It was bloody cold here, though, and I hugged my jacket closer. I’d had to buy a new winter wardrobe when I’d arrived because none of my “warm” South African clothes were good enough. The walk to art school took me across a bridge over the Seine; I’d been there already to register for classes and for an orientation day. And every time I walked over one of the many bridges in this city, I stopped and looked down at the water. Although the color was completely different than the sea in Cape Town, or than Jake’s pool, it made me think of him and our last night together. I crossed the bridge and walked onto yet another road dotted with alfresco cafés full of stylish people sipping strong coffee and eating croissants—exactly as I’d imagined it!

I smiled to myself. I still couldn’t believe I was here, even after spending a month settling in. When moving to a new city, there are things you have to get used to that you never imagined before. Like which brand of tampons you should buy when they don’t have the ones you’re used to. Where to buy groceries and what to buy, since nothing is in English. How to activate your new SIM card . . . what the hell to use to even get the blasted SIM card out of your phone? Settling into a new place felt daunting and exciting, all at the same time. And so far I was doing all right.

I arrived at the university and stared at the building in front of me; this was where Monet and Renoir and Degas and Delacroix and all the greatest artists had come. They had walked these very corridors, and now I was here, taking my place among the greats. I wondered if I would still feel them in the corridors, as if they had imprinted their greatness onto the walls. I hoped they had, and that I could somehow absorb just a little bit of that.

But despite that orientation day spent here, I quickly found myself lost and walking in circles, late for my first class. And when I finally found it, I rushed in and everyone turned and looked at me. That familiar prickle of anxiety stirred, but it was washed away quickly when the faces around me started to smile.

“That’s her . . . the street artist . . .” I heard someone say as I walked past.

“Her work is amazing . . .”

“Sorry, I’m late,” I said to the lecturer. “The signs are confusing. French!”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to reading in French soon enough.”

I rushed up the stairs and slipped into the only empty seat I could find.

“Welcome to History of Art,” the lecturer said as I pulled out my textbook and placed it on the table in front of me.

“Hi,” I whispered to the girl sitting next to me. “I’m Lori.”