Who wouldn’t fall in love in a sleepy French town?
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How to Get by in Europe on Just Pennies a Day
The 5:25 local from Montpellier to Perpignan was quiet for a weekday, but even so, Rissa hadn’t expected to have an entire carriage all to herself. With two facing banquettes and storage space in the overhead netting, there was room for six people and all their luggage. She didn’t need to use that facility either, as all she was carrying since those wayward college girls had run off with her valuables was her handbag, a backpack and her laptop. As for the computer, it had been spared only because it was a year or two out of date, hardly worth stealing.
Rissa didn’t mind the solitude; she was a loner. It gave her the opportunity to stare out the window and soak in as much as she could of the scenery flitting by. In spite of her worries, the south of France was, after all, the south of France, and the chance to experience it didn’t come along too often in your lifetime, especially not for people like her.
Though the train was traveling at a tremendous speed, there was a lot to see. The gorgeous Vermillion Coast stretched out for a hundred miles, alternating between sharp, rocky cliffs that plunged into the deep blue Mediterranean; vineyards set out in neat, ordered rows; small towns and villages and, occasionally, marinas and holiday campsites hugged by sandy beaches. Once in a while the train stopped at one of the larger towns and she’d have the added excitement of watching commuters to-ing and fro-ing along the platforms.
It was the height of summer and apart from the usual business activity the stations teemed with holiday-makers, from families hauling vacation stuff and flustered parents herding wayward children to young backpackers who, like herself, carried all they owned on their shoulders.
Unfortunately, the solitude also gave her plenty time to think about her present position. She propped her chin on her hand as the problem that had been nagging her for the past week popped back into her head.
Money.
It was funny how nonchalant you could be about the commodity when credit card, travelers’ checks and cash were within easy reach, but when you got up one morning and found everything gone except for the handful of euros you had in the back pocket of your jeans, money suddenly became an issue—really fast. And in spite of what the TV commercials claimed, replacing travelers checks and credit card wasn’t that easy, especially when things like your passport and driver’s license had also been taken. Getting back on her feet would take time and Rissa was confident enough in the system to know that things would eventually work out … although, to be realistic, her credit card already had a ridiculously low limit, since she hadn’t started this adventure with much money anyway. And by the time she realized she’d been robbed and gone online to report the theft, the card had been maxed out. The bank responded by cancelling it, but made it clear that for any reimbursement to take place, she’d have to prove she wasn’t the one living it up in spas and French designer stores, as the wenches who’d rolled her had done. So not only was she dead broke, but she was on the hook for a couple grand, easy.
I’ll be fine, she kept telling herself, though she wasn’t so sure. The world was essentially good and her karma unsullied. But in the meanwhile, she did need to eat.
Money, money, money. She released her frustration in a gusty sigh.
The door to her carriage burst open and a head poked inside. A young, brown-skinned girl, who looked to be in her mid-teens, asked her something in rapid French. Rissa, whose foreign language capabilities didn’t extend much further than ordering a cup of coffee at a café-terrasse, or enquiring as to the whereabouts of the nearest ladies’ room, shook her head. “Sorry. Do you speak English?”
The response was a squeal. “Finally! Another American!” The girl floated in on a cloud of strong perfume, dragging an enormous Louis Vuitton suitcase behind her, which she dropped on the floor between them and shoved into a corner with a foot before plopping down onto the seat opposite. She grinned at Rissa. “I was only asking if you were planning on hogging this carriage all to yourself.”
Since the young lady was already in and well ensconced, Rissa took it as a rhetorical question. Maybe some company wouldn’t be all that bad, she reasoned, especially company who spoke the same language. She smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”
The newcomer didn’t need to be invited. She rummaged through her handbag and withdrew a top-tier iPhone and a pair of cat-eared headphones. Sprawling across the seat as only a teenager could, she closed her eyes and was soon nodding in time to the beat of music so loud that, in spite of the headphones, Rissa could identify from across the carriage as hip-hop.
Rissa took advantage of the interloper’s closed eyes to examine her with a writer’s innate curiosity. From the close-cropped hair, which was straightened and bleached to a startling platinum blonde, to the stretchy purple camisole that most women would have worn as underwear, to the thigh-length denim skirt and Air Jordans, the girl looked every inch the trendy American teenager. An array of rings, bracelets, and other adornments—including an amethyst nose ring set in gold—gleamed against her skin. Rissa could see the edge of a tattoo peeking saucily out from under the scoop neckline of the camisole.
Her amused smile was upgraded to a grin. At twenty-five, Rissa was sure there couldn’t even be a decade between her and the girl, but times changed so fast. She always did her best to keep track of what was engaging the interests of young women, especially since she made a living writing for them—or had, anyway, until now.
One habit she’d picked up in the years she’d spent writing freelance for women’s magazines was the ability to pull eye-catching article titles out of thin air, like a magician yanking a rabbit out of a hat. It was something she did everywhere, applied to almost every encounter and situation, almost without being conscious of it. She squinted at her new traveling companion.
Hmmm.
Hip-hop and hearing loss: is there a connection?
How to choose the nose ring meant for you.
Makeup: When does ‘just enough’ become ‘too much’?
“Whatcha looking at?”
The voice made her jump. Rissa hadn’t realized that while she’d been indulging herself in examining the new arrival, the girl had been looking right back at her under those thick lashes. She felt her face flood with heated embarrassment. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I was thinking, uh, like you, how nice it is to meet another American.”
