Creative Writing: Les Jardins D Eiffl

Amazing Essays
I walk out of my hotel and look to my right and left. I’m trying to orient my street map in the dark. Les Jardins d’Eiffel is on a side street, Rue Amélie, in the seventh arrondissement in Paris. Emily walks out behind me, giddy with excitement. She’s 17, and I’m the only adult student on the trip, having just turned 18, so her mom has allowed her to go with me to see the Eiffel Tower at midnight. “Are you sure you can find it?,” shes asks nervously.
“Yes, just let me focus,” I reply
The truth is, the map is just a backup plan. I’ve studied this city for years, mapping out my way from each treasured location to the next. As soon as I found out the name of the hotel, I began memorizing this path.
The street is narrow, flanked mostly by old,
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This is real, I can’t help but think. My mind is having trouble grasping the natural way I’m moving about. After years of studying French, I could stop someone and chat them up, asking them for the fastest way, or the most enjoyable, even though I’ve traveled every possible route via Google maps. I decide to stay on this street for now, as a long detour would worry my friend.
We continue forward. The night is warm and inviting. As we approach an intersection, I note the large, pillared building to my right. It is a Catholic Church, Paroisse Saint-Pierre du Gros Caillou. The parish stands in obstinate objection to the infringement of luxury stores taking over the street. The sidewalk alternates between cobblestone and smooth cement. History, here, is refusing to yield to tourism.
As we continue on Saint-Dominique, it is becoming abundantly clear that we are getting closer to the tower, as the streets are becoming more crowded. I could turn onto Avenue Bosquet, but I choose, again, to stay the course, knowing that the road narrows once more, and the side streets were plenty. We walk by another café, La Fontaine de Mars, and I can’t help but to take note of a pattern I never noticed on my virtual
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Je n 'ai pas d 'argent,” I reply.
He speaks in English again, “It is okay. I am no longer working. No charge for you, if you let my friend draw your pictures.”
“We have no money,” I re-iterate.
“I know. He needs practice,” he says.
So, Emily and I move closer to the Seine, and have our caricatures drawn. The boys are not French, but Indian, and are making money catering to tourists at the Tower. They seem relieved to be just about done for the day. We are cautious to not say much. Emily and I exchange nervous glances after the younger boy is done with his pictures.
“Thank you so much,” we tell them. “We have to go back soon.”
They seem to understand our apprehension, wish us a nice night, and tell us to enjoy our holiday.
Emily and I make our way back to our narrow street, making sure to keep glancing back to make sure we are not being followed. Safety issues aside, I cannot help but to return to my blissful state. The streets are quieter now, and easier to navigate. Emily seems to have a stronger sense of where we are going and walks by my side rather than behind me.
As we enter the hotel, she says “Thanks for taking me with you.”
I laugh, “Well, I’m glad your mom let you come, because they wouldn’t have let me leave

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