Sans Moutarde, An American Exchange Student in Paris

By Lois Wallace

American exchange student Lynne Kendrick has always felt out of place in her high school and amongst her friends. She has neither been in the ‘In’ crowd, nor the ‘Out’ crowd, but some limbo in between. She’s always been a buddy, a pal, but never dating material and has come to the conclusion that this was how her life was meant to be until a gorgeous American guy pulls her behind the Greek columns at the Louvre in Paris and gives her a first kiss any girl would be envious of.
And then there’s Jacques, the really cute French waiter who has asked her out on her first date. Maybe all she had to do to change her luck was to leave the country, for the boys back home never paid her any attention, except as a friend
In Lynne’s quest to find her true self several thousand miles from home, she learns about life, love, heartbreak, and joy by opening up to new experiences and ‘trying the mustard’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lois Wallace
• Release date: Feb 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301678457

Lois Wallace

Lois is a retired jeweler who still works a couple of days a week and makes Steampunk jewelry in her downtime. She also writes in her spare time, sharing her experiences travelling as an exchange student and now as an adult. She enjoys long walks on the beach to contemplate plot points and develop characters and hopes to move back to that beach in the future. She daily contemplates moving to Paris.

Book preview

Chapter One

"Un hôtdog sans moutarde, s’il vous plaît," I said as confidently as I could, thrilled to have made it through ordering a simple hotdog without mangling my second-year French. Today those few words are the keys to my freedom, my independence.

"Trés bien, mademoiselle," my waiter replied, his amused grin creating small grooves on either side of a generous mouth. Les fossettes. Dimples. I have a definite weakness for well-placed dimples.

There was no trace of the haughty disdain I’d come to expect from waiters upon hearing my simple order. Instead, he poured water into the glass in front of me, and placed a slice of lemon in it. With a flourish, he bowed slightly.

"Merci," I said, tearing my gaze from his dimples and finally daring to look him in the eye. Brown eyes sparkled with amusement. Was his amusement because of the hotdog without mustard or my Southern-infused French? Or, God, please, no, maybe my interest in his dimples was more obvious than I thought and he saw me just as a silly, young Americaine with silly romantic notions.

I let out the breath I’d been holding as he moved on to the next table. As if he’d heard my sigh, he quirked his grin to one side while he considered me over a customer’s head. A single dimple emerged.

I started to smile back, but I was torn between being mortified at getting caught watching him and wishing I could confidently flirt like so many girls could. But I’ve never, NEVER flirted with a guy. Flirting should come with a book. I didn’t know how to start, didn’t know how to respond except to blush and duck my head behind my dark mane of unruly hair.

He was still watching me. I could feel him willing me to look, but instead of meeting that warm chocolate gaze, I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. I quickly pretended interest in a nearby table full of French teens who were showing off and making general idiots of themselves. I was about to make an idiot of myself if I wasn’t careful. The waiter went inside and then I was safe to watch his exit. His lean, athletic body made his simple black slacks, white shirt with a skinny black tie, short black jacket and long white apron look more like a fashion statement instead of a uniform.

I sighed again, wistfully. It…the two of us…was never going to happen.

Still, I was having a great day, guy shy or not. This was Paris, and I was living a dream. In a nod to the changing season, a light, crisp breeze swept down the street, stirring up a few leaves and ruffling my curls. Undeterred, I simply pulled my denim jacket in a little closer and snuggled up in the multi-hued scarf I’d made in art class, the chill reminding me that winter would soon intrude into my treasured stay in Paris. I don’t think anything will dampen my pleasure, though. Not the now familiar misting rain, not even a dusting of snow. After all, how many American girls get to live in Paris for four months? Without their parents, no less.

Boisterous laughter from two tables over assured me that teens were alike all over the world.

The guys were shoving good-naturedly at each other, unconsciously showing off to impress the girls as all males of all species were driven by nature to do. The girls were trying to ignore their antics and chatted with each other while shooting sidelong glances at the guys. I felt far removed from them, even though we were around the same age. As out-of-place as I’d always felt around my own classmates back home.

