TRAVEL ABROAD
Make Sure To Have Coins For The Toilet
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There are certain, special moments in our lives that we'll remember forever. Even when we're ninety and on our death bed. For some, it's their first kiss. Others, it's marriage. For many, it's the birth of their children. Important memories we cling to in dark moments, memories that give us strength and provide happiness at the times we need joy the most.
My most vivid memories have been of pain, heartache, fear. Memories that cloud my days, haunt my nights. Memories I'd rather forget.
The day my dad left us.
The day I was diagnosed.
The day things got really bad and I almost died.
Those memories have been my constant companions. Until now.
As I travel through Copenhagen in the back of a taxi, the wheels bumping over cobbled roads so jarring that my teeth clank together, making me want to laugh, I know, without doubt, this is the moment I will cling to, remember fondly while I'm on my death bed.
"Here we are," the driver eases the car along the sidewalk.
I left home yesterday and have been traveling non-stop across states, oceans and countries. The entire last twenty-four hours have been a blur that has left me exhausted, dazed, and somewhat giddy. It was as if I'd been put on fast-forward and only now have come to a skittering pause.
I can hardly believe I've arrived. I feel like an adult for the first time in my life. I feel…what do I feel? I pause to take stock, to try and understand the thrill of excitement coursing through my veins, the sudden vividness of my surroundings despite my exhausted state. I feel…alive, I realize. I feel alive for the first time in a long, long while.
Denmark is everything I imagined. The houses are pressed tightly together, connected as one long row, separated by colors and steep roof peaks. White plaster, brick, some are painted mauve, others blue. Cobbled roads dissect the city. Church steeples stand up tall and proud along the skyline.
I'm truly in Europe and I'm free. No appointments. No needles. No family members hovering over me. With no one to watch, I don't have to pretend. No one here knows I'm ill. They won't expect anything of me, good or bad. I can make up any identity I want.
I start to push open the taxi door, but he stops me by thrusting his hand in front of my face. "Tip," he insists. "Tip."
"Oh, right." I reach into my pocket and pull out a few coins I picked up at the airport. He takes them from my palm before I have time to add them up. I'd read they don't take tips in Europe. And here I thought everything on the internet was true. I grab my camera and squeeze out the door, my backpack bumping against my butt. It's awkward, but I manage.
"Thanks," I say.
He barely waits for me to shut the door before he's off, zooming back toward the airport, in a rush to make more money. The flurry of activity is more familiar than I wish. It's all too modern-age. These people have jobs, lives. While I'm…what am I? Floating, bobbing in a sea of nothingness.
I shake off the depressing thought and look at my change. I've just given him a thirty dollar tip. Most of my cash. "Shit."
But the sun is rising, and across the sky float fluffy, white clouds. I'm in Copenhagen, alone…completely on my own and free to do what I please. Sleep in, go to a café and eat pastries all day, stay up all night wandering the streets. Whatever I want.
The city is romantic, but chic. Cosmopolitan, yet filled with history. It doesn't seem like reality. At least not the reality I know. My reality, a reality of hospitals and illness, doesn't exist here. I'm determined to explore and enjoy every inch of this wonderful place. I lift my camera to take a picture.
"Undskyld mig," someone calls out behind me, followed by the ring of a bell.
Startled, I stumble back toward the building as a bike races by. I clutch my backpack and camera to my chest, somewhat terrified, and somewhat amused. How funny would it be if a bicycle ran over me on the first day of my trip? Imagine my mom getting that call?
I hike my pack onto my shoulders and stroll down the road, searching the skyline for a tower. Find the tower and find Kobmagergade, at least that's what the email said. My legs and ankles are weak from lack of exercise and I wobble like a drunk as I make my way across the cobbled lane. I feel like I'm learning to walk all over again, and maybe I am.
No one notices me or cares, and that's the best part. I love being so anonymous. The sidewalk curves and I spot the round tower right in the middle, where the road splits into two. Behind the tower is the steeple from an attached church.
I pause, knowing I'm gawking but I can't seem to stop. From the pitched rooflines, to the cobbled streets, to the cafes, everything is so…European. I want to be this, I want to merge in, to sink into the walls and lanes, leave behind my impression. I want to sit at the small tables, drink coffee, and get out my camera. Most of all I want to blend in as a local. But right now, standing in the middle of the sidewalk while wearing a huge backpack, I am anything but blending in.
