Mon cœur dans une nappe {fem. Ryden Au}

deux

"Have a good flight." Peter and his wife Meagan had told me before I left the keys at their office. When I moved into my flat, Pete asked me to call them by their first names because it would be more personal. However I felt weird about it because he always walked around in a suit, which I had been indoctrinated into seeing as a symbol of deserving respect. But maybe familiarity and acquaintance was what my landlord knew as respect.

Ryanne woke up just as the plane was descending from the sky.
The airport in Marseille was packed just like every airport was. Although Ryanne was used to busy places full of people, she still had to hurry quick to get her train on time.

The train ride was many times more comfortable than any flight or subway tour she ever had or could ever get and it incited her to pull out her journal out of her handbag and continue writing.

I landed safely in Marseille. A train is taking me trough the land, passing city after city. It didn't take long until I could make out the sea in the distance...

And she was right. Soon the train was passing a town near the coast. Ryanne had already seen the houses common for the Mediterranean area in documentaries and magazines, however seeing them rushing by her, only separated from her by a window, was something completely different on its own.
Ryanne noticed that the towns she was driving by started becoming smaller and smaller with every station.

Minutes later she was standing in what could be the most run down looking train station she had ever seen. The village she would stay in was called Berthmont. At least that's what the booklet told her. It didn't have more than 30 citizens, so no one had bothered to built a train station near it, which is why Ryanne had to go by bus.

The middle aged bus driver helped her, stuffing her suitcases, including the vintage one, into the vehicle.
"La première fois en France? " he asked her.
"Oui." Ryanne replied.
"Américaine? "
"Oui." Ryanne didn't understand how he could tell that from just one word. She made a mental note to work on her pronunciation.

The bus let out so much smoke that Ryanne was sure, you could blame most of the worlds pollution emissions on it.
The driver was talking a lot during the ride and with such a speed and impulse that Ryanne wasn't sure if he was just making conversation without expecting answers or if he was cussing out the entire french population.
Soon the town sign was floating past them. It was halfway covered by the low hanging branches of an orange tree. A young kid was playing on the sidewalk and the bus halted when his red ball rolled into the road until he picked it up again.
The driver yelled something outside, Ryanne again couldn't tell if he was greeting the kid or if he was swearing at it, but the child gave back a toothy smile and waved after them.

Soon the bus stopped directly in front of a bakery as if the driver knew that Ryanne had been starving, since she hadn't eaten anything that day except for a pack of peanuts at the airport.
Ryanne gave the bus driver some money and thanked him profusely before she got out. The bakery was small and homely looking with the word boulangerie written in snappy letters on a big, beige sign.
In front of the shop were three tables and chairs for costumers to sit down under an extendable, red and white striped fabric roof.
Ryanne took a deep breath and walked into the shop. A bell above the door rang  as she came in.

The warm smell of fresh bread hit her like a wave, almost knocking her out from how heavenly it was. She felt her mouth starting to water.
There was a much bigger selection than in any bakery Ryanne had ever been in before in America. There were pastries that crossed the line of her imagination, which was something she never deemed as possible.
She didn't know for how long she had been staring at the pastries behind the glass as someone finally addressed her.
"Bonjour, je peux vous aider? "