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Since school wasn’t in session until next week, the courtyard was empty, so it seemed more like a church cloister than a schoolyard. We followed the main walkway as instructed and entered the administrative building, then walked down a long hallway, all gleaming floors and domed ceilings. An arched doorway led to a spacious foyer or lobby area with an even higher ceiling and a black-and-white floor tiled in geometric patterns.

A tiny woman came out of a far hallway and began walking toward us, her heels echoing through the cavernous space. “Ah, bienvenue,” she said, her voice low and rich. “I am Mademoiselle Veilleux. Monsieur Crespeau just called to tell me you were here. Bienvenue, bienvenue!”

She kissed us both on each cheek and smiled warmly. Her black hair was pulled off her face in a bun, but instead of making her look prim and schoolmarmish, it made her look beautiful in an almost alien way. Her porcelain skin looked like it was lit from within, and a rose-colored scarf only enhanced the effect. As I’d come to expect from French women, she exuded style in a slim black skirt suit with impossibly high black heels.

“I am so glad you were able to come a few days early before the rest of the students arrive,” she said with a charming French accent. “It will give you time to get acquainted with the building and its facilities and, of course, your schedules.”

She handed us our course schedules, which pretty much had us occupied from eight in the morning until five in the evening most days. Our jaws must have dropped because she explained, “The French academic schedule may be a bit more rigorous than what you’re used to. As you know, we had to schedule you at the Lycée Internationale for your Advanced Placement courses, so three days a week, you will be required to take the Metro across town. But the school is right by the Tour Eiffel, and I think you’ll enjoy doing some sightseeing after your classes.”

If we’re not completely exhausted,
I thought.

“I’m sure for now you’re very tired and would like to get situated in your rooms.” She began walking us out the way we’d come. “Elise, your father took the liberty of calling and asking to have your rooms furnished and decorated. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all,” Elise said, opening her mouth in a big circle and looking at me.

We crossed the courtyard to one of the dormitories, then took the stairwell five flights up. I was glad now that Monsieur Crespeau had been so insistent about bringing our bags, although I wondered how he managed with his limp.

When we reached the top floor, Mademoiselle Veilleux didn’t even seem winded. She led us down the hallway and hesitated at a door, then moved to the next room and pulled out two keys attached to velvet ribbons. “There are two adjoining bedrooms with a shared bathroom. The room on the left is a bit smaller and well . . . no, never mind. It’s just a trifle smaller, so perhaps you could flip a coin to decide?” She looked a bit flustered suddenly, like she’d momentarily forgotten her manners, but then she composed herself and handed both keys to me. “I’ll leave you to your unpacking, but please don’t hesitate to call me in the main office if you have any questions. Oh, and since the dining hall is not open yet, lunch is on me,” she said. “Most everyone in the neighborhood knows who I am, so just find a place you like and give them my card. I’ll take care of the bill.”

We thanked her profusely and watched as she glided back down the hallway on those impossible heels.

Elise looked at me and smiled. “Is this amazing or what?”

“Yeah, except for the nine-hour school day.”

“I know. What’s with that? Quelle douleur.”

“So,” I said, dangling the keys from my fingers, “heads or tails?”

She leaned her head to the side and gave me her patented pout-smile. “I was hoping you’d take the smaller one. You don’t need as much space as I do.”

“Is that a jab about my height?”

“No, your wardrobe. I know you didn’t pack as many clothes as I did.”

I couldn’t argue there. I imagined poor Monsieur Crespeau carrying all Elise’s suitcases up those narrow stairs.

“Fine,” I relented. “I’ll take the smaller room.”

But believe me, it didn’t matter. My room was bigger than the one I’d shared with Michelle by at least double, with a ten-foot ceiling to boot. The walls had been painted lavender with ivory trim, and Mr. Fairchild had bought us comforters to match. A plum-colored settee sat in front of a large, ornate mirror with a Gothic frame. My luggage sat neatly in front of a built-in closet, partially camouflaged by a purple organza drape. But the best part was the immense French windows, which opened out over the alleyway so I could see the rooftops of Rue Saint-Antoine. It was the most beautiful dorm room I had ever seen or was likely ever to see again.

