Eric, an expat in China, lies to his co-worker, Zoe, about his trip to Paris.
Eric watched Zoe drink her tea. She slurped, swallowing carefully, like it might be dangerous.
“I went to Paris when I was in high school,” he said, tracing a circle on his cup. The cup warmed his fingernail, the heat stopping short of his skin.
“Paris is a beautiful city,” she said.
“Very beautiful.” And as far as Eric was concerned, lies weren’t lies when they fed harmless fantasies. When he first got to China, he used to tell his students the truth about Paris. It’s not beautiful, it’s a dump. It’s not romantic, it’s infested with panhandlers. Everyone’s in a hurry. On his trip the other students sought refuge in the Burger King a block from their hotel while their teacher struggled to communicate with the locals. He’d talk, and half the time the Parisians would interrupt him in heavily accented English. One week wasn’t long enough to establish an impression of an entire country, but it worked for a city. Paris sucked.
“Sacre Coeur,” Eric said, affecting his best French accent when pronouncing the name, “is gorgeous.” At Sacre Coeur, African panhandlers tied a string around his classmate’s ring finger and demanded money to remove it. “And the Eiffel Tower?” They waited in line six hours. In the meantime, les flics showed up and Turkish teenagers peddling miniature Eiffel Towers swooped up their trinkets in rugs and fled. On the way out another African panhandler gave the same classmate a rose and asked Eric for 2 Euros. When Eric refused to pay, the man snatched the rose from his classmate’s hands and cursed him in French.
“The beauty of Paris.” Eric sighed. “It defies description.”
