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to the airport the night before andthere had been repeated teary goodbyes. Her first transatlantic flight had felt long and cramped, and it was a relief to disembark into the busy airport. Ruby had chosen a simple pension on Rue de Nesle on the Left Bank, and she admired the quirky decorations and artwork when she arrived to drop off her bags. There was no restaurant or café at the hotel, so she walked down the cobblestone road, which burst out onto a large square. She happily noted there were at least four cafés with patios stretching into its hub. She sat down at La Pleine Lune and soon she was munching on a chocolate croissant and sipping a grand crème as she took in her surroundings. She tried to imitate the French and their very essence of nonchalance by just glancing at the people all around her, but there was so much to see. She noticed a slight young man with wavy blond hair staring at her on and off from the other side of the patio. He waved at her. She waved back. As she got up to go, she wondered if he was from around here and whether she’d ever see him again.
    Ruby hopped onto the Métro at Odéon and found her way to the Jardin du Luxembourg. The air was fresh in the park and the sun now high in the sky, casting thick rays of gold over the beds of flowers. She feasted on the bright array of colours as she strolled around. She bent to touch flowers as if she were talking to them. As she took in their scent she felt she was inhaling the promise of the city. It helped to lift the fatigue settling down on her, so she decided to remain in the open air and go on to Père Lachaise Cemetery. She had heard that it was beautiful, full of the graves of the famous amidstbounteous nature. In particular, she wanted to visit the graves of Colette, Guillaume Apollinaire and then Jim Morrison.
    During the week that followed, Ruby always had breakfast at La Pleine Lune before heading out to explore the city. She loved Paris, but she began to feel lonely and wished she had someone to share her experiences with. How would she cope in Berlin? Her confidence began to ebb. Maybe she wasn’t quite as independent as she had thought. But she was determined not to go crawling back to her father so soon; it was important to prove she was capable of surviving on her own.
    On the night before her departure, Ruby picked up some cheese, a baguette, some fruit and a bar of chocolate and went to the river. As she sat down with her picnic by the Seine, the same blond man she had seen on the patio her first day in Paris approached and joined her on the bench.
    â€œAt last,” he said in French. “No more waving. I can look you in the eyes and tell you how pretty you are.”
    Ruby felt her cheeks warm as she smiled awkwardly at her new companion. His rather large nose reminded her of Gérard Depardieu, but his slate-blue eyes were welcoming, with a hint of laughter at their edges. His hair was so thick and wavy that she wanted to run her fingers through it.
    â€œYes, well . . . Um, what is your name?” asked Ruby. His accent seemed Eastern European, but she wasn’t sure.
    â€œI’m Werner. You are not from here, I gather, though you speak beautifully. What is your name, my little American?”
    â€œRuby,” she said. “And I’m Canadian.”
    He took her hand in his and kissed it and said, “Hello, Ruby, la Canadienne . Pleased to meet you.”
    His eyes seemed to devour her. Ruby squirmed a little. “You’re not French, are you?”
    â€œNo, I’m German, from Stuttgart.”
    â€œOh! I’m going to Berlin tomorrow.”
    â€œBerlin, eh? That’s where I live. Why are you going there?”
    Ruby chatted easily about her life back in Don Mills and how her great-uncle’s time in Berlin had inspired her to travel, though she could see Werner struggling to follow.
    Werner switched to English. “Do you speak German?”
    â€œ Nein . Not one