On a little cobbled side street, I find my building; a tall, three story row house with a white front and a steeply pitched roof. It seems alive, breathing with memories. My heart expands, sighs, and skips a beat. I've fallen in love. According to the advertisement, the building is three hundred years old. I want to learn everything I can about this building, this area. I push the buzzer.
"Is it Jennie Kim there?" Someone calls out over a speaker moments later. She barely has an accent. "To rent the apartment?"
I lean closer. "Yes. Alexandra? I've made it."
"Wonderful! Call me Alex. I'll buzz you in."
The door buzzes, and before I know it I'm making my way up a set of narrow stairs that creak and groan as if they're exhausted by carrying the weight of three hundred years. I'd wanted a view. But as my lungs began to burn and my legs quiver, I realize how stupid it was of me to rent a third floor apartment. At the top, I spot a curvy woman dressed in a colorful, bohemian dress and a bright, welcoming smile.
"Welcome, Jennie!" She kisses me on each cheek. In her thirties, she's apparently from France. The scent of expensive perfume lingering around her is everything I expect from a chic, European woman. "You look tired, so I'll be quick. The house was built in the 1700s. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. It's petit, oui? But there's a full kitchen and a small grocery store on the corner."
She explains that she owns a few apartments around Europe that she rents. She calls them her babies. When someone is staying at one, she moves to another. Nothing to hold her down. Some women dream about getting married, having kids. Not me. She has the life I want. Travel. Make interesting friends. See the world. Absolute freedom.
I follow her around the apartment, hanging on her every word. Maybe I'm her in another world, another lifetime. It's a ridiculous thought but it makes me happy. The ceilings are low and sharply pitched. The walls are pristine white, while dark beams break up the monotony. Three hundred years ago this was probably where the servants or children slept. It wasn't the modern two bedroom apartment it is now.
Clean. Beautiful. Light. So Scandinavian. "It's great."
"If you look outside you can see a peek of the Rundetaarn. A tower you can climb. It's an easy walk. Should be no problem, and there's a great view. Rosenborg Castle is right down the street. There's a beautiful park." She hands me the key. "I'm off to Paris. I'm sure you want to rest."
"Yeah, thanks."
She starts toward the door. "Oh, and there's a food market on the corner below. Did I mention that? I feel like I'm forgetting something." She laughs, then waves. "Have a great stay!"
"Thank you so much."
Just like that, she's gone, skipping down the stairs, full of an energy I crave. I close the door, lock it, and suddenly I'm left standing there in my very own place, if only for a couple weeks. My own place for the first time…ever. I know I'll never move away from home. Never know what it's like to have an apartment. For now I can pretend. Here…I can be the adult I always dreamt of being.
I wander to the windows and rest my hands on the wooden sill, smooth with age. Below are tourists standing near the tower, taking pictures, and locals hurrying to work. I take in the steeped rooflines around me and wonder about the people who live in these homes. People who have lived here for centuries through war, famine, love and hope. Finally, I look at the white clouds above, the sky streaked with red and pink and orange, and I realize I'm home.
This is what I want out of life…to go on adventures. To see the world. However short that life might be. This is what I dreamt of before I got sick. I'm finally meeting the person I always wanted to become. I'm meeting me.
An incoming text dings from my phone, grounding me back into reality. It's Mashiho.
Hans Christian Andersen lived in Denmark.
With a grin, I type back. I know, Nerd. I'm not a complete dunce.
Are you sure?
I start toward the couch. Brat. There goes the present I was going to get you.
Was just kidding! You're the smartest ever!
I laugh softly. For shiz?
I'm going to ignore that.
Teasing him is just too much fun. Hey, I just wanna be like the cool kids. By the way, left your Walden book in your mailbox.
Yeah, got it. Did you enjoy?
I hesitate. It was interesting.
Liar. You didn't even read it.
I laugh. He knows me well. I will when I get back. Promise.
Gotta go. Chemo. Try not to be pickpocketed or make America look bad. The world hates us enough.
Still grinning, I type: I'll attempt to keep my global catastrophes to a minimum.
I slide my phone into my jacket pocket. The windows are open. A soft, warm breeze sweeps inside, fluttering the gauzy, white curtains and whispering promises over my skin. Exhausted, I drop my backpack. There's a calm peace that vibrates through my very body, and I know I've done the right thing. This is where I'm supposed to be. I fall back onto the plush, white couch. By tomorrow Nayeon will be here. Until then I should rest. Gather my strength. Prepare to live.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. The sounds of the city seep through the window. The ring of a bicycle. People talking in a variety of languages. Church bells. I'm not used to these sounds, but for some reason I find them comforting.
