I See London I See France Read online

  Dedication

  For Todd Swidler,

  on y va

  Contents

  Dedication

  London, England

  Amsterdam, Netherlands

  Bruges, Belgium

  Paris, France

  Interlaken, Switzerland

  Juan-les-Pins, France

  Monte Carlo, Monaco

  Juan-les-Pins, France (Again)

  Pisa, Italy

  Florence, Italy

  Venice, Italy

  Corfu, Greece

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Sarah Mlynowski

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  The Basics: London, the capital of England, is the perfect gateway city for your European adventure. You can fly there directly from pretty much anywhere in America, it’s a five-hour time difference from the East Coast, plus the Brits speak English.

  Um, most of the time. They snog instead of kiss, wear knickers instead of underwear, and spend pounds instead of dollars, so you might not always understand what they’re bloody (bloody = curse word!) talking about.

  I am going to Europe. EUROPE. I am leaving the country. I have never left the country, and now I’m going to at least five countries.

  If we make it to the gate.

  “Run, Leela, run! Come on! Hurry!” I yell as the two of us charge through the airport. “They just called final boarding!”

  “Wait!” she calls back. “I lost a sandal!”

  I turn to see her hopping on one foot. Her bright blue purse is overflowing with a black leather wallet, Vogue, People, EW, Newsweek, hand sanitizer, a small notepad, pencils, her iPhone, and an open metallic makeup bag the size of a microwave. She’s also holding a white plastic bag stuffed with chips, a vitaminwater, and a sandwich.

  “I dropped the napkins!” she says. “I have to go back for the napkins!”

  “Forget the napkins,” I order. “We don’t have time for napkins. Put your foot back in your shoe and keep moving! I’ll take your food, let’s go!”

  I grab her bag along with mine and keep running. Instead of a purse, I’m wearing a small black backpack that’s keeping everything in place. My passport. My wallet. My guidebook. Four paperbacks—One Day, The Paris Wife, Daughter of Smoke and Bone, and My Brilliant Friend—that all take place in cities I’m planning to visit. Now that it’s summer vacation, I can finally read whatever I want.

  When we get to the gate there is only one person in front of us.

  The board says:

  London

  Flight: 401

  Departs: 5:00 p.m.

  Final Boarding

  “We made it!” I say, panting. “I can’t believe it.”

  Our first almost-delay was when my mother nearly had a panic attack when Leela’s parents picked me up to take us to the airport. She’d come to the driveway to say good-bye, but as I was getting into the car, I saw her eyes glaze over and she seemed very far away. “Mom?” I said, freezing in my spot. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a bit light-headed,” she answered, retreating toward the house. “Don’t worry about me. Go. Have a safe flight.”

  I felt slightly sick as I watched her close the front door behind her. I wondered: Can I really do this? Can I really leave?

  “Everything okay?” Leela’s dad asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  So we went.

  Traffic was miserable, costing us an extra ten minutes. Then security pulled Leela over to examine her massive makeup bag to make sure she wasn’t breaking any kind of liquids rule.

  “Why do you need so many lipsticks?” I asked her.

  “That’s a ridiculous question.”

  “Then why didn’t you pack them in your suitcase?”

  “Most of them are in my suitcase. But I couldn’t pack all of them in there. I was worried they would melt.”

  The final straw was my fault. I insisted on stopping at our terminal’s Fresh Market to get sandwiches. That way we’d be able to eat as soon as we got on the plane, be done before takeoff, and could go straight to sleep. But the line inched forward and we almost missed boarding.

  Yet we made it. We lost the napkins, kept the lipsticks, and we made it. Now, we’re here at the gate. Electricity and excitement rush up my spine—I’m seriously, no joke, actually doing this. I am traveling around Europe with my best friend for four and a half weeks. Holy crap.

  “Boarding pass and passport, please,” the flight attendant says when it’s our turn.

  “Here you go,” I say, and hand over my paperwork.

  “Have a good flight, Sydney,” the flight attendant tells me, and hands back my stuff. She turns to Leela.

  “Damn,” Leela says. “My boarding pass was with the napkins.”

  Tip: Are you taking a late-night flight? Sleep on the plane! That way you’ll be well rested when you land and ready to hit the ground running.

  Otherwise you’re totally going to be a hot mess by noon.

  Somehow we make it. We spot the pile of napkins and the boarding pass and thirty minutes later, we’re in the air. I take a final bite of my Fresh Market sandwich. “Bathroom, then sleep,” I say.

  “Perfect,” Leela says, still chewing. “I’ll watch our stuff.”

  Her stuff is already overflowing from her seatback pocket, and covering both her floor area and mine.

  As I make my way toward the back, I can’t believe I actually left. I haven’t been on a plane since I was ten, over nine years ago. I feel free, like a balloon floating through the sky.

  The plane rocks to the left.

  Free. And slightly untethered.

  I push away any feelings of uneasiness. The next four and a half weeks are going to be amazing. Incredible. Amazingly incredible.

  I smile at the passengers as I pass them. Hello, little boy. Hello, little girl. Hello, too-skinny mom. Hello, extremely sweaty dad. Hello, cute guy.

