Paris: Love, lights, and an aunt's artistic whim ðŸ¤
The confetti from their Irish wedding had barely settled, and the faint scent of sawdust from the Baumstamm sägen at their German reception still clung to their clothes, when Patricia Schmidt-Bonnar (she was still getting used to the hyphen, a delightful, tangible symbol of her new life) found herself on a train to Paris with her husband. Her husband. The word itself sent a little jolt of joy through her every time she thought it. Cathal Bonnar, her once-impossibly-distant celebrity crush’s son, was now her partner in life, her fellow log-sawer, her Cal.
They were exhausted, naturally. Two weddings, two countries, two very enthusiastic families – it had been a whirlwind of love, laughter, music, and a surprising amount of logistical planning that even her most detailed spreadsheets hadn't fully anticipated. But beneath the fatigue was a deep, simmering happiness and the thrilling anticipation of their honeymoon: two weeks of blissful anonymity, exploring Europe, just the two of them.
"Operation: Just Us," Cathal had whispered to her on the plane from Dublin to connect to the Eurostar, his eyes crinkling with a hopeful smile. "No aunts with brilliant ideas, no uncles with existential guitar solos, no mothers with well-meaning advice, and definitely no surprise family jam sessions in ancient German pubs."
Patricia had giggled, squeezing his hand. "I'll hold you to that, Mr. Bonnar. My 'Tatapan Schmidt' will be on high alert for any approaching relatives."
Paris greeted them with a soft, romantic drizzle and the muted grey light that seemed to make everything look like a painting. Their boutique hotel in Le Marais was a charming haven of exposed beams, plush velvet armchairs, and a tiny balcony overlooking a cobblestone street. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was no schedule, no guest list to manage, no one asking them about their plans for children (a question Andrea had brought up with alarming frequency).
"This," Cathal sighed, collapsing onto the king-sized bed and pulling Patricia down with him, "is paradise."
Patricia snuggled into his side, breathing in the scent of him, a comforting mix of his familiar cologne and the lingering aroma of Irish air. "It is," she agreed. "No offense to your wonderful, incredibly musical, and slightly overwhelming family, but this silence? This privacy? It's a masterpiece."
Their first day was a gentle immersion into Parisian life. They skipped the Louvre ("Too many people," Cathal had wisely noted, "and Aunt Andrea might be there, 'researching' Renaissance art for a concept album") and opted for the quieter charms of the Musée Rodin, wandering through the sculpture garden hand-in-hand, feeling like the only two people in the world. They shared a Nutella crêpe from a street vendor, laughing as chocolate dripped down Patricia's chin. They meandered along the Seine, not aiming for any particular landmark, just enjoying the city's atmosphere and, more importantly, each other's uninterrupted company. Cathal was a different man away from the loving but intense orbit of his family; he was more relaxed, his humor quicker, his attention solely on her. He’d point out quirky architectural details, translate snippets of overheard French conversations with a comically bad accent, and steal kisses when he thought no one was looking.
As evening approached, a sense of delicious anticipation filled the air. They'd booked a table at a small, highly-recommended bistro tucked away on a side street, lauded for its authentic French cuisine and intimate atmosphere – precisely the kind of place they wouldn't accidentally run into anyone they knew. Patricia chose a simple but elegant navy dress, one Cathal had complimented before, and a touch of her favorite jasmine perfume. Cathal looked devastatingly handsome in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his eyes, free from the shadows of past heartbreaks, now only held warmth and affection for her.
"Ready for our first properly romantic, non-wedding-related dinner as husband and wife?" he asked, offering her his arm with a mock-formal bow.
"More than ready," Patricia replied, her heart doing a little flip. "As long as no one starts an impromptu singalong or asks us to saw a baguette in half."
The bistro was everything they had hoped for. Candlelight flickered on a dozen small tables covered in checkered cloths. Soft jazz music drifted from unseen speakers. The air hummed with quiet conversation and the tantalizing aroma of garlic, butter, and wine. Their table was in a cozy alcove, offering a perfect illusion of seclusion.
"This is perfect," Patricia breathed, her eyes shining as she looked at Cathal across the table. "This is exactly what a honeymoon should be."
They ordered a modest but well-reviewed bottle of Côtes du Rhône, clinking their glasses with soft smiles. "To us," Cathal toasted, his gaze tender. "And to successfully evading all known relatives for at least twenty-four hours."
"I'll drink to that," Patricia laughed.
Their starters arrived – a delicate goat cheese tart for her, rich onion soup for him – and the conversation flowed as easily as the wine. They talked about their favorite (and most embarrassing) wedding moments, the slightly terrifying German log-sawing tradition (which Cathal had, to his credit, tackled with surprising gusto), and their vague, happy plans for the future. There was no pressure, no performance, just the comfortable intimacy of two people deeply in love, finally alone. Patricia felt a wave of contentment so profound it almost brought tears to her eyes. This was it. Peace. Romance. Paris.