Dad always said I’d been born thirty. Mom taught me art from the time I could hold a crayon. I was reading by four and writing in cursive by five. I’d been precocious, and adults thought it was adorable, but it put me in a weird place with my peers. I never really fit in. I felt every inch a clumsy, naive twelve-year-old around this cute waiter, even though I was well on my way to my eighteenth birthday. I was out of my depth with guys I liked and always had been.

So maybe love wasn’t in the cards, but Paris certainly was, and I was bound and determined to enjoy every minute of my time here. Just blocks away, the lacy black filigree of the Eiffel Tower rose elegantly above the rooftops. The sentinel of the City of Light. Several rays of sunlight shot from holes that tore through the fabric of soft grey sky. One of them found the tower, which stood proudly in the spotlight like an actor accepting applause. I almost felt like obliging.

And my taste of freedom? There had already been a headline in the Jefferson High newspaper back home: American Exchange Student Loose in Paris. It was a spoof piece done by one of my fellow student editors, but I thought I owed it to him to try to live up to it. Heck, they thought freedom was staying out ‘til midnight on Friday nights.

Three hours earlier, I’d taken the train eighteen miles into Paris by myself for the first time. It had taken nerves that I didn’t know that I had to step onto that train without my host sister

Catherine this morning, but once I made it to the city, I was almost giddy.

An irresistible come-hither scent of earthy espresso and fresh-baked pastries greeted my senses as I emerged from the underground metro station. It was all I could smell even with a million cars belching out noxious fumes and even with piles of garbage ripening after a month-long worker’s strike. I noticed the pâtisserie next to the station entrance, enticing my newly French-attuned nostrils. Whenever the door opened, my nose twitched, then flared wide to pull in the smells of sugar, yeast, butter, baking dough, fruit, and chocolat that floated into the outdoor air. Like a two-pack-a day ex-smoker passing a lit cigarette, I edged closer, and closer. Of course, I had to go inside. Of course, I had to buy a pastry for breakfast. Chocolate.

So why the hotdog for lunch? Just like the waiters, my friends back home would wonder why I didn’t order something a bit fancier here in a place known for its cuisine, but hotdogs aren’t just hotdogs in Paris. The foot long dog is nestled within the fluffy interior of a golden-crusted French baguette, then covered with Gruyère cheese and toasted. I couldn’t get enough of them. I had one for lunch at least three times a week.

I’d spent the morning shopping for corny souvenirs and some of the hard back comic books that we use in French class back home. I was so proud of myself for using French to order, to ask prices, to get around. But they were simple words and phrases, not like really having a conversation with someone. Like I might try with the waiter if I can muster the courage. Maybe I really would flirt and smile back at the cute waiter. What did I have to lose but a little dignity if I was turned away? Heck I never had much anyway.

As I sipped my water, I dipped my head, and again hidden by the mass of my brown curls, I shyly tracked the dark haired, dimpled waiter as he moved among his tables with athletic grace. He was…just so…Gallic.

He lifted one lightly muscled shoulder in the famous French shrug that meant anything from whatever to I’m sorry and smiled his reply to some inquiry from one of the teen girls. As he turned his back to me, my gaze dropped to confirm Catherine’s opinion of a week earlier that he had a nice ‘rear view’. I grinned beneath my hair. When she and I had had lunch here and he’d been our waiter, she had punched me on the arm as he walked away from us to make sure I’d paid attention. I quickly shifted my gaze as soon as I fully realized where my eyes had strayed.

A lock of wavy black hair was just long enough to dip over his right eye and he had the most devastating smile that flashed his dimples now and then as he sent quick looks my way. Not that I was an expert, but I’d swear he was flirting with me.

I snuck a quick glance behind me to make sure those looks weren’t meant for someone else before I smiled back. He winked. He really was looking at me! I flipped my hair away from my face. It was too mousy brown, and too thick and too unmanageable on a damp day like today, but for once, I didn’t mind too much. I was wearing my favorite chocolate brown crinkled shirt with embroidered and studded jeans. I’d even gone for some makeup that Catherine had loaned me for my solo trip to Paris. I looked the best I knew how. Self-consciousness would have to take a back seat today.

