The dubious craft of "modeling," posing in front a camera, was the last thing on my mind. It simply came to me, I certainly didn't look for it. People had often taken my picture, just for the fun of it. But in Paris that was about to change.
I arrived in the 'city of light' a week before I was to start a summer job, to chauffeur German and English speaking kids of well-to-do guest around town for Hotel Nikko, to make sure they didn't get in trouble. Things didn't work out that way. On the very morning of my arrival, tired from the long drive because the French nuclear engineer who'd pulled over to give me a ride had asked me to drive. He had been partying the whole weekend and loved to just sleep and have me wake him up in Paris! A dream come true to any hitch-hiker and I was very happy to drive the 5 hours non-stop. Upon arrival I thought it would be fitting to take a nap under the symbol of Paris; the Eiffel tower. From my spot, next to one of the four large stone structures that supported her long, iron legs, I panned my eyes upward in to a seemingly limitless sky, all the way up to the top that had been the Eiffel family residence. Soon I sank in to a nice deep nap and would have slept for hours if a little dog didn't lick my face.
I opened my eyes, trying to adjust to the bright light, what appeared were two long, suntanned legs leading upward to a white G-string. Contrasting with 'Eiffel's' iron dame's legs these warm-blooded, smooth, stems were not the sight I was expecting. I very much came to life, glowing with shame to such lack of reservation, -to allow the public sightings of the tiniest of undergarments at end of these endless legs to die for. Despite the good omen, I had not arrived in heaven yet. And in all fairness, given my position, I had no choice but look upward at the proud owner, of what appeared to be a fine example of a woman who loves to stride around in a tiny mini-skirt and enjoy the attention. She noticed my red cheeks and obvious Dutch accent and said "Oh...I was looking at you. Did my dog bother you? I was worried that he may do pee-pee on you...".
While she chuckled I was overwhelmed.
"I am Isabella...what is your name?" As to accommodate me she came down and sat in the grass, allowing me to see more of her than her legs that had frozen the little teenage-boy-cool I possessed. Her face was only making it worse. -Bright blue eyes, set in a gorgeous, classical face, framed by cascading long waves of dark blond hair with sun-induced-highlights that draped shapely shoulders, wrapped in a fitting white, low cut blouse that could barely tame the bouncing of large, pear shaped, bra-less breasts, whose piercing nipples not only added red to my cheeks, they turned my guts in to knots. Why was this so hard?
I didn't just blush, I radiated red and when I thought I would never fall in love it was that moment in Paris that changed every smattering of insight about the power of beautiful woman...I was sold and useless, lost in the depths of the azure blue of her eyes that blended with the cobalt blue of my own.
I was glad she did the talking, -explaining to me that she had studied art and specialized in sculpture, but made her money running fashion shows and posing in bathing suits.
Ah, yes, that made sense. The idea to see her in a bikini was nauseating and in response, with a few intelligible words, I manage to communicate to her my own love for art and of my plan to visit to the Louvre that day. When I thought that all she saw in me was a young fellow with a knack for art, she offered to show me the museum. I naively had no clue there were a lot of other things she felt I too should become familiar with. Things other than paintings, sculpture and legendary Parisian architecture.
As we sat in the grass I couldn't keep my eyes off her...she was a stunning, absolutely mesmerizing beauty. I knew it and she knew it and we both loved it in different ways. I never ever saw a woman like her, and certainly not one to be so kind to take my hand, pull me up on my feet, then lean forward, look up to tell me: "Oh, you are very tall, I love tall man...nice!"
When she asked if I had a girlfriend it dawned to me that her "nice" didn't mean the same as my "kind." As to add to my confusion she planted a soft, wet kiss right on my lips accompanied with; "Welcome to Paris."
As I tasted her saliva I thought of all the British and American soldiers that had liberated this city from the Nazi's and finally understood how very happy these man must have been! In contrast, all I did was catch a ride to receive such unforgettable welcome while these legendary soldiers had to fight street to street before receiving a true French-kiss.
Not only did I never had time for girlfriends, I was clueless about what to do if I had one. I was in to kicking and hitting sandbags at school, climbed trees or sail the sea, stuff most woman I knew hated. But in Paris, under the spell of Isabella I was far too smitten and nervous to make any sense, let alone be a match to a 24 year old super-model who had seen and heard all she needed to know to read "boys" like the back of her hand. She knew, I had no clue and it showed when she took me to a cafe. We sat and after I slowly calmed down, able to at least glance at her without turning in to a total stumbling fool she asked me where I was staying. When I explained of my deal with Hotel Nikko she insisted I take her offer and be her guest and let go of my arrangements. "I'll show you Paris too, don't worry about Hotel Nikko, and I'll show how you can make a fair amount of money fast. You will love it!"
That afternoon we entered the Louvre and she impressed me with her profound knowledge of nearly every piece of ancient sculpture, and her way of speaking about the forms, materials, the artist and the times at which they were made that made it so special.
