"Good morning... Wow, what's that smell?"
As soon as Connor pushed the door open, his nose twitched. The rich, hearty aroma hit him, making his stomach rumble. Before his eyes could spot the source, his mouth had already started to water, forcing him to swallow a bit of saliva. The next second, he saw a few scattered pieces of bread on the table.
Freshly baked bread, with a lovely caramelized golden-brown sheen. It looked simple, yet it completely captured his attention, making it hard to look away.
Lily was seated at the dining table and greeted Connor with a wide smile.
"The marathon runner is finally back! Come on, breakfast is ready."
"Now I finally understand why the French are so obsessed with bread. It really is different."
Connor quickly scanned the table, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "It definitely looks different, at least compared to German or Dutch bread."
Lily laughed, "Actually, I really like Munich's pretzels; but yeah, the bread here in Paris is something else. Look at Miles — he wasn't even planning on eating breakfast."
Next to them, Miles held up a torn piece of bread, gesturing to Connor before popping it into his mouth, savoring the flavor with a thoughtful look.
Curious, Connor sat down and quickly glanced around. "Where's the jam?"
Lily shook her head. "Anson said you don't need jam for this bread. Putting jam on everything is such an American thing."
Connor made a face. "I've heard the French don't like Americans, especially here in Paris. Now I can really feel it."
Even as he grumbled, Connor carefully tore off a small piece of bread and chewed it. The mild wheat flavor spread through his mouth, aromatic but not sweet, with just enough chewiness without being sticky. The baked, fermented fragrance filled his senses, and he couldn't help but feel cheerful.
Surprised!
Connor looked at Lily in astonishment.
Lily shrugged gently. "Told you."
Connor was still shocked. "Where did you buy this?"
Just then, Anson emerged from the bathroom, having just finished his shower. "The bakery at the corner of the street, right under our apartment."
"There's a bakery there?" Connor had passed by while running but hadn't even noticed it.
Anson was towel-drying his hair. "Yep, it's a small, unassuming shop. They bake bread four times a day, and every time there's a line. Once the bread's gone, the crowd disperses."
Connor took another bite of the bread. "I must've missed the rush on my way back. No wonder it was so quiet."
Lily chimed in, "Anson said Parisians believe the best bread comes from small local bakeries. Almost no one goes to chain stores here. Actually, do they even have big chain bakeries in Paris?"
Anson shrugged. "Probably, but they're more for tourists."
Connor's mouth hung open slightly. "Now I get it — that's how they can tell I'm a tourist right away. The trap was set right there."
Miles, however, glanced at Anson. "You're not planning to go out dressed like that, are you?"
Anson looked down at himself. "What's wrong with this?"
He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans.
That was it. Simple, ordinary, nothing special. He could easily blend into the street unnoticed.
Connor glanced at Anson. "That's why no one recognizes him."
Anson, unfazed, replied, "If people need designer labels to recognize me, it's better they don't. No need to maintain a Hollywood image."
Lily didn't seem surprised. "He's been like that the whole European tour, hasn't he?"
Understated and simple, as the phrase suggests, their road trip really was a road trip. Anson had completely shed his superstar aura, eating and traveling with the band like a bunch of college kids on a youth tour.
Not just strangers; even Lily and the others found it hard to get used to.
The last time they worked on an album together, "Spider-Man" had broken multiple records, and Anson had become a household name almost overnight, soaring to a level they couldn't even reach.
Now, on the album promotion tour, the influence of "Catch Me If You Can" was still spreading, and Anson was on track to becoming Hollywood's next major star.
Each time they met him, their perspective was refreshed.
Yet, interestingly, Anson was still the same Anson, unchanged. It wasn't an act or a façade; spending time with him in everyday life showed them his genuine, down-to-earth nature.
Again and again, their views shifted. And eventually, Lily and the others got used to it.
But what was up with Miles?
Miles let out a sigh and explained, "But this is Paris."
Anson responded, "And?"
Miles struggled to explain Paris's uniqueness. This city wasn't just a romantic capital but also a hub of art—music, film, theater, literature. It was a place where artists found kindred spirits.
Maybe the band would find their breakthrough here. Perhaps this city would finally appreciate the band's uniqueness. After all, they used classical instruments, which set them apart.
Before setting off on their journey, they'd all hoped to find someone who truly understood their music in one of these European cities. Someone who'd realize they were at the crossroads of innovation in the music industry, that their sound was a treasure for this era—waiting to be discovered.
And then, the band would blow up, like their appearance on "The Tonight Show."
But reality was harsh, even cold and brutal.
A bucket of cold water had doused their dreams repeatedly, over and over.
With Anson's encouragement, the band picked themselves up and continued onward. But deep down, their desires still simmered.
Maybe the next city would be the one?
Like the film Roman Holiday, these European cities always seemed to hold the promise of miracles.
Or perhaps... it would be Paris?
Look at Miles—he was all dressed up today, yet Anson was still in his simple t-shirt and jeans. Even the usually composed Miles couldn't help but exclaim.
Miles stared at Anson. "I mean, it's Paris."
Anson shrugged. "If we didn't get off at the wrong stop, then yes, this is Paris. Not Amsterdam."
Miles: …
Connor burst into hearty laughter. "Miles, stay calm, remember? A calm mindset. Our attitude directly affects the tone of our music. We have to stay grounded, or the music will lose its essence."
Anson patted Connor's shoulder and casually picked up a croissant, taking a bite. "We all know that's true, but life isn't always that simple. So, let's just go with the flow."
"Miles can get dressed up, and you can still go onstage looking like a hobo."
Connor nodded earnestly at first, but Anson's last line made him choke, just as he was about to protest, only to have a piece of bread get stuck in his throat.
Cough, cough. "Anson... cough, cough..."
Anson laughed heartily. "Alright, time to get ready. We've got a show to play tonight."
Laughter echoed through the apartment, lifting everyone's spirits.