Today was about letting go of my crutches and relying on myself. Getting into Paris, getting around, and getting back. No way around it but to jump right in. Forget the safe and the known.

It was up to me to give myself the freedom to really live and enjoy it.

Catherine and I had taken the metro into Paris from Gif-sur-Yvette each weekend previously, but this time she said, "Eef you want to go again…you haf to do eet alone." Alone? I had never done anything this big alone. Even when I flew to New York and got on the flight to France, someone was there to guide me. They had introduced me to someone else who got me onto the plane and guided me through customs when I landed. And my exchange hosts, Madame and Monsieur Fournier, including Catherine and her two brothers, Yves and Olivier, were at the airport to meet me. So to me, this was not just big, this was huge.

Catherine’s thin mouth had set in a stern line last week when we got home. I tried not to smile. Stern never looked quite serious on a pixyish, gamine face, but she tried.

"Lynne, (she pronounced it ‘Leene’) Her English was good, but her accent was definitely

French. I haf sweem practice to go to. I haf my boyfriend Jean Denis. I haf other things to do. You are here four months, and this is the third week … you must go some day by yourself.

"But what if–"

"No what eef, Leene. I do eet all the time and I am a year younger than you. You haf to ‘Bite the pullet’ sometime."

"Bullet." I gently corrected her.

"What?" Her brows crinkled together.

"It’s ‘Bite the bullet’."

"Well that makes no sense at all. Why would you bite a bullet? Eet might explode!" Her eyes flashed, their tipped-up corners reverting her to her pixie look.

Catherine and her family had lived in San Francisco for four years when she was younger, but some expressions had her stumped.

I giggled and tried to explain. It’s called ‘bite the bullet’, because in the old Wild West, when someone got shot or broke a bone or something, they had no anesthesia so they gave him a bullet to bite on. I don’t know why. I would think it would explode, too.

"See? Eet makes no sense. A pullet ees a chicken, like our poulet. Eet would make more sense to bite…non?"

"Yes." I shrugged. I wasn’t going to argue. Her roundabout logic somehow made sense and I’m sure she laughed at my French behind my back.

I had always dreamed of far away countries, especially France, Egypt and Greece. An interest in archaeology and a child’s crush on Indiana Jones put those dreams in my head, but so far, the only far away places I’d been to were Disneyworld and the Grand Canyon.

I didn’t take two years of Spanish and French for that, so last year, I applied to the exchange program. After being accepted, I was told it would be more likely that I would go somewhere in South America, so I should pack lighter clothes. I was finally given a destination in Peru. Interesting, I thought, but not Paris. Then everything changed in one phone call.

"You’re going to France, Sweetie," Mom said after she got off the phone with the director of the student exchange program. You’re going to need warmer clothes.

"Did they say where in France? Do you think it could be Paris?" I crossed my fingers. And how? There were seven people ahead of me. What happened to all of them?

"It’s a place called Gif-Sur-Yvette. It’s a suburb of Paris. And as far as how, well, even the director is having a hard time believing it, because no one ‘just’ turns down a chance to go to France. It’s the most requested place they have. One student broke a leg, another came down with mono, another lost his father, and they were all big enough problems that now you’re first in line. You’re either the luckiest girl in the world or this trip is the biggest jinx. If I were you, I’d pack some of those four leaf clovers you’re always finding in the yard."

She was joking, of course, but I didn’t think it could hurt, and I had a supply of them. At home we have a very fertile clover patch, and every summer I’d gather them up and have them laminated. I’d usually tuck them in with gifts and cards. Not this year. I brought all of them. One for each day I would be here. I pull out a four leaf clover every morning and put it in my pocket.

Catherine thinks it’s hilarious. The first morning of school she caught me.

"So, Leene. Thees clover…it brings luck, oui?"

"Yes…."

"So you can get good things to come true?"

"So I can make sure bad things don’t, mostly." I told her all the things that had happened to all the people that were supposed to be here in my stead.

She nodded and said affectionately, "I am so glad we got you, Leene. I can’t imagine anyone else so ‘Americaine’. And funny. We have fun, you and I."

