Paris had turned out to be just what I expected, in ways both good and bad.  Food was expensive.  Housing would have been, too, although I didn’t need to worry about that.  Not with my little one man tent and concealed grottoes in parks to hide in! 

However, the city was beautiful, full of history and mystery.  And what a treasure box of architecture!!  Beautiful arches swooped along old buildings and medieval towers thrust toward the sky.  I need not even mention Notre Dame or the Louvre.

    I had been in Paris for about three days out of the week I had planned on staying when I could restrain myself no longer.  I had waited this long to see the Opera House, the Palais de Garnier and could not wait a single day more.  Seeing it would be the crown jewel of my time in Paris.  It was a merging of my two loves, theatre and architecture.  Then, with memories of it locked safely in my head, I would move on, yet again.  I always moved on, leaving these grand, glorious places I’ve seen and loved behind.

    I had been a gypsy for about three years, and I never knew if I was running away from something or towards something.  I had been a foolish thing while away at college in the States.  I had suffered a hugely broken heart at the hands of the man, a boy really, that I thought was my first love.  I mistook stability for love and paid a dear price for that mistake.  He dumped me without warning while I was traveling, and I later discovered that he had been sleeping with several of my friends.

    I was devastated for days.  I wept constantly, couldn’t eat, barely slept.  Only the responsibilities of work kept me alive.  Later I realized my grief was not so much for loss of love, which I had been doubting for some time, but for fear of the future and fear of being truly on my own, for the first time in my brief life. 

I began to recover and make plans to rebuild my life, slowly, without him.  And then, only a few days after that horrifying phone call, he found me, to visit and ‘smooth things over.’  I wanted nothing to do with him and slapped him, hard.  With the sharp ‘snap’ of my hand striking his cheek, something in my heart snapped as well.  I regained all the courage and strength I had lost in depending on him, and along with them, my dreams.

    But, I had still paid a dearer price than I cared to.  Three years of my life I could never get back, and with them, three years of wonderful opportunities missed, and a lifetime of trust.  I vowed to myself that I would never let anyone steal my dreams away again, that I would always do exactly as I pleased.

    So, a few years later, soon after graduation I stepped onto an airplane carrying only a backpack with necessary supplies and my little tent.  I had little enough family to grieve at my going; my parents had been killed in an auto accident when I was in middle school.  I only had a distant uncle, who didn’t like me anyway.  I was too strange for his tastes.  “Backstage in a theatre is no place for a lady.”  I think he was glad to see me go.

   I got off the plane in Dublin and wandered Ireland for the better part of a year.  I sent occasional letters off Uncle Al and to my old college friends, and spent the days walking, and singing and playing my little tin whistle on street corners to earn money for food.  I even gave the occasional tarot reading for extra money.  After Ireland, I made my way through Scotland and England, spending about a year in each, and, when I tired of the Isles, I boarded a Chunnel Train for France.

    I took my time getting to Paris, about three months, working hard on learning the language.  I’m terrible at languages, but I wanted to at least be able to communicate, if somewhat choppily, if I was to be in such a large city.  At last feeling ready I entered Paris on the third anniversary of the day I left home for my ‘walkabout.’

    Now, I was making my way through the moody lunch hour crowds towards the Opera House, and my heart leapt just a bit when I first saw Apollo and his Lyre glinting at me over the rooftops.  I had studied the plans and construction of the Opera House, as well as the history of its performances in my theatre history classes, and have always been fascinated by this monument to musical beauty.  Smiling broadly, I hefted my pack a little higher, re-planted my dark sunglasses on the bridge of my nose and made my way to the façade of the building.

    I glutted my eyes and mind on the pillars and carvings on the front of the opera house, but subtly.  I kept walking and did not gape.  If my little plan was to work, I had to look like I belonged here.  That was going to be difficult enough with my terrible accent and hefty pack, but confidence can get you a lot of places.  My plan was to get complete access to every part of the opera house and see all of it by sneaking in right in front of them.  A building so huge and old would be built like a labyrinth and I wanted to explore every part of it.  My peculiar wanderlust always was a desire to explore.

    So, it was with a deep breath that I opened the broad, dark, side doors (thanking the Gods that they were unlocked) and stepped inside.  With a smooth and practiced motion I took off my sunglasses and deposited them in my shirt pocket.  It was very dim inside after the bright summer sun, and pleasantly cool.  There was a low wooden counter to my right as I entered, with a dark-haired man seated behind it.  But I trusted my luck, ignored him, and walked straight forward as if I knew exactly where I was going.  I didn’t know, or care, but once I got away from people, I could begin exploring, get lost and refound at my leisure.

    Unfortunately, it was here that my luck ran out.  “Mademoiselle?”  It was a question, but a demanding one.  I couldn’t very well ignore him, so I turned where I stood and flashed him my best smile.

    “Where are you going, Mademoiselle?”  He stood up and walked around his desk towards me, since I obviously wasn’t returning to him.

    Time for that famous confidence!  “I was just going to look around the Opera House.  I’ve always wanted to see the inside of it!” I replied in my rather broken French, still holding that huge smile that made my face hurt.  I didn’t bother making up a story, it would just sound feeble and suspicious.

    Then, he turned truly haughty and Parisian.  “If Mademoiselle wants to see the interior, perhaps she should purchase a ticket to the Opera.  The box office is around the corner of the building,” he said with a sniff, looking over my worn traveling shoes, and the admittedly disastrous state of my clothing.  “However, if you cannot afford one, or appropriate wear to the Opera, then you must content yourself with the view of the exterior.”  He waved a hand back at the doors I had entered.