  At first, I don’t recognize him.

  Then I think: His shaggy brown hair, pink cheeks, and lazy smile look familiar.

  Then I realize. MATT. IT’S MATT. Leela’s ex-boyfriend MATT.

  I have never met Matt in person, since Leela met him in Montreal at McGill University, but I recognize him from her Facebook, Snapchat, and Instagram. Selfies of the two of them on the top of a mountain (#climbedit #MontRoyal), pulling all-nighters at the library (#needcoffee), and sharing a plate of french fries, gravy, and cheese curds (#myfirstpoutine).

  Leela introduced us via FaceTime, too.

  He’s definitely as cute in real life as he was on the phone.

  He’s watching something on his iPad. I make a U-turn, go back to our row, and sink into my aisle seat.

  “I forgot my parents’ converter,” Leela says. “To plug stuff in.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I bought one and definitely packed it. We can share.” I place my hand on her arm. “But brace yourself, my friend. Matt’s on the plane.”

  Leela gasps. “My Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” she finally says when she catches her breath. She drops the rest of her sandwich in her lap. Cheddar. Everywhere.

  “Yes,” I repeat.

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Ninety-nine percent sure.”

  “What row?”

  “Thirtyish. He’s wearing a McGill sweatshirt.”

  She buries her face in her hands. “The jackass is on my airplane. What the hell is he doing on my airplane?”

  “Technically the airplane is owned by Delta. Yet operated by Virgin Atlantic.”

  She doesn’t laugh, even though it was super funny. Okay, maybe not super funny, but definitely a little funny. I would have laughed if she’d said it.

  “He must be in our original seats,” she says. “Thank God I switched mine to be next to you. Thank God. Could you imagine if I had to sit next to him for the entire plane ride? I would die. DIE.”

  “Can we not talk about dying when we’re on a plane over the ocean? Thank you.”

  “He was supposed to cancel his ticket,” she continues. “I told him you were coming with me, and he said he’d go home and get a job in Toronto instead. So why is he here? On my plane? Why would he fly out of Baltimore? He doesn’t even live in Baltimore! I do!”

  “Didn’t you buy the tickets to London together? He probably just kept his. Or maybe he likes the Orioles? I don’t know,” I say. I look out the small window by her head. All I see is blue. “Are you going to go back and yell at him?”

  “Yes! No. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to talk to him. He knows I’m on the plane. If he wants to see me, he can look for me. He’s an ass.” She jerks up. “Crap. Was he sitting with someone?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I was so surprised to see him I ran right back here. I never made it to the bathroom.”

  “Did he notice you?” she asks, worried. “I’m sure he’d recognize you too.”

  “No, no. He was watching something. I don’t think he saw me.”

  “Please, please, please go back and see if he’s sitting with anyone.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. Please. I need to know.” She shakes her head. “No way he’s going to Europe by himself.”

  “He might be,” I say. “Lots of people do.”

  “No,” she says. “He’s not the solo tra
veler type. Oh God, I bet he’s with that chick Ava. She’s probably sitting right next to him. They’re probably feeding each other peanuts. Peanuts! I hate peanuts! Who actually eats the peanuts they give you on airplanes?”

  “They don’t pass out peanuts anymore. Too many allergies. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “Can you just pretend you’re going to the bathroom and check?”

  “I actually do have to go to the bathroom. Still.”

  “Perfect. Problem solved.” Leela’s face is desperate, pleading. Her brown eyes look crazed. Even her usual sleek brown hair is mussed, adding to an overall manic look.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and stand up. We’re in row fourteen. The plane rumbles beneath my feet as I carefully maneuver my way to the back. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

  I look up. And there he is. Still in the aisle seat. Still watching a movie. There’s an older man reading a James Patterson novel to the left of him.

  Not Ava. Small miracle.

  Matt looks up. Notices me staring. We lock eyes. I look away but it’s too late. Oops.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hello, Matthew,” I say. Crap. If he didn’t know who I was at first, I blew it as soon as I said his name. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, so I keep moving, using the backs of people’s chairs to wipe off my now-sweaty palms. Luckily there’s no one in the bathroom, so I quickly step in and lock the door behind me.

  On my way back, I pretend he doesn’t exist.

  Leela is gripping her armrests like the plane is going down.

  “He’s alone. And he saw me,” I say.

  “What do I do?”

  “I don’t know. Go talk to him?”

  “He should come talk to me! He should apologize again! He cheated on me! He’s on my plane!” Her voice is a hysterical whisper.

  “You’re right,” I say. “He should come talk to you.”

  “He’d better,” she says.

  I take a deep breath of stale airplane air and wiggle around, trying to get comfortable. It’s tough, since the seat seems to be designed for a preschooler.

  Leela combs her fingers through her long dark hair. “Do I look okay? In case he comes back?”

  “You look great,” I tell her.

  “How’s my lipstick?”

  “Still good,” I say.

  “Thank you, Bite.”

  I slip off my shoes and try to stretch out my socked toes. “What’s Bite?”

  “This Canadian brand of lipstick I’m obsessed with. I’m applying for an internship there next summer. I love their branding.” Leela is studying marketing at McGill.