So, here I was, seventeen, eager, excited, scared, and naive, sitting at the Café Georges with today’s lucky four-leaf clover in my purse and a thank-you prayer to the patron saint of exchange students. If there is one. It was my first day in Paris by myself, with only two years of high school French lessons to help and either a lot of stupidity or a lot of bravery to back me up.

Chapter Two

Sending me into the city solo was the best idea Catherine had had yet. Though it was nerve-wracking at first, I had to admit that by myself, I could take this all in quietly, studiously. Well, sort of.

Quiet? Paris was never quiet. A wild cacophony of sirens, tiny, little horns beeping from lots of tiny, little cars accompanied the songs of the wrens and pigeons that swooped on every stray crumb dropped by the outdoor diners. After living with all the big pick-up trucks, SUVs and luxury cars in America, it was a weird, twisted enjoyment I got out of the Mini Coopers, Peugeots and Smart Cars weaving in and out at break-neck speeds, their drivers beeping, waving and smiling as other drivers cut them off. Then there was the once every ten minutes ‘bee-yoo, bee-yoo’ of the police, ambulance and fire sirens. This Paris opera played out in front of me much to my great amusement.

I was brought out of my absorption with life in Paris as I heard my waiter’s voice patiently talking to his other customers on his way to me where he set the plate down with a flourish that made me feel that I’d ordered something terribly fancy and expensive.

"Mademoiselle, votre déjeuner," he said, and his smile etched the deep dimples I’d been hoping for on either side of his face.

I’d ordered the hotdog without mustard because I couldn’t handle how hot Dijon was. It nearly blew my socks off the first and only time I’d eaten it, hence the sans moutarde. Or so I thought. The waiter also set a small clear container filled with what looked suspiciously like that pale yellow condiment know to set my brain on fire. I raised questioning eyes.

"Pourquoi?" I asked, pointing to the mustard.

"Vous êtes Americaine, non?" he asked slyly with a slight grin. His dimples deepened and my heart tripped in my chest.

"Oui." With an accent like mine, it was probably a given.

I put…ow you say? On zee side. So you can try. You look mmm…adventuresome? He looked around to make sure no one needed him, then he sat opposite me.

"Mercí. ‘Adventurous’, I automatically corrected him. I tried it before… mais, c'est trop épicé. It’s too spicy. It blew my head off." He looked at me, puzzled.

"Comme ci…" I said, placing an imaginary gun to my temple and pulling the trigger.

He laughed. "Mais vous essaierez, de nouveau. You weel try again, non? Sounding absolutely positive, he changed subjects. Zo…where are you from in America?"

Lexington, Kentucky. They call it ‘horse country’, I explained, shifting in my seat nervously. You see… I stopped myself. I was in danger of babbling. Why should he care about a southern college town in America? Even if it was the capital of Kentucky.

Why is zees horse country? he asked curiously. He actually seemed interested. He looked interested. It was really different to have a guy interested in something I had to say.

The famous racing horses for the Kentucky Derby are raised there. It’s a beautiful place. I could hear the slightly wistful tone in my voice. I moved a strand of hair that was blowing in my face.

"Ah, oui. Zees I haf heard of. You live in famous place," he offered. I smiled at his wording.

Not so very famous, I said, twisting the uncooperative strand around a finger. A vast understatement, I thought. I explained, People don’t save all their lives for a trip to Lexington. Or spend their honeymoons there. They dream of Paris. You have the best of everything here. Except horses.

"Et vous. You." He paused, smiling, and I blushed as I got it. I was the best of Lexington. Awww. He continued, "Oui, c’est vrais, Paris est mervellieux. I am happy to be here" He nodded at a man who had lifted his hand ever so slightly. Un moment, mademoiselle, he said to me and made his way to the other table.

Even ‘on the side’, the Dijon intimidated me. It seemed to take on a life of it’s own, staring at me, pulsing, screaming like a cartoon, Eat me! Eat me! I shook my head and looked again. It was just a blob of yellow sauce in a dish. What was the big deal?

The first time I’d tried it, I was with Catherine, and she didn’t warn me about the effect it has on one’s sinuses and brain. Mustard brain freeze. My eyes watered so much, all my eye makeup came off. She’d laughed so hard I thought she would pee her pants.