After a few minutes of inspecting and sighing happily, Elise and I met in the bathroom, which was equally impressive with a tub and shower combo, double sink, toilet and bidet (which I’d been warned about), all of them fitted with gleaming brass fixtures.

“Did this place used to be a hotel or something?” Elise asked.

“Actually, it used to be a prison,” I said. “Well, not really. The building’s nineteenth century, but the school is built on the grounds of the old Bastille.”

“How do you know?”

“I read about it online. In fact, Saint-Antoine was sort of ground zero for the revolution. Have you read
A Tale of Two Cities
?” She shook her head. “Dickens describes this neighborhood as a cesspool of humanity with raw sewage pouring through the streets, lots of derelicts and drunks. And revolutionaries, of course. Apparently, the ghosts of the Bastille still haunt these grounds.”

“Oooooooh,” she said. “Spooky.” But her face betrayed the tiniest hint of fear. “Speaking of derelicts and drunks, where do you want to eat? We can drink wine here. Like, legally.”

I laughed. “You’ve been here before. Do you know of a good place?”

“I know of a thousand good places.”

We ended up walking toward Place de la Bastille. Across the circle by the July Column was a large round building with a mirrored exterior. It was very modern and seemed out of place here amid all this history.

“What’s that ugly building?” I said.

“Oh, that’s the Opera House.”

I had seen pictures of the Opera House, had watched the movie version of
The Phantom of the Opera
twice. I knew that the Opera House was majestic and grand, with white columns and gold statues and a giant green dome, plus a grand foyer inside with that famous cascade of stairs. There was no way this was the Opera House.

Elise saw my confusion. “Paris has two operas now. There’s the Palais Garnier, which is the one you’ve seen in the movies. And then there’s this new one, Opéra Bastille. These days the old Opera House is used mostly for ballets, while the operas are usually performed here. I thought you would have known that already, Ms. Travel Guide.”

I was surprised I didn’t. And then I remembered a pact Owen and I had made to go to our first opera together. I had imagined us getting all dressed up and taking a cab to the Opera House, then climbing that giant marble staircase and taking our seats inside the red-and-gilt theater under an enormous chandelier. I laughed now at my romanticism. He’d probably take Elise now instead of me.

We turned toward the river onto Rue Henri IV, a street filled with produce stands and bookstores and flower stalls and eateries. Vespas and bicycles filled the stands on each corner. Elise recommended a brasserie just a block from the river with ample outdoor seating and chalkboards advertising their specials.

I got shivers as the host seated us at a table with a view of the small park across the street. The interior looked like something from the set of
Amélie
—all dark wood and brass rails with art nouveau lamps and golden décor. It was thrilling to read a menu entirely in French and then order in French from a real garçon.

I ordered a croque-madame and a glass of Beaujolais, and Elise got the salmon tartare with a side salad and a glass of Chardonnay. When the food arrived, I was literally salivating. Since we hadn’t eaten a decent meal in so long, the wine went straight to our heads, and we were both feeling a little giddy. Michelle had been worried about me eating enough here, but if all the food tasted this savory and delicious, my bigger problem would be my cholesterol and fat intake—although conventional wisdom said that the French, despite their rich diet, were far healthier than Americans because they ate sensibly and walked a lot.

We would soon discover the rigors and pleasures of walking around Paris. After a leisurely lunch, we decided to cross the river and check out the Rive Gauche, or the Left Bank—famous as the haunt of bohemian writers and artists during the turn of the century. We paused halfway across the Pont de Sully, and I nearly yelped when I saw Notre Dame in the distance.

“Oh my God, that’s it!”

Elise, jaded from years of traveling to Paris, just laughed at me, but it was surreal to see this magnificent place I’d read about and seen in so many movies suddenly here in front of my eyes. Like Dorothy must have felt when she first spied Oz.

“It’s kind of a long walk, but we can see it up close if you want. Actually, we should stop at Shakespeare and Company on the way. You are going to love this bookstore!”

Once across the bridge, we walked the Quai de la Tournelle and took a set of stairs down to the cobbled walkway that ran along the Seine. There, I saw the ubiquitous riverboats and had a perverse desire to be an ugly American and hop aboard. I knew Elise would never go for that, so we kept walking under the shade of the trees, chatting idly.

