hollywood billionaire

Chapter 580 To be seen, to be loved
"Ta-da! I've arrived at my apartment in Paris."

"How's it going? Not bad, right?"

After strolling southeast along the Champs-Élysées for about ten minutes, the morning mist gradually dissipated, thinning to the point where it was barely noticeable unless one looked out. Thick clouds still hung overhead, but had been broken into irregular patches, giving the azure sky behind them some space to shine. The not-too-intense, but dazzlingly bright, winter sun finally spread its warmth across the Île-de-France.

For a city like Paris, which attracts countless tourists throughout the year, the density of people on the streets on Sundays is almost directly related to the weather.

The sunlight seemed to have pressed play on the Champs-Élysées; within minutes of the sky clearing, Barbara and Han Yi felt this world-famous avenue suddenly come alive and quickly become crowded. To the right, the glass dome of the Grand Palais shimmered in the sunlight, attracting many people to stop and take photos. To the left, in the Champs-Élysées gardens, locals pushing strollers mingled with tourists holding selfie sticks. And at the far end of the avenue, the Place de la Concorde, and even further into the Tuileries Garden… almost everywhere in sight was occupied by crowds.

The sounds of conversations in various languages ​​blended into a cheerful cacophony. No matter which way you looked, the cafes that had set up tables on the street were almost all full.

Barbara glanced at Han Yi, and the two smiled knowingly.

"Let's go." Barbara said, throwing the empty paper bag she was clutching into the trash can. "Let's not join in this."

"These famous attractions can be visited on weekdays, tomorrow or the day after. There will be far fewer people there."

“I completely agree.” Han Yi nodded immediately. “I’ve never been interested in those crowded Instagram hotspots. Besides, this isn’t exactly ‘your Paris,’ is it?”

“Of course not. You know I don’t really like shopping. Outside of work, I can count the number of times I’ve been to the Champs-Élysées on one hand… maybe twice at most.” Barbara playfully showed Han Yi her smooth hand and laughed.

“I can see that,” Han Yi nodded in response. “Today, I hope you can take me to places that won’t attract the attention of other tourists, but that have special meaning for you.”

“Well…” Barbara’s eyes darted around, then suddenly lit up, “How about we go to the apartment I rented when I settled in Paris? It’s very comfortable there.”

"Lead the way."

"follow me."

Barbara led Han Yi to a relatively quiet intersection on a narrow street, took out her phone, and skillfully entered an address into the Uber app.

"Okay, the car will be here in five minutes."

Twenty minutes later, the vehicle passed through the bustling city center and entered the distinctly different Upper Mahé district.

The 20-minute drive felt like traversing two completely different times and spaces.

If the 8th arrondissement, where the Champs-Élysées is located, is the face of Paris, then the Marais district, which spans the 3rd and 4th arrondissements, is the heart of the city.

The most immediate impression Han Yi got out of the car was the dramatic change in scale.

Everything on the Champs-Élysées is grand, magnificent, and even somewhat ostentatious. It was created by Napoleon III and Baron Haussmann, the ultimate model of so-called "modern Paris."

The straight, wide avenue, seemingly without end, was designed specifically for grand military parades showcasing the glory of the empire. The nearly uniform Ottoman-style buildings lining both sides of the street, in terms of height and style, represented a victory for authoritarianism and centralization. The Ottoman barons, with their orderly cream-colored stone and exquisite cast-iron balconies, created a unified, collectivist elegance.

The Marais district, however, presents a completely different picture.

There's no grand sense of planning here; the streets are surprisingly narrow, in some places barely wide enough for two cars to pass side-by-side. The cobblestone paths meander, as if they grew randomly following footprints left hundreds of years ago. The buildings are also haphazard, some with 15th-century timber-framed walls, some 17th-century aristocratic mansions, and some simply converted workshops from the late 19th century. The roofs are uneven, the gables are sometimes pointed, sometimes rounded, and sometimes leaning to one side, as if silently protesting against the Ottoman baron's orderly geometric aesthetics.

But it is precisely this disorder that gives the Marais a vibrant energy that is quite different from the Champs-Élysées and the Arc de Triomphe.

The walls are no longer a uniform beige, but rather varying shades of gray, yellow, ochre, and even pale pink. Some walls are covered in ivy, some reveal mottled brickwork, and others are adorned with colorful graffiti. The balconies are no longer uniform either; some are wrought iron, some are wooden, and some are completely covered with flowerpots and plants. Jazz music drifts from the second-floor windows, colorful clothes hang to dry on the third floor, and someone is smoking and reading on the fourth-floor balcony.

Instead of a chain storefront, the street corner housed a tiny restaurant with only four tables, its daily specials scrawled in chalk on a blackboard. Next door was an antique bookstore, and beyond that, a workshop selling handcrafted leather goods, its window displaying unfinished bags. A café had its door barely a meter wide, crammed with seven or eight people, yet emanating lively conversation and the hissing of a coffee machine.