"Oh…Leene. Your face…you have the squirrel eyes."

"Rac…coon…Whew! Raccoon eyes…Why did you let me eat that? How can you even taste anything after that?" I pulled out a tissue and tried in vain to wipe away the mess.

"Yes, yes…the raccoon eyes. But, the Dijon…eet’s delicious. You get used to eet." She giggled at my shocked expression.

"Why on Earth would I eat more?"

"Ahhh, oui…you weel…you weel. We all do. Eet’s addictive…like coffee. When we went to America, I thought I would die when Maman ran out of the leetle tube we had. We had to search forever for the right kind," she had said very earnestly. This silly French mustard was serious business, indeed.

Okay, Catherine, I said to myself, this is for you…I wasn’t going to let some puny yellow condiment conquer me. I smeared some on the hotdog and took a bite. And there it was. The intense, searing sensation shot straight through my sinuses to my brain. I reached in panic for my water. My eyes teared up and a cough choked out of my throat.

"Mademoiselle. Ça va? Mademoiselle? Here, take ze bread… not water." In my misery I was mortified to realize my adorable dimpled waiter had come to my aid. Concerned brown eyes leveled with mine as he kneeled beside me, holding the basket of bread. I just prayed the earth would open up and swallow me in my embarrassment. I reached for a piece and nibbled.

I coughed again. Le Dijon! I gasped between spasms.

He smiled sympathetically. "Ees zee ‘spice of life’. Wait, I weel show. Un petit peu, Mademoiselle. Just a leetle. You put too much. Just for taste, see?" He took my knife, dipped the tip in the mustard and put that on the bread, not the meat. "Maintenant, essayer-vous…Try."

I did. Successfully, too. No choking, no coughing.

"Voilà." He sounded almost proud of me.

"Maybe. Peut être" I said, doubtfully. But I was intrigued by the mustard’s piquant flavor, once I got over the heat. I nodded with a tiny smile.

"Bon, Mademoiselle," he said, eyes dancing with amusement. Je suis Jacques. Jacques Hervé. He held one long-fingered hand out. I placed mine into it, but instead of shaking, he simply held it, heat coursing through his hand to mine. A feeling I really couldn’t name passed from him to me. I’d heard it described, but had never felt its effects. I shivered and he smiled at me and gave my hand a little squeeze. He’d felt it too. He seemed reluctant to let my hand go, but he released it and I reached for my glass.

"Errr…Enchanté, Jacques," I replied. I sat there like an idiot. I’d forgotten what I was supposed to say next. I just looked at him in utter confusion.

His crooked grin caused that one dimple to show again. He asked in English, "What ees… your nom… name?" Oh! Yeah! I mentally smacked my forehead and rolled my eyes.

"Je m’appelle Lynne. Lynne Kendrick." I answered, heart in throat. I lowered my eyes and started slowly twisting my water glass into circles, trying hard to control a blush before it colored my face. I knew he was probably laughing his head off inside at my naiveté. But he placed his other hand on mine and gently stopped the turning. He waited until I looked back up and smiled at me reassuringly.

"Enchanté, Leene." He lifted my restless hand gently from the top of the glass, bowed over it and kissed the top of it, sending a jolt up my arm. Just like in the movies. It made my heart race and I could feel the blush finally creeping up my neck. I pulled my hand back and broke off a little bit of bread to keep it and the other one busy, thoroughly aware of a tingle on my hand where he had kissed it.

Zo…‘ow do you like…Paree? He waved around him indicating the wonders I had traveled thousands of miles to see.

This I could handle. I responded with the enthusiasm of a new convert. Je l’adore! I said, looking around me with admiring eyes. Tout la cité.

"Moi, aussi. I come from Avignon. C’est une belle cité. You know eet?"

"Oui. We’re going near there for Christmas. Nous avons Noël en le village de Rochebaudin. To visit family."

"Votre famille?"

"Non…grandparents… les grand-pères de la famille je vis avec."