The girl accepted her little fib without question. “I know what you mean! Nice to hear the native tongue being spoken, know what I’m saying?”
Rissa knew exactly what she was saying. Traveling always opened you up to a wide range of cultures and peoples, but there was something warming about meeting one of your own, especially when you were just a bit homesick. She decided that, since it seemed she and the girl were going to be traveling companions, at least for the next few hours, it would be appropriate to introduce herself properly. She held out her hand. “I’m Nerissa Young.”
The girl did likewise. Rissa could feel her many large rings bite into her palm under the surprisingly strong grip. “Frankie Maynard.”
An unusual name for an unusual creature, Rissa decided. “Frankie?”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “You don’t even want to know what it stands for!”
She was really beginning to like this girl. “Frankie it is, then.”
Evidently, the connection was mutual. Frankie set her headphones down on the seat and came over to sit next to Rissa. Her strikingly clear, honey-colored eyes—although almost obscured by thick clumps of purple mascara—were bright and friendly. “So, what kind of name is Nerissa?”
“It’s Indian, after my grandmother.”
Her eyes grew even wider. “Indian? No kidding? You mean, like on the western channels?”
Rissa shook her head and laughed. “I mean, Indian, as in Mumbai, India. That’s where my grandmother was from.”
“Oh.” She appeared to be processing this information, searching Rissa’s face for signs of her mixed heritage, hemming and hawing to herself as she did so. “I see it in your eyes. The way they tilt up at the corners. And you’ve got this fabulous, long black hair. That’s not a weave, is it? It’s all yours, right?
“All mine. Home grown.” Rissa accepted her scrutiny with good humor, even when Frankie said, “Anybody ever tell you you’d be real pretty if you’d just put a little makeup on?”
Even though her companion’s exuberance should have warned her to be prepared for anything, Rissa was a little taken aback. “Uh, no. Not that I remember.”
Frankie half-reached toward her oversized handbag. “Well, I’m telling you. Want me to make you up?”
Now, that would be taking things too far! Rissa held her hands up in front of her face in a self-protective gesture. “I’m fine. Thanks!”
Frankie wasn’t giving up so easily. “Sure? I make up all my friends at school.”
“Positive.”
Frankie tried not to look too disappointed. “Okay, Nerissa. But if you change your mind ….”
“I’ll let you know,” Rissa answered solemnly, although her unspoken addendum to that promise had something to do with unexpected weather reports in hell. To soften her refusal, she added, “But call me Rissa. Everyone does.”
“I like that even better.” Frankie was beaming again. Then a thought bowled her over and the next thing Rissa knew was that her wrist was being held prisoner in Frankie’s excited, sharp-nailed grip. “You’re Rissa Young! The writer chick!”
Busted, Rissa thought. Obviously, Frankie was one of her readers, something she’d hardly expected to come across this far from home. Normally, she preferred to remain under the radar, but since she was already busted, she confessed. “Yes, I am.” She tried not to wince when her admission caused Frankie’s grip to tighten.
“I adore you! I read all your stuff! Look!” Mercifully, Frankie released her grip on Rissa’s wrist, leaped up and grabbed her bag, dumping half its contents onto the seat: perfume, iPad, empty water bottle, half-eaten candy bars and an assortment of crap, until she retrieved a handful of women’s magazines from the bottom. “You wrote this!” She opened one of them and waved the evidence in front of Rissa’s nose, reading the heading aloud as she did so. “Eleven Good Reasons You Don’t Need a Boyfriend. You wrote that, didn’t you?”
“Yup. That was me.”
“It was hilarious!”
Hilarious? That wasn’t an adjective she usually heard applied to her writing. “It wasn’t really meant to be funny,” she tried to explain, but that was like whispering into a windstorm.
Frankie went on, “I mean, guys are sooo awesome. Who’d be crazy enough not to want a boyfriend?”
Some of us get by, Rissa thought ruefully. Especially those of us who’re so damaged they aren’t even worth the attention of a man in the first place.
She didn’t have time to dwell on such painful thoughts, because Frankie had this advice to give, “You could have stopped at ten reasons, though.”
“I had eleven,” Rissa explained.
“Oh.” With lightning speed, she changed gears. “I’m hungry. You hungry?”
Starving, Rissa wanted to say. In her penniless state, she’d cut down her meals to two a day, and those consisted of fresh baguettes split with a penknife and wrapped around slices of French cheese she bought by the chunk in small corner grocery stores. Apart from the occasional all-you-can-eat servings of café soup and croutons, anything more than that would’ve been extravagant. But she was too embarrassed to admit that, even to someone as nice as Frankie. So she shook her head. “I’m fine. I had a big meal before you got on board, a few stations back.”
Frankie didn’t seem to be buying that. “You sure? Because the restaurant car’s just a few carriages down.” She pointed to her right. “That-a-way.”
“I’m good,” Rissa repeated firmly. “You go ahead.”
I’ll buy, if you like. I’ve got my brother’s credit card. He’s loaded.”
Ah, Rissa thought. Thus the source of all that expensive stuff. A loaded brother was a nice thing to have, especially one who let you use his credit card. But she couldn’t allow anyone to buy her a meal. Things might be rough, but they were soon to get better, and at least she still had her pride. “No, thanks,” she said, a little abruptly.
Frankie showed no evidence of feeling snubbed. She simply scooped up her wallet, chirped, “See ya,” and left the carriage.
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