Deep along the long street, tourists are almost nowhere to be seen—at least not the typical American tourists with selfie sticks and Eiffel Tower T-shirts. Occasionally, you'll see art students carrying easels, local residents with canvas bags, or bread deliverymen on old-fashioned bicycles.

Every famous city with a history spanning thousands of years has one or more such old districts. And it is precisely these seemingly simple, even old and dilapidated old districts that constitute the cultural backbone that a great city must possess if it wants to be crowned with an enduring name.

"Okay, how should I explain this to you..."

Barbara pulled her boyfriend out of the car and stood at a very narrow but extremely busy intersection consisting of a one-way street and a two-way street. She put her index finger to her lips and pondered seriously.

"I'll try to use the simplest and easiest way to express it: administrative...administrative district...administration..."

"Administrative divisions." Han Yi helped his poor girlfriend, who was struggling to speak.

“I know.” Barbara glared at him, then couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t you think that word is a bit of a tongue twister?”

"That's true to some extent." Han Yi thought for a moment, then nodded in agreement. "What about administrative divisions?"

“Administration… Oh, never mind, I give up!” Barbara, who occasionally had such English lapses, sighed and skipped the word. “According to the official geographical division, this belongs to the 3rd and 4th arrondissements of Paris. But almost no one calls this neighborhood that. For hundreds of years, the convention has been to divide the Marais into the Upper Marais and the Lower Marais.”

“Lower Marais occupies a large part of the fourth district. You may have heard of Rose Street or Place des Vosges, both of which are part of Lower Marais.” Barbara’s sense of direction wasn’t very good. She simply raised her arm and pointed to what seemed to be the south. “You probably noticed when we came here that the houses there look older, have a longer history, more landmarks, and of course, are more commercialized.”

"The Haut-Marais is mainly located in the 3rd arrondissement, which is more distinctive, more understated, more fashionable, more avant-garde... and has a more bohemian feel. Young people from the Parisian fashion industry and other creative industries like to rent apartments here. There are many art galleries, niche boutiques, and even more delicious street French restaurants. Moreover, in terms of the living atmosphere, it is quiet most of the time, and not many tourists come here to visit. But at the same time, because a large number of people in the same industry gather here, it feels very vibrant."

“I can tell.” Han Yi looked up, turned halfway around, and agreed, “Judging from the newness and refinement of the houses, they are obviously much better than the area we just passed through… These should all be Ottoman-style buildings, right? That is to say, they were basically built after 1853.”

“Yes.” Barbara glanced at Han Yi with some surprise, but quickly regained her composure. She knew her boyfriend loved reading and was very knowledgeable. Wherever they went, he could often spout historical facts that even locals didn't know—one of the qualities she greatly admired about Han Yi. “The intersection we're standing at now, the two-lane street is called Rue Charlotte, and the one-lane street is called Rue Brittany. It's the main commercial artery of the Haut-Marais district. In the 1960s…”

"Which 1960s?" Han Yi interrupted her, asking, "The 20th century or the 19th century? You know, in a city with such a long history, you have to ask this kind of question."

“The 20th century…that is, fifty years ago.” Barbara knew the neighborhood where she had lived quite well, and was very familiar with its history. “Fifty years ago, it was already in ruins. The security was bad, and there were hardly any shops left. It was André Malraux, the French Minister of Culture at the time, who launched a protection plan and turned the Marais district into a protected historical district in Paris, which prevented the buildings here from being completely demolished.”

"The government started investing money to repair those dilapidated buildings, and coupled with the housing shortage in Paris at that time, many real estate developers and speculators flocked here and began to buy up properties in large quantities, and the Marais district was thus revitalized. By the 1980s, these neighborhoods had undergone tremendous changes and revival, with art galleries, boutiques, creative restaurants, and cocktail bars, and the Haut-Marais became the most fashionable place in Paris."

“So you live on this street.” Han Yi mimicked the French place names Barbara had just pronounced, translating them into English, “Rue Charlotte and…Rue Brittany, right?” “I didn’t live here at first,” Barbara added. “In my first year of making a name for myself in Paris, I lived in a model apartment provided by IMG.”

How many people live together?

"Ten... well, sometimes it's eleven."

"Oh my God."

“Yes, it was a big house with four bedrooms…a big house for us back then, just over two hundred meters west of Place des Vosges in the Lower Marais district. Two people slept in each room, and in the living room, we moved the sofa out, put in single beds, and then two more people slept there.” Barbara shrank her neck. “Most girls are pretty crazy, pretty noisy. I liked that, but that doesn’t mean everyone does. Anyway, when I lived in the model apartment, we were mortal enemies with all our neighbors…hahaha, can you imagine how noisy it would be if ten young girls lived together at three in the morning?”

"That sounds like a lot of fun."