Your host family? he asked. I nodded. "Noël eez so fantastique zere. You must have lunch at ze Bistro de Le Lune Grande. My brozher Andre work zere. And zere ees a beeg moving clock. Zere are statues on eet… a soldier and a woman…and zee man, he strikes zee hour wees a sword…zo He demonstrated a funny jerky movement like robot dance moves. I giggled. Oh, and zee Noël markets. You weel like. And zere are vendeurs…?"

Vendors, I supplied.

"Oui. Ees same. Eeen zee streets. Zey make zee marrons grillé, zee nuts? Ees zo old fashion… how you say?"

"Old fashioned. Roasted chestnuts. It sounds wonderful. Merveilleux."

"Oui. Zo…do not forget," he admonished me.

"Oui…uh… non…" I got flustered and blushed again.

He smiled reassuringly and said, "Pardon, Leene." and dashed off to greet other customers who had just arrived.

I smacked my head for real and rolled my eyes upward. Stupid, stupid, stupid…what a dork! I muttered aloud. I seemed to be mired in dorkiness. I thought, no way, no how was I getting anywhere with this charming and practiced European, even though he was probably only a few years older than I was.

One of the guys from the neighboring table glanced my way, just as I was rolling my eyes. The corners of his lips twitched as if unsure whether he should laugh or not, then he turned back to one of the girls. She looked my way, too. Oh good, now they all thought I was a dork.

But I got my revenge and a lot of envious looks from the girls when Jacques did come back.

Several times, not just to leave the bill, but to talk. Soon the girls picked up their bags and simply left. The guys fumbled for their wallets to pay the bill and they hurried after the girls as soon as they could. Cruel, cruel girls. French girls have a pout and a way of crooking a finger that have guys just jumping to do their bidding. I shrugged the French shrug. I’d never be able to do that finger crooking, pouting thing, but it was amusing to watch.

I tried the Dijon again, the same way he had done it. It worked. Not bad. Another bite. It was actually tasty. Hmmm…might be something to this. Must kick in the endorphins, something my science teacher back home had once tried to explain. I’d have to take some Dijon into class to help her demonstrate.

Leene, It was Jacques again. Of course he had to come up while I was still chewing. You ate eet! He pointed to the container. C’est chouette, hein? Great, isn’t it?

Caught! I nodded mutely, covering my mouth quickly to swallow and checking my teeth surreptitiously. I looked at him wryly, "Oui. After two or three bites, it grows on you. You were right."

Eeet grows?

Sorry. An American saying. You get used to it, and it begins to taste good.

See? Zat ees what we are saying. He picked up the bill and my money from the table. He glanced at me inquiringly. Where do you go today? Was he really interested?

"Le Louvre. I’m an art student. Je suis une artiste." He nodded, then brightened.

Have you been to ze Museé Orsay? To see zee Impressioneests. Monet, Manet, Van Gogh?

No, I don’t know where it is.

"I weel show you tomorrow? You come here? À la même temps?" His voice colored with hope. He really was looking forward to seeing me again! How so very cool.

Oh my gosh! He just asked me out! Me! Little Miss Artsy Fartsy. That’s what the ‘in’ crowd back home call me with a hint of derision. Boy, my girlfriends wouldn’t believe any of what’s happening. I’ve never been the ‘attractive’ kind, at least not to the boys in my school. I was always their best buddy, their pal, but nothing more. Not that I want that; it’s just always been that way. They want the cheerleaders, the bouncy pretty princesses who have manageable hair and long legs.

I smiled brightly. Okay, so here goes. Calmly, Lynne, calmly.

"Absolument!" I exclaimed. What happened to calm? I had hoped to sound more sophisticated and not too eager. I didn’t want to look desperate, but I guess it was too late for that.

His lips quirked up in a friendly grin as if I hadn’t just made a supreme idiot of myself. I wondered what he really thought of the silly Amercaine. But I didn’t see disgust in his eyes, just slight amusement and something else. Interest, maybe? Madame Fournier warned me about Frenchmen and how they flirt.

This was heady stuff, and hard not to fall for it. But my father the skeptic kept sounding in my ears, "Be careful, Lynne…it’s a crazy world out there with lots of people who want something for nothing. Just remember…" He was always good for a cliché. I called them ‘Dad-isms’.

"I know, I know…if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," I muttered. I was brought back to