As long as I can remember, I have had a love affair with Paris. This attachment has survived rotten weather, a bout of salmonella from unhealthy oysters, numerous Métro (the Paris subway) strikes and a waiter who kept telling me he loved my oursins. The plush red teddy bears ran across the chest of my pullover; the waiter kept trying to stroke them. Pas de problème. I would still fly to Paris on a moment’s notice.
Don’t blame me. It’s my grandmother’s fault. I grew up on a steady diet of a capella renditions of Under the Bridges of Paris and late-night discussions of the Reign of Terror.
Is it any wonder, when I first visited Paris in 1986, I was already entranced by the river, the gold statues on the bridges, the café ambiance of Montmartre? I imagined myself dancing Viennese waltzes in the ballroom at Versailles, sharing a tumbrel with Robespierre as he trundled to the guillotine, reading a novel with Diane de Poitiers as she waited for her lover, le roi Henri. I rejoiced in every dead-end street that delivered a special carved door or an elaborate sculpture masquerading as a gate.
Kilometre by kilometre, quartier by quartier, I explored Paris, made it my city. I was the perfect adopted child, adoring its parent unequivocally. In return, Paris--not the world’s most forgiving spot--has always treated me with amused respect.
When my daughter Jennifer was thirteen, I allowed her to miss three days of school (plus a weekend) and join me in the City of Light, ostensibly to help me work a trade show. As the airport taxi hurtled through the streets, careening around ancient statues, darting down narrow alleyways, I saw my joy reflected on my daughter’s face. Bags safely stowed in a typically cramped Paris pension, I took her to lunch at a tiny restaurant near the Louvre. Tables two inches apart, typically Paris.
“Oh, Mum, you weren’t lying!” Jennifer stared (like mother, like daughter) at the businessmen with whom we rubbed elbows. The men, having gobbled their steak and frites, had ordered an extra basket of bread. “They really do sop up their sauce with their bread!”
We spent the afternoon patrolling Paris’ famous cemeteries. Jennifer, on orders from the teacher of her advanced French literature classes, had to locate the tomb of François Truffaut. (If we found Jim Morrison on the way, so much the better.) Like finding a needle in a haystack, you think? Think again. The tombs of all the “important” people are located on the cemetery maps. Yes, maps. Only in Paris. In record time, we had the requisite photo of Truffaut--and Morrison and Emile Zola--in permanent repose.
By her second day, Jennifer was plunging, arms flailing, through crowded streets. Dressed in my chic business suits, she could have been any true Parisian.
For five days, whenever we were free of the trade show floor, we enjoyed the bounty that is Paris. At the Eiffel Tower, we translated the casse-croute menu for a pair of beehived Texan ladies. (“Jam-bone. What’s that?”) We waded through the crush of tourists to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. We crossed the street at Place de la Concorde—a noteworthy feat in itself on a circle where the street lights flash “Double temps.” Translation: Run fast! We paraded down the Champs-Elysées, and under the Arc de Triomphe, singing, “Allons, enfants de la patrie!” We ate, always well, