I never returned to my classes at the Sorbonne, even though I had actually passed the final exam. Bedis and I shared our tearful goodbyes, and she returned home to Istanbul.

It was a late Saturday morning a few days later when I heard the yelling from the street below.

“Katyyyyy!”

“Katharine!”

I went to the balcony and peered over. There were two guys looking up at me.

“What?!” I shouted back.

“Katyyy, what’s your door code?”

I recognized the accent. It was the Dutch guy—Floris. And with him was his sidekick, Hiram—the French one.

There was no further talk about which one of them would woo me. We became three friends in Paris, free to waste happy hours just horsing around and exploring the city.

Hiram was one of the oddest, most charming people I had met. With his effeminate gestures, I assumed he must be gay. But then he was the most assertive of lotharios and would literally chase after beautiful women on the street, usually convincing them to give him their number. His attentions were not limited to young women; he was also known to pat strange children on the head, steal a flower for an old woman, or convince a group of Japanese tourists to sing the Marseillaise while he conducted.

Floris was just as good at picking up women, and the two competed constantly. They were cute and charming, and more often than not, they got the woman they pursued.

While Hiram could be legitimately weird, Floris was more childlike. He was curious and enthusiastic about pretty much everything. He could also be stubborn and argumentative, and he had no filter. One day he might ask why I was wearing my hair in such an ugly style, and another he might cheer me on as a “tough, Polish woman” who wouldn’t take shit from anyone.

Yet somehow, they became my family.