I'm just starting to relax enough to sink into slumber, when the creak of the door opening tears me from my hazy state. "Alex?"
"Oh, hello."
Not a French accent. American. Frantic, I stumble to my feet. A young woman stands on the threshold, looking as confused and startled as I feel. She's curvy with blonde, curly hair, and dressed as smartly as any model. Her porcelain skin practically glows under the light of the sun piercing the curtains. In her white dress she looks like an angel, and for a moment I think I'm dreaming. Or maybe…hell, maybe I have finally kicked the bucket after all.
"Who are you?" I demand.
She steps cautiously inside, pulling a suitcase behind her. "I'm Rosé. I've rented the apartment for the week."
"No," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "I've rented the apartment for the week."
She sets her bag down, pulls her phone from the pocket of her dress and starts to dial. "Right. So, obviously we have a problem."
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We called Alex only to find out she'd accidentally double-booked. But no worries, because she knows Rosé so well, she has her own key. Rosé, the world traveler, who is from New York, and according to Alex…is wonderful. As a plus, Alex says she'll cut my charges in half. I don't care. I can't take the money with me. I do care about sharing an apartment for two weeks with a woman I don't know. A woman who likes to sing 80's pop at the top of her lungs while showering.
Desperate to escape the awkwardness of the situation, I decided to forgo my nap and leave the apartment as soon as I could manage to scurry away. Yep, I'm a coward. Living with a stranger is not my idea of fun, which is how I find myself standing in line for the bathroom in a tiny, crowded, basement café instead of returning home and using the toilet.
"Ten bucks for a little Danish?" a woman whispers to her friend as they head toward the exit. "Ridiculous."
I grin. They're American, obviously. But she isn't wrong. The food is incredibly expensive. And if it hadn't been for my five dollar Fanta and tiny bladder, I wouldn't be here. As the door opens and someone steps out, I realize there's only one toilet, shared by men and women. I glance around to see how others take this surprise, but no one seems to care. They go in, do their business, and leave. I shrug it off. When in Rome…or Copenhagen…
My turn arrives and I reach for the door, acting as if I use unisex bathrooms all the time. No biggie. I'm cool and European like that. But as I pull on the door, it doesn't budge. I try again, still nothing. I don't dare glance back and alert the others waiting that something is wrong when it's probably my fault.
I can do this, I won't let a toilet get the better of me. Wrapping my fingers around the handle more tightly, I shake the door like it's going to pop open with the right nudge or perfect command. Are Danish toilets so different from American? "Come on."
I'm just about to give up and slink outside, murmur something about a false alarm, I don't have to go, when someone reaches around me and taps on the sign. "You have to pay."
Pay? Confused, I glance over my shoulder. Pure, crystalline blue eyes. The Florida Atlantic in summer. I feel like I've been hit in the chest. Like someone rushed up and sucker punched me straight in the ribs. And even as my heart is palpitating, my rational brain is sizing her up, taking her in all at once to see if she fits my check list.
Scandinavian? Check.
Cute? Hell yes.
Unattached? Hmm…
A woman? Why not?
Did I mention she's cute? Really cute, as she sits on a stool against the wall, drinking her coffee like some advertisement for Burberry, or whatever the Danish equivalent. Tousled, dark blond hair, blue eyes, and that body…dayum. Tall, broad shoulders…
No. Not cute. Model hot. My chest starts to burn, and I realize I've been holding my breath. Who cares if I faint? It's my first time spotting the elusive Scandinavian Hottie in her natural habitat. For a brief, insane moment I think about asking for a selfie with the girl so I can send it to Ella.
Ha! I told you! Suck on that, Thor!
"Five kroner," she adds like I'm an idiot, and maybe I am.
At least I can blame it on the chemicals that were supposed to kill the cancer and cure me. They've muddled my mind, amongst other things. Not that I can tell her that. It's not the kind of conversation you have near a restroom with someone you've just met. I force myself to smile, but have a feeling it looks more like a manic snarl. To her I'm just the stupid American holding up the line.
"Oh, thanks." I have to pay to use the toilet. I knew that. I'd read about it online. But then the internet also told me I wouldn't have to tip anyone. Stupid internet.
Blushing, I dig into my pocket and pull out my coins. Which one is a five kroner? Only a few seconds go by, but with the line growing it feels like an eternity. Stress makes my mind go blank. I can no longer read numbers. Frantic, I flip over one coin after another, looking for a five, anything to indicate its value. Some have holes in the middle. What the hell does that mean?
