Paris Is Always a Good Idea Read Online Free Page B

day in a little blue notebook. Only then did her day come to an end, and she could sleep peacefully.
    Yes, it was rituals that gave you stability and something to reliably look forward to. And so every year Rosalie looked forward to the twelfth of December, when she stood on the top of the Eiffel Tower with the whole city spread out at her feet. She had no fear at all of heights—quite the contrary, she loved the feeling of distance, the free, open vista that allowed her thoughts to soar, and as her card fluttered away, Rosalie would close her eyes for a moment and imagine her wish coming true.
    Yet so far not one of her wishes had ever been fulfilled.
    The first time she’d climbed up there with a card, she’d wished for her favorite aunt, Paulette, to regain her health—at the time there was still a glimmer of hope that a complicated operation would be able to save Paulette’s eyesight. But although the operation went well, her aunt ended up blind.
    Another time she’d wished that she would win a competition for up-and-coming young illustrators. But the coveted prize, the book contract, and the prize money of over ten thousand euros went to a gawky young man who only painted palm trees and hares and was the son of a rich Parisian newspaper publisher.
    Before she’d met René and was living alone after a few rather disappointing relationships, she’d wished to meet the man of her dreams who would one evening take her up to Le Jules Verne—the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower, which had probably the most spectacular view over the whole of Paris—and then, when they were there, high up over the sparkling city, ask her the question of questions.
    This wish also remained unfulfilled. Instead, she met René, who literally ran into her one day on the rue du Vieux-Colombier, apologized a thousand times, and then dragged her into the nearest bistro to declare over a salade du pays that he’d never seen anything as beautiful as her. But René would rather have taken her on a trekking tour to Kilimanjaro than to an expensive—and in his view totally superfluous—restaurant on the Eiffel Tower. (“The Eiffel tower? Pur-lease, Rosalie!”)
    Another time she’d wished for peace with her mother—a pious hope! She’d also wished for a little house by the sea—well, that was a little extravagant, but there was nothing to stop her wishing.
    On her last birthday—it was her thirty-third and unpleasant; icy rain was pouring down on Paris and its Christmas decorations—Rosalie had marched off in her thick, blue winter coat and climbed up the Eiffel Tower once again. There was nothing much going on that day—some skaters were gliding over the ice rink that was always put up on the first level in the winter and a few Japanese tourists in rain slickers seemed never to tire of photographing each other with thumbs raised and broad grins.
    This year Rosalie had a very modest wish.
    On the card in her hand was a drawing of a bridge, its honeycomb rail hung with hundreds of little padlocks. A little man and a little woman were standing beside it, kissing.
    The bridge was unmistakably the Pont des Arts, a pedestrian bridge across the Seine from which there was a wonderful view of the Eiffel Tower or the Île de la Cité. On summer evenings it was always a very lively place.
    Rosalie loved the simple, narrow iron bridge with its wooden walkway. She sometimes went there, sat on a bench, and looked at the large number of padlocks attached to the railing, each of which proclaimed a love that was meant to last forever.
    As long as love lasts, it’s eternal. Who had said that?
    Rosalie didn’t know why, but every time she sat there she was moved by the sight of all these hopeful little padlocks, guarding love as staunchly as tin soldiers.
    It may have been silly, but her secret heart’s desire was a padlock like that.
    Whoever gives me a