Not a Navigatrix

Please know that even though it doesn't seem like it will, this story has a happy ending.

So... did you know that the address 9 avenue Franklin Rosevelt in Paris is different than the address 9 avenue Franklin Roosevelt, with two 'o's, just outside Paris?  Well it is.  They are at least thirty minutes apart by transit. The first one is the one we were supposed to go to at 1pm for a proper paid modelling gig for Sophie. The second one, the one with two 'o's,  is the one we were on our way to at 12:15pm.  Why?  WHY???

Maybe it was because we'd already done four different casting auditions that day all over the city.

Maybe it's because of the difference of one damn 'o' in a very similar sounding address.

Or maybe it's because I'm always really terrible at navigating-- like really, really, terrible-- and the online map world was getting back at me for that time I yelled "F#$% off!" really vehemently at my mom's car's GPS.  So vehemently that the GPS reacted by giving me the silent treatment and then said "system turning off" in that annoyingly calm and polite voice it has.

Anyway.

We realize our mistake at about 12:35 and leap off the train and run out of the station, top speed, to look for a taxi to take us back to the city.  But there are no taxis waiting outside the station; instead the taxi area is a block and a half away and we arrive at it breathless and panicked.  There are at least five empty taxis lined up there but no drivers.  There's a button to push on a sign that said 'taxis' and I pummel this button. Nothing happens.  A nice young dreadlocked guy on a scooter who speaks no English except the word "taxi" starts trying to help us since he can see I'm nearly in tears and my voice has that horror movie victim edge to it--  he waves down people to try to get them to drive us (ubers maybe?  I don't know), and then he points to the cafe where all the taxi drivers are sitting.  I run in and ask for a ride immediately.

They all look at me and say nothing.

I am clearly in extreme distress.  So I say it in French, my dreadful, cobbled-together French.  Then in English, they say "Not now.  We're not done yet," and gesture lazily to their cups.  Bastards.

I grab Soph's hand and we run as fast as we can back to the train station but we don't know which way the train back to Paris goes.  There are tons to choose from.  A lovely helpful lady who can sense our panic takes us exactly to the spot where the train we need leaves from, but one just left. The next one leaves in ten minutes.  We are both in actual panicked tears now.  I call the agency at an exorbitant cost to tell them we'll be fifteen minutes late, and can they please pass on our apologies to the designer and everyone?  We are so, so sorry.  Je suis vraiment desolé.  I look at Sophie and she is so desperately sad and angry that I screwed this up that she may never speak to me again.

The train arrives and we take it back to the city, running up escalators and in between metro stations for the two more different transfers we need to make, then frantically running to the elegant Hotel Le Marois.  Inside it looks like this:

People are milling about everywhere.  As we do our panicked run around the final curve of the staircase, J'ai tombé-- which is the much nicer, frencher way of saying I tripped on the last set of beautiful, marble stairs.  Soph sees me trip but knows to keep going though (it's like a war movie scene where I stretch out my hand and say "No!  You keep going!  Save yourself!) so she bolts to the area where the models are.  A very well dressed nice French man asks me "Ca va, madame?" and again, I say, for what I know will be the millionth time today, "Je suis desolé," and I get back up really fast and keep going, pretending nothing has happened.  Then I round the corner, go straight into the model area, red-faced, dripping in sweat and..... it's fine.  No one has noticed or cared that we are fifteen minutes late.  Soph is calmly standing there with all the other models, waiting for her designer and the makeup artists.  They all look bored and are checking their phones, so Soph gives me a knowing nod and a wink, and pulls out her phone too so she can fit in and I go back down to the lobby and start trying to breath normally again and/or stress sob.

Later a nice French waiter sees me slumped there limply on the couch and brings a marble slab tray of petite eclairs stuffed with chocolate ganache by and says "Pour vous, madame," and I decide in my weakened condition that I think maybe I am in love with him.  The eclairs are the size of my thumb and I try to delicately take one but he hands me a napkin and smilingly insists "Deux, sil vous plait, madame," and this is when I become certain my love is real.  We made it and everything is okay and this place is fancy and nothing has ever tasted this good.  Twice.

Sophie of course never broke a sweat the entire time and remained elegant and composed throughout.  How did someone as spastic and screwed up and sweaty as me produce someone so poised and perfect? Here she is, waiting to go in to present Ana Khouri's jewelry at an event where the designer eventually wins for best accessories of 2017.

And in three years she will get 37% of a very nice paycheque for the work she did and remember this frantic day.  (Thanks, French taxation laws that protect minors.)  Mercifully she has already forgiven me. But now she double checks my work on google maps.