit, the red color of which perfectly matches her lipstick—or vice versa. "Bonsoir Mademoiselle," she addresses me, and then the little madame rattles off with Parisian ease, words which I try to understand at first but soon give up trying to follow. I look imploringly in the direction of her daughter, who asks me to take a seat again. Hesitating a few seconds, I finally dare to ask: "Where are your children, please?"

"Ah, no, no..." she purrs with an embarrassed smile. "We share our home with four-legged friends. These are our children, whom we love dearly. By the way, one of your most important tasks is to look after them lovingly and caringly." The front door opens again, and lo and behold, the husband, Dr. Demarnier, enters the room with two impressive dogs, an Irish setter called Kelvin and a greyhound named Jesabel. The two males look at me with a fixed gaze and let their tongues hang out in excitement. The drool flows out of their mouths in a continuous stream and lands directly on the beautiful red silk carpet in the living room.

Well, that wouldn't have happened with my mother, as far as I know her. Mr. Demarnier has a hard time removing the collars from the nervously tripping dogs. "Come to your mistress, come, my golden bunnies," I hear now and see the dogs jumping on her, licking her, barking at her joyfully, and wagging their tails energetically. Jesabel even squeezes himself right between her legs and vigorously rubs his muzzle against her private parts. The husband, about forty years old, a kind of "beanpole" with blue eyes and glasses on his nose, watches the family scene in delight. He is obviously deeply moved by the scene. I find it hard not to think about how absurd it all seems. It's as if I've suddenly found myself in the middle of a comedy or a grotesque theater scene in which the actors are playing in an exaggerated and unnatural way. Struggling to suppress a laugh, I turn my attention to the dogs I'm supposed to be looking after and take a closer look at them. Jesabel tries to jump on me, which makes me lose the desire to laugh.

"So, Alba, I've written down here what you have to do in the mornings during the week," Mrs. Demarnier starts in an employer's tone. Displaying a serious face—I want to make a good impression, of course—I concentrate on the text that is held under my nose. The writing is more like a scribble, but I can still decipher it:

- 8:00 a.m.: Walk the dogs.

- 8:30 a.m.: Prepare food (only meat and vegetables, no pellets), make sure that the portions are correct and that the food is placed in the silver feeding bowls—real silver, I assume. After eating, clean the latter properly.

- 9:00 a.m.: Vacuum cleaning on the ground floor, basement, and second floor. Plus, the 4 guest rooms and the office on the third floor every two days.

- 10:00 a.m.: Shopping (stores or market, which is just around the corner on Tuesdays and Fridays).

- 11:00 a.m.: Clean all bathrooms and toilets.

- 12:30 p.m.: Clean the vegetables, scrub mussels, or prepare other foods, depending on the instructions.

- 1:00 p.m.: End of service.

"I want to remind you that you have accommodation here. You receive a monthly salary of €320. Meals are not included."

"Surely that's not all there is to it," I scoff in my mind. If I've understood correctly, I'm nothing but the cleaner here, the winged 'dog walker,' and every morning will be a marathon without a breather.

"So, did you understand everything well?" – "Oui," I say, already feeling like a gutted herring before my work starts here.

"Bon, allons manger une soupe," invites the landlady in a gruff tone. Doctor Demarnier left the house a few minutes ago. The dogs linger in the living room, obeying his last command: "Here, good boys, sit!" I am asked to go into the kitchen. There is a small round table with four chairs. Three plates, spoons, and glasses of water are already arranged. Mrs. Demarnier serves us a ready-made soup and wishes us a good appetite. Well, no wonder everyone is emaciated to the bone if they only eat such a poor soup in the evening, it occurs to me. As I slowly spoon up my soup, concentrating hard on my perfect good manners, I realize how cramped and uncomfortable I feel here. All this posturing and fuss! No questions about me, why I'm here, or what goals I'm pursuing in Paris. The long list of things to do and the huge dogs staring at me from the living room make me feel uncomfortable. But I'm far too tired to question it any further.

Suddenly I hear Mrs. Demarnier's mother say to her daughter: "Well, if she works the way she eats, then good luck with that!" This time, I understood the lady’s words perfectly…

This impertinence just about gets me! The soup, a slimy porridge, is disgusting to me. It reminds me of the viscous pea soup that my mother used to make every third Saturday and which I loathe. So, I leave the mush untouched and declare that I'm going to retire to my room and start work tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. Mrs. Demarnier looks at her mother sheepishly and reproachfully. I quickly put my glass and cutlery in the dishwasher. The plate and its contents remain on the table. Perhaps, it will be a feast for Jesabel and Kelvin.

"Bonne soirée, merci pour la soupe," I say to the ladies without it showing that I’m insulted and quickly disappear into my room. My cell phone vibrates and indicates Tom. The call is quickly rejected. Before I press the "silent" button, I send a text message to Laura:

"Arrived safely. Everything went perfectly."

My limbs feel crushed and my calves are plagued by cramps. Exhausted, I fall back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. I try to block out every thought and realize how tiredness is slowly enveloping me and sleep is taking hold of me.