“This looks like a good place to go running,” I said.

Elise scoffed. “Emma, Parisian women don’t run, unless they’re chased. It’s a very American thing to do.”

“So what?” I said. “I am American after all.”

“I’m just saying people might look at you like you’re some kind of freak.”

“Well-traveled territory,” I said.

We continued our stroll on the pedestrian walkway until we neared the bookshop. The neighborhood where we emerged was swimming with tourists, souvenir shops, and flashy restaurants.

“Wow, it’s so different here,” I said. “Crowded. I guess because we’re near Notre Dame.”

“Oh, this is nothing. Paris clears out in August because that’s when the French take their holidays. It’s actually quiet here compared to what I’m used to.”

Despite being so famous, Shakespeare and Company was set back from the main street on a cobbled alley behind a median of trees. We went inside and were bombarded, not surprisingly, by books of every color, genre, and size. Every square inch of wall boasted bookshelves packed to the rim so you actually felt a little overwhelmed by the towering stacks and the dizzying swirls of dust. A soot-speckled cat wandered close my by ankles as we walked past books piled shoulder-high on tables, fine arts prints, ladders perched precariously against shelves, and quirky signs and postcards. This was clearly a place for people who loved the written word.

The smell of must and old books permeated the air, and I inhaled deeply, feeling once again a pang of disbelief and gratitude that I was here. I wandered back toward a cozy nook off the main room and let my fingers graze across the spines of antique books—leather, cloth, and paper. And then I saw an irresistible copy, especially considering where I was:
Le Fantôme de l’Opéra,
Gaston Leroux’s gothic masterpiece written in the original French.

Like almost every American, I had seen the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical years ago, but I’d never read the book. This copy was from 1965 and had a red cloth binding with a black-and-white illustration on the front of a skeletal Phantom in top hat clutching the fainting body of a beautiful girl. It was cheesy and over-the-top and wonderful. I snatched the book without a second thought and handed over my ten euros at the front counter. Elise came up a few minutes later to pay for her stack of books, and then we headed with our spoils across the river to visit Notre Dame.

Nothing can really prepare you for the splendor of this cathedral. Yes, it’s made of stone and glass like any other church, and you’ve probably seen its image enough times on postcards to think you’ve experienced it already. But Notre Dame is truly a wonder of human ingenuity and artistry. The west end is impressive with its Gothic stone towers and rose window glowing under the sun, but it was the east end that floored me with its gravity-defying buttresses and that delicate spire, like an ornament of spun sugar. I couldn’t wait to come back and see it at night. But for now, Elise and I were practically the walking dead, so we deferred the full tour for another day and started back toward school and what would be our home for the year.

Everything was quiet as we entered our dormitory and climbed up five staircases, listening to the creaks our feet made on the wooden stairs. Even though it was only a little after six, I was bone weary and ready to fall into that lovely lavender bed. But we’d walked several miles in full sun, so I decided to take a shower first, checking with Princess Elise to make sure she didn’t need the bathroom.

Afterward, I wrapped myself up in my fluffy robe and sat on the bed, then called my dad for a brief rundown of the day’s events. Then I called Gray, hearing his phone ring four times before the inevitable recording of his voice mail. I left him a message saying that I missed him and wished he were here, not in a trite postcard sort of way, but deeply and truly. Gray would love Paris, and we would love it even more together.

I went to stand by the window and flung open the panes to the Paris sky. The sun hadn’t set yet, but it had dipped below the buildings, casting my little rooftop view in glowing silhouette. Rooftops gleamed ochre and patina green. Not a soul ventured through the alleyway, and except for the low rumble of traffic, it seemed for a moment as if I was entirely alone in the city.

My freshman year of high school, I’d had virtually no friends, and I’d struggled mightily over the past two years for the friends I had now. I was no stranger to loneliness. But this feeling tonight was different. Standing at an open window in a virtually empty dormitory in a foreign city, it felt like loneliness was a presence in the room with me, sucking up all the air, making my heart thud against my rib cage, breeding panic. I closed the window and tried to breathe.