Hottie reaches around me, her arm brushing my shoulder and sending a bolt of something I can't quite identify through my body. She drops a coin into my palm. It clangs against the others, like a bell chiming, announcing to all what's happening.
Hear ye, hear ye. Come see the stupid American who doesn't know how to count.
It's a large coin with a hole in the middle and a five embossed off center. I know I have one…somewhere. Kill me now. At least when we're married, I can tell our friends our first meeting took place by the bathroom, when she paid for me to pee. How romantic.
"Thanks," I mutter, not daring to look at her again. What happened to the girl who doesn't give a shit what people think? "I can pay you back."
"Don't worry about it."
Someone behind us sighs loud and long. Hottie checks the time on her phone. I get it, she's done with the clueless tourist. Without a glance back, I shove the coin into the slot on the wall and as soon as the door unlocks I dive into the stall. It's small and tight. The door closes. I'm safe…for now. For a moment I think about prolonging my visit just to make sure I miss her when I exit my safe haven. But then the line will assume I'm constipated, or worse.
When I leave the stall her little table is empty. She's gone. Part of me is actually disappointed, but most of me is grateful. I squeeze through the crowd and dart outside. It's only as I'm scurrying down the sidewalk hoping to put as much distance between the café and my shame, that it hits me…I'm embarrassed.
A surprised laugh slips between my lips. Hell, I can feel the heat on my face. Unfreakingbelievable. I haven't been embarrassed in years. I thought I'd lost the ability. When you're constantly receiving intimate medical care from cute, male doctors while you're wearing a paper-thin hospital gown, you sort of get to the point where nothing can horrify you anymore. At least so I thought. But I'm in Denmark, a new person. And apparently this new Hope gets embarrassed about bodily functions.
I spot trees ahead just across the street. There's too much open space for it to be anything but the park. I've found Rosenborg. Being embarrassed makes me…oddly happy, and finding my first site gives me an acute sense of accomplishment. I stuff my hands into my jean pockets, grinning like a fool as I make my way down the sidewalk, my camera bag bouncing against my hip. It's so damn good to feel again. Feel something. Anything. I stop at a crosswalk, and beyond the trees I spot the towers of the castle. A giddy sense of anticipation shoots through me.
The light changes and I'm swept over the crosswalk with my adopted group of fellow city-dwellers. Tourists or natives, I'm not sure, but it doesn't matter. At the moment we are one, like a herd of antelope trying to survive the wilds.
Always cross at crosswalks in Denmark, a website warned. If you don't, you chance getting run over by the evil bicycle brigade from hell. In America we teach children to fear terrorists, here you fear an unexpected step into the bicycle path.
As I move onto the sidewalk, my adopted group disperses, leaving me on my own once more. Some head toward the city, others walk in the direction of a row of townhomes. These people have a sense of urgency in their steps. But the ones like me, the ones who head into the park, are more languid in their stroll.
I know without doubt, this is exactly what I'm supposed to be doing…visiting parks in cities, with castles as a backdrop. This is exactly what I would have wanted to do if I hadn't gotten sick. Go to college abroad. See the world. Live. For one month I'll be doing what I know in my heart I should be doing in another life. A life where I am healthy. Whole.
For now I can pretend.
My old life recedes as I step into the garden. A variety of people sit stretched out across the grass. Some are alone, some sit within clumps of friends. A few are reading, others having a picnic. A woman pushes a buggy, while two old men relax on a bench chatting. To them this is normal. For them sitting in a park that's hundreds of years old with a castle as their backdrop is nothing to get excited about. I want this to be my normal. I open my pack and pull out my camera.
There's so much to see that I immediately start clicking before I'm even sure it's focused, as if I'm afraid it's all going to disappear. I'll fill my memory card by the end of my trip and probably have to buy another. But I don't want to hide behind my camera every second of this vacation.
You're welcome, the breeze seems to whisper. We knew you'd love it.
And I do.
I turn the corner and there it is…
My breath catches. The castle is just visible at the end of the trail. Tall and narrow and stately, surrounded by a band of water that was probably a moat at one time. It's not decrepit and crumbling. This is a castle that could still comfortably hold a royal family within all of its magnificence even today. The castle is made of a reddish and tan brick, and the immense size and height stand out in stark contrast against the green gardens and open blue skies.
It's the towers, though, that truly draw my attention and make me feel as if I've stepped back in time. Towers topped with what look like brass caps that have turned green over the decades, along with gorgeous, artistic spires that belong more in an art museum than out in the open. Pure perfection.