  I’m studying English lit at the University of Maryland.

  I turn to her, realizing the implication of what she just said. “You might stay in Canada next summer?”

  “Maybe,” she says. “If I get the internship.”

  I sink back into my seat, feeling something close to relief that I came on this trip. Leela and I need this month together. A friendship can’t survive on childhood memories alone. We have to create new experiences, or the friendship will shrivel up. Like the orchids my dad sent me for my birthday that I completely forgot to water.

  She points to the screen above us. “Want to watch the movie?”

  “I thought we were going to sleep?”

  “I can’t sleep at a time like this! Also I have to pee. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to the bathroom.”

  Tip: You might want to get CFAR (Cancel for Any Reason) insurance to prepare for the unexpected.

  If you don’t, you’re SOL if your boyfriend hooks up with some random girl and you want a refund on your ticket. Sorry.

  Leela and I had always planned on traveling together.

  We’d been best friends since the third grade. We picked matching outfits in advance and told people we were twins. Although we were both around the same middle-row-on-picture-day height, I doubt anyone was fooled; she’s Indian and has dark skin and wavy long dark brown hair, and I’m pale with curly medium-brown Jewish-girl hair.

  While other kids played soccer and went to ballet, Leela and I read books. The Princess Diaries. Anne of Green Gables. But our favorite books took place in England. Mary Poppins. Matilda. Harry Potter. Peter Pan. Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging. Thongs! Snogging! Ha!

  We vowed that one day, when we were older, we would go to England and have our own adventures. London would be so much more fun than Maryland. We would have tea with our pinkies up. We’d go to Buckingham Palace. We’d fly across the city with umbrellas and broomsticks. We’d get engaged in London. Okay, not really, but Leela’s parents had gotten engaged in London and wasn’t that the most romantic thing you’d ever heard?

  In middle school, we became obsessed with the Eiffel Tower. We decided we’d go to Paris and London. In high school, Leela studied French and discovered stinky cheese. I read Anna and the French Kiss, Just One Day, and a whole lot about Marie Antoinette.

  My cousin Melanie actually backpacked through Europe when she was nineteen. She went for six months. She explained that backpacking through Europe didn’t mean hiking from city to city over mountains like I kind of thought it did. She took trains, and she just carried all her things in a backpack instead of a suitcase. We couldn’t imagine. How would everything fit? I wanted to travel with all my stuff in a backpack! We wanted to backpack through Europe!

  Even after Leela got into McGill University in Montreal, Canada, and I got a scholarship to go to University of Maryland—which was great because I could live at home, and I felt like I needed to live at home—our plans didn’t change.

  “We’re still going to Europe next summer,” she said.

  “Of course,” I told her, although unlike Leela, I didn’t have a passport.

  The night before she left for Canada she said, “We’re still going to Europe this summer,” as she hugged me good-bye.

  I promised we would.

  Leela met Matt on the first day of Frosh. That’s the week of drunken debauchery at McGill, the week before school starts. Like in Europe, the drinking age in Montreal is eighteen.

  At the start of the year, Leela and I spoke or texted every day. But as the months went by and I got caught up in classes and studying and parties and driving to and from campus in addition to running around for my mother and my sister, Addison, my response time got slower and slower.

  Leela: Call me when you can. I miss you!

  Leela: Remember me?

  Leela: Cough, cough, this is still your number, right?

  Me: I’m sorry! I suck! I’m so busy! I love you!

  I missed the days when our daily lives were intertwined with school and gossip and hanging out and reading and just watching TV together.

  My phone buzzed in late February.

  Leela: We’re still going to Europe together, right?

  I didn’t answer right away. I wanted to go to Europe. Badly.

  A week later she wrote again.

  Leela: Hello, stranger. What’s the story for this summer? ARE we going to Europe or not? If yes, we have to get plane tickets.

  I hesitated, my hands on my phone. Our friendship needed this trip. But I couldn’t say yes. I wrote back:

  I don’t know.

  Leela: Your mom will be fine.

  Me: I’m not sure that’s true.

  I waited for Leela to respond. She finally texted:

  Leela: But we’ve been planning this trip FOREVER!!

  Me: I know.

  I thought about it. I missed Leela like crazy, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave my mother for the summer. She wouldn’t be fine.

  My mother has a severe anxiety disorder called agoraphobia. People think agoraphobia is a fear of going to public places, but that’s not totally it. Agoraphobics are afraid of being out in public and losing control, so they prefer to stay in places they think of as safe.

  That’s how my father explained it anyway.

  When my little sister and I were still in elementary school, my mom always asked my dad to drive, and we were always the first to leave events, but she still came to our school plays and book fairs and teacher conferences. She worked from home since she’s a children’s book illustrator, but she still left the house. She didn’t love it, but she did it. She and my dad argued all the time. He wanted to go for more dinners, more parties, to meet more people, see more things. She wanted him to slow down and pay attention to his family. He liked to be out. She liked to play Monopoly and watch TV. He wanted to see a marriage counselor. She refused. Her aunt was a therapist, and she thought her aunt was a total kook.