“It was so much fun. We’d go to work together, go to interviews together, and party together. On weekends, we’d pool our pocket money, buy groceries at the supermarket, and then cook and have a meal together back at the apartment. It was super fun, and I got along really well with them.” Barbara sighed softly, speaking with a touch of nostalgia. “Although I didn’t go to college, I think a model apartment is pretty much like a sorority in college. The advantage is that you can be with other girls who are pursuing the same career as you and are very likely to have the same interests. The disadvantage is that no one can live in that kind of environment for long. Imagine: an apartment, two bathrooms, and the hair of ten girls…”

"That was a nightmare," Han Yi grinned.

"When you come back from shooting in southern Italy at four in the morning after three days of shooting, you definitely don't want to spend 45 minutes unclogging the drain with a plunger."

"This description is so vivid," Han Yi couldn't help but chuckle. "It's something that actually happened to you, right?"

“What do you think?” Barbara raised one eyebrow. “This is what led me to the conclusion: Okay, I like these girls, but I have to move out.”

"So, the following year, I remember it was the month I appeared on the cover of Elle Hungary, I moved out of the model apartment and set up a three-bedroom house with two friends in the Upper Marais district."

Which building on this street is it?

“That one,” Barbara pointed to the off-white Ottoman-style building across the street, “the one on the top floor, see it?”

"Still floor-to-ceiling windows?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, not bad." Han Yi's gaze swept over the apartment, then he suddenly raised his voice, "Aha, I know why you chose this apartment."

"why?"

"Because there's a Ladurée here too!" Han Yi pointed to the light green shop not far away.

“I’d forgotten about it if you hadn’t mentioned it.” Barbara chuckled and shook her head, replying, “No, it’s not because of that… I’ve lived here for two years and never been inside the Ladurée once.”

"Not even once?"

“Yeah, only tourists who’ve just arrived in Paris eat macarons every day.” Barbara said matter-of-factly. “I’m a model, and let me repeat, I’m the kind of plus-size model that casting directors often laugh at behind my back. How could I possibly eat something so sugary all the time?”

"I'll say it again." Han Yi's voice turned cold, and he put on a fierce look. "One day, those people in the fashion industry who mocked you will pay the price."

"Oh, really?" Barbara didn't seem too concerned. "What are you planning to do? Hang them one by one on these streetlights?"

“It’s even more terrifying than that.” Han Yi curled his lips. “We can make Barbara Pavin, this ‘plus-size model,’ the most unified aesthetic standard in the fashion industry, and make those casting directors who once looked down on you desperately search for the next you… even if it’s just a slight resemblance.”

“Aw, that’s a sweet thing to say, I love it.” Barbara snuggled up to Han Yi, rubbing her cheek against her boyfriend’s coat. “But it’s okay, I’m used to it. The fashion industry has been like this for decades. They’re not discriminating against me, it’s just the rules of the game, at least that’s how I see it. I’m grateful to be able to make a living this way, so it’s okay to be laughed at behind my back.”

Barbara's tone brightened again. She deliberately stepped back slightly, creating some distance so Han Yi could see her clearly. With one hand on her hip, she tilted her head, winked playfully, and asked, "What do you think? How do I look now?"

Han Yi's gaze swept over her from top to bottom, his eyes filled with undisguised and unreserved admiration.

“I think,” he replied earnestly, “that you look incredibly charming.”

"See, that's right."

Barbara smiled sweetly. She didn't care if anyone was watching—after all, she was wearing a hat and sunglasses, so no one would recognize her. She stepped forward and boldly planted a kiss on Han Yi's lips.

“Listen,” she said, taking his arm again, her voice firm, “I know I’m attractive in real life. And the people I like find me attractive, and that’s enough. Whatever happens at work, let it stay at work. What those people think doesn’t matter at all.”

“Now,” she said, pulling him toward the crosswalk, “the most important thing is to take my current boyfriend to visit my nineteen-year-old self.”

Upon hearing this, Han Yi looked up, his gaze sweeping across the narrow street to the top floor of the off-white Ottoman-style building across the street. The winter sun reflected a blinding light off the large floor-to-ceiling windows, making it almost impossible to see what lay beyond.

He imagined a nineteen-year-old girl leaning against that window, looking down at the bustling street below.

“Tell me,” he asked softly, “if nineteen-year-old Barbara… that girl who had just moved out of the model apartment and was excitedly planning her future… if she were looking out that window right now and saw you at twenty-three—see your life now, the people standing next to you—what would she say?”

Upon hearing this question, Barbara fell silent for a moment. She also looked up at the window that had once belonged to her.

A person rode a bicycle past on the street, the bicycle bell jingling. In the distance, the church bells rang melodiously, reminding people that another hour had passed.

"She will be watching me..."

Barbara's voice was soft, yet exceptionally clear.

She would smile at me and say, 'Thank you. Thank you for holding on for me until... this day when all my dreams have come true.'"

"It turns out that one day, I really don't need to prove anything to anyone. Just by standing here, I can be seen and loved."

(End of this chapter)