I start to lift my camera to take a picture when the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My senses become highly alert. Slowly, I lower my camera. I have the odd sensation I'm being followed. From the corner of my eye, I spot a woman heading my way.
Maybe I'm over-reacting but I can't deny the odd sensation running through me, as if something is coming. Something I just might not be prepared for. I will not be robbed or intimidated on my first day here. Second or third…maybe. Desperate to find the safety of others, I hurry across the narrow bridge toward the castle. I can feel the girl growing closer and closer. When I reach the other side of the bridge, she's right behind me.
All of my mom's warnings come rushing back. I barely have time to register the castle looming at my side, instead, I focus on the two guards standing out front and my nervousness eases. I'm not alone. There is help—with guns—within reach. The relief I feel is immediate.
Still, I'm a feminist and I'm not about to let her get away with making me anxious. I'm pissed that as a woman I have to be afraid at all. No more running. I can't confront my cancer, but I can confront this girl.
I spin around to face her. "Are you following me?"
She pauses a few feet away and pulls the earbuds from her ears. "Sorry?"
I part my lips to curse her out, when I realize it's the girl from the cafe. The girl who gave me the five kroner. Now I'm the one pausing, confused. "Are you…" I'm not sure what to say. She quirks a brow, waiting. God, she's really good looking. It shouldn't matter, it does. "I…you're…"
It hits me all at once. Oh hell. She's not following me. I don't know where she's going, what she's doing, but it's so very obvious it doesn't involve me.
Heat shoots to my face, burning my skin from the inside out. I am a complete fool. "Nothing. I'm sorry."
Keeping a wide berth between us, she moves around me and continues on her path. I watch her until she disappears behind the tall castle. She looks back only once, probably to make sure I'm not stalking her. The girl gave me money, and to repay her kindness, I accused her of harassing me.
"Idiot," I mutter.
A woman walking by me pauses, frowning.
"Not you." I smile reassuringly. "Me."
She continues on, a look upon her face that says she agrees…I am an idiot. I'm no longer just embarrassed. I'm getting rather close to being mortified. And I'm enjoying every minute.
Still grinning, I continue by the front of the castle, staying clear of the guards least they decide to arrest me for stalking. If I thought I had any sort of chance with Hottie, which I didn't, that chance has vanished completely. I'm so out of the loop I don't even know how to flirt anymore, if I ever did. It was easy in middle school when I'd met Kai. A few smiles, a note or two…
Good ole Middle School. Sometimes I think I'm the oldest living eighth grader. At least that's how naïve and innocent I feel. Fortunately, the line isn't long as I step into the small building to get my tickets.
Travel abroad. Check.
See the sites. Check.
Find a Scandinavian Hottie…
Well, technically I found her.
"Next," the woman behind the desk calls out. "The castle closes at four. The Crown jewels are in the basement."
Get arrested for stalking and find out what a Danish prison is like…
The guards are still there when I step out of the ticket building, reminding me that this isn't some Disney World castle, but a true former royal residence with actual jewels worth millions. But I'm not interested in jewelry. No. I want to see their world. Their bedrooms. Bathrooms. Their lives. A man stands inside the door, checking tickets and welcoming visitors. As he tells me what I need to know about the castle, I peek into the first room.
"Mummy, my tummy hurts," a little boy whines, tugging at his mother's hand as they wait their turn to enter the room ahead of me.
I grimace. The chamber is full of paintings. Paintings on the walls, ceilings. Paintings of people and landscapes. It's also packed with tour groups that crowd around the area, making it impossible to move. My mom's worried voice pops into my head and for the first time in a long while I think about germs. All those kids with snotty noses and coughs. The room has become a petri dish waiting for a weak victim like me. I can't get sick on this trip. I refuse.
I step closer to the museum guide. "Is there anywhere else I can start the tour?"
He glances toward the crowded room, and smiles kindly. Maybe he's a father who sees the fear in my eyes and takes pity. Or maybe he just doesn't care that much about his job. "I'm not supposed to, but for you…" He waves his hand toward the foyer behind him. "You can start upstairs."
Relieved, I give my thanks and move quickly toward the stairs off to the side of the foyer. I will not get sick. I will not. The steps seem new, polished and smooth as they wind up a turret. Despite the fact that this isn't some ramshackle ruins of a haunted castle, I still feel like I've stepped back in time.
Through the windows on the way up the winding staircase, I can see tourists strolling around the gardens. Everyone is here for the same reason…to get lost in the past, in culture, in beauty, and for that reason I feel a bond with these strangers.
