What the ***** am I getting myself into? thought Bette to herself. I just want a decent meal, but she seems pretty set in her decision. Maybe I should just ask for directions to a place where I can eat again. I didnt mean she had to come with me. What kind of hovel is her studio? I hope its not far from here. Who knows maybe she can cook. But more importantly, maybe she can offer an insiders view of this amazing city."

They talked casually as they walked, nothing so mundane as the weather, but neither was it more than a touch on the surface of each womans personality. They soon arrived at the market.

Bette gazed into the windows of the stores surrounding the market while Michelline shopped for their dinner. She had decided to stop questioning everything and just enjoy the evening. It would be part of her Paris experience, regardless of the outcome. The city around her was alive with energy, and she was feeding off of it. Every moment an adventure in the making, she promised herself. I want this trip to change my life.

************
Within 20 minutes of leaving the market, they were making their way up a narrow staircase to Michellines loft.

Just to warn you, Im not really prepared for company, Michelline stated, more as fact and far from apologetic. She opened the door. The sun still shone in through the roof top skylights, but it wouldnt be long before the buildings around obliterated its entrance into the space. The loft was larger than Bette expected, but was filled with all manner of paraphernalia related to the artistic process. There were stretched canvases, naked frames, bolts of canvas, assortments of paint, brushes and rags literally scattered around the room. There was the faint scent of paint thinner lingering from an unknown source. On the wall opposite the entryway was a quote, crudely painted directly onto the plaster surface:

Art is either plagiarism or revolution

At least Im getting an indication of your philosophical bent with respect to your art, Michelline, Bette said sweeping her hand toward the quote. Gauguin, isnt it?

Well done. Indeed, it is Gauguin. And please call me Misha. I shouldnt have even introduced myself by my full name – no one uses it except my mother. Misha took the bags and placed them on the counter by the sink. The room was studio, bedroom, kitchen and living space all wrapped into one. Bette assumed the door to the left was the bathroom. She was relieved to see the kitchen was spotless, but she surmised that was from lack of use rather than any propensity for cleanliness on the part of her host.