    I was certainly not going to let this snobbish prick derail my plans!  I simply had to change tactics.  I’ve not yet met a soul I couldn’t get to see my view of things somehow.  A brief look at him, and I knew exactly what to do.  He looked as if he had a distinctly unpleasant view of the poor and uneducated, but he also looked an emotional man, with expressive blue eyes, as well as a man to appreciate learning and intelligence.  He WAS reading a large volume of romantic poetry, and that clued me in onto the best course of action.  I turned on the waterworks and burst into tears.

       “Oh, Monsieur!!  I know I must look absolutely atrocious, please forgive my appearance!” I babbled, letting two large tears tumble down my cheeks.  “It’s just that I’m a student of theatre, and I‘ve been traveling for months all over France, only now just coming to the fine city of Paris.  I’m also an amateur student of architecture, and I so wanted to see the inside of the world famous Garnier Opera House, perhaps even backstage, to see how things are done at the most famous theatre in the world.  But I leave at the end of the week and I’m almost out of money for my travels, and besides I’m sure the wonderful performances here are all sold out till well after I leave anyway!”  A little flattery never hurt anyone.  I sobbed loudly and covered my face, mostly to cover a wayward grin.  I could see that he was falling for it, hard.  Time for the finishing touch.

    I leaned forward and grabbed his hand in both of mine.  “Oh, Monsieur,” I cried, looking up at him, my eyes shining with tears, “surely there must be some way for me to see the stage, at least, and maybe even the Grand Stair?”  I let another, smaller sob escape and smiled a small, trusting smile at him.

    His face had softened considerably, and I could see that he was sorry for his early behavior.  “I’m sorry Mademoiselle, forgive my assumptions.  There is a tour that starts in half an hour, would that do?”

    “Oh yes!”  I clapped my hands and smiled brightly again, tears forgotten.  I, of course, had no intention of staying with the tour, but it was a start.  “Where does it start?”

    “Right here, Mademoiselle, but perhaps you would like to wash your face and freshen up?”  He gestured towards two small doors on the opposite wall from his little desk.  They were marked with blue and pink masquerade masks.

    “Yes, thank you so much.”  I slipped inside the room with the pink mask and locked the door.  Not trusting its soundproofness, I covered my mouth with my hand and giggled silently at my reflection.  It worked!  Now all I had to do was lose the tour and I’d be home free.  This place was so huge, they’d never find me if they even bothered to look.  

I looked around at the unexpectedly dingy bathroom.  It was lit by only a single light bulb and the grey-green paint on the radiator was peeling.  But, it was more privacy than I’d had since last winter when I worked at an Inn and actually had my own room, so I took advantage of that fact.  

I wiped my face with a damp paper towel and after a thought, my arms and neck as well.  The man behind the counter was right, I did look pretty disheveled.  I dug through my pack and managed to come up with my brush as well.  I pulled it through my hair several times, replaced my head scarf and finished my ablutions by giving my hands a good scrub.  I felt a bit better, and certainly looked better.

Desk-man certainly seemed to think so by the look he gave me when I walked out of the bathroom.  By that time, there were two or three more people waiting in the little lobby, and I settled myself on a hard wooden bench to wait as well.  People trickled in by twos and threes, and one large family of seven, with an adorable little boy who took one look at me and yelled, “Look, Mommy, it’s a Gypsy lady!”  I laughed at the misconception.  Before his mother could stop him, he ran right up to me, and suddenly shy, thrust his hands in his pockets, staring at my sandaled feet.  “Can you do magic?” he whispered.

    His mother caught up to him then and looked ready to scold him, but I interceded with a smile.  “Of course, my lad.”  And I amused him and myself until the tour started, pulling coins out of his ear, mouth, shoes and even out of thin air, then making them disappear again.  Then, at the end of the tricks, I gave him the sou, one of my last, but I figured I could always earn more.  The wide smile on his face made it worth it.

    A plump, middle-aged woman with large brown hair, red horn rimmed glasses and an atrocious pink skirt suit strode into the room and clapped her hands loudly.  “Everyone, please come forward, no crowding now, how are you there, my dear?  Are we all ready to go?  I am Mimi.  Welcome to the Opera House, everyone, our tour will get underway shortly, and I must insist that you stay close with the group at all times.  We don’t want anyone to get lost now, do we?”  She stopped at this point to take a breath and giggle nervously.  I was glad I’d be leaving the group soon, her voice was squeaky, raspy and off key all at the same time, and it put me on edge.  I took my place at the back of the group, taking care not to hang so far back as to be noticed.  I needed to be just one of the group for a while until I could sneak off.

    My chance came earlier than I had thought.  We stopped firstly, en masse in a narrow hallway full of deeply recessed doors while the tour guide expounded on some obscure point in the history of the Opera House that even I wasn’t interested in.  I leaned casually against one of the doors and jiggled the handle behind my back.  It was unlocked.  Opening it just the slightest bit, I could see that no lights were on, so when everyone else’s backs were turned, I slipped all the way inside, shut the door silently and, effectively disappeared.

    I grinned in the darkness and listened against the door until I could no longer detect the irritating whine of the tour guides voice.  Then I slipped my small flashlight out of my belt and turned it on.  

    I was in a small, and by the scent of mothballs, unused office.  It was furnished with a large oak desk, a few chairs, a cabinet and a dusty divan in the corner.  It also had another door at the far end, and figuring that I was less likely to be detected if I avoided the main hallways, I headed towards it.  Luck seemed to be with me once again; it led into another room, not a closet.  As I moved into the next room and closed the door, I thought I caught a brief whiff of the slightly familiar combination of candle wax and roses.  I turned, but saw nothing out of place.  Shaking my head, I began my exploration.