When I reach the top of the stairs I step into a large, open room. The tour groups have yet to make it to this floor and the place is blessedly quiet. Smaller chambers branch out from the main social area. These many smaller rooms along the perimeter of the building are connected, one leading to the other. I shudder to think about the lack of privacy. Servants coming and going, knowing all your business. Life of the rich and famous.
The furniture is ornate and something only the very wealthy can afford. It makes me feel like I'm a peasant, not worthy to even enter these halls. The floorboards underfoot creak with each step I take, sounding overly loud in the quiet.
I wander through the rooms, wondering about the people who have lived here. How strange that these royals have come and gone, but this castle of stone still remains. Are those richly decorated rooms lonely when the lights go out and the tourists leave? Do they hold the memories of families close? Maybe a ghost or two?
I pause in the doorway where one room connects to another, and soak in the essence. The walk has exhausted me, the stairs added to the strain. Or maybe it's my thoughts making me weary. I should have taken it easy today, but I'm determined to get as much from this trip as I can.
"Don't overdo it," Mom's voice comes back to haunt me.
Just a moment, I tell myself as I lean against the door jamb and close my eyes. It's in that quiet moment that I realize something shocking, something awful, something completely unexpected. I'm…lonely.
For five years I've been surrounded. Surrounded by family, friends, nurses, doctors. I thought all I wanted was to get away. But now that I am away…I realize I want someone to share this with. I want…a relationship of some sort. Family? A friendship? A…romance?
"Please don't lean against the walls."
Startled, I turn toward the voice. "Excuse me?"
The girl who gave me the five kroner. The girl I thought was following me, and for a split second I think she's tracked me down to…what? To ask me out? I wish. Probably to tell me I'm insane. No, because she's wearing a badge and a shirt that says Rosenborg. She works here…which was why she walked the same path as I. That heated blush that has been my constant companion today flares, burning my cheeks.
"The walls." She nods toward the door. "Please don't lean on them."
I straighten away from the door jamb. "Oh. Right."
She works here. Of course. At this point I'm pretty sure the universe, God, whoever is in charge of this ridiculous world, hates me. Desperate to escape her intense gaze, I dart into the closest room. But it's actually barely a room at all and I find myself trapped with two older women. It's a small chamber, in which half the space is blocked off by Plexiglas walls so that only a few people can fit at once. The other women have already made claim, and it's a tight squeeze, but I'm not about to go back out there. Not until she's moved on, looking for another wall-leaner to reprimand.
"So many mirrors," one woman whispers in an English accent.
Bemused, I study the place where I've taken refuge. Sure enough, the small chamber is filled with mirrors. On the walls, on the ceiling. Hell, even on the floor.
"Pretty vain," I mutter. It's not until the other two women glance at me that I realize I've spoken aloud, invaded their conversation. "You know…to need so many mirrors. It's vain."
The women share a knowing glance. A smirk. "It wasn't for his vanity, my dear." The shorter woman leans closer. "He kept his erotic collection close by, if you get my meaning."
"Oh." I nod as if I understand. It takes a moment, but the truth of her comment finally nudges at my muddled mind. Realization hits a second later. My eyes widen. Mirrors. Erotic collection. "Ooohh."
"Precisely," the other woman laughs as they leave.
The small room has suddenly become much more interesting. Who knew royals could be so kinky? Immediately, my R-rated mind imagines what went on within these walls. He was a king. He could have had anyone at any time and probably did. And for a quick, ridiculous moment, I imagine Hottie stepping into the room, pulling the door closed, trapping the two of us inside…
The sound of conversation coming from the room next door interrupts my R-rated thoughts. I don't know whether to laugh or curse my wayward imagination. Yeah, I'd have more of a chance of Bigfoot stepping into this room wanting to make out, than Hottie.
I quickly leave the chamber. Hottie is standing guard just outside the door. I freeze. Our eyes meet. I don't miss the amusement in her gaze. She's either read my perverted mind or overheard my conversation with the English ladies. Great. Just freaking great. I edge around her and scurry toward the stairs. I think I've had enough of Rosenborg for the day.
I'm headed toward the steps when my phone dings.
I sent my mom a mandatory text the moment I landed. But this isn't from her, I realize as I pull my cell out of my pocket. My steps slow as I reach the first floor. It's from my cousin Nayeon.
Omg. Met this super hot French guy on the plane. Going to Paris. Don't hate me.
I sigh, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. Great. Of course. My cousin, the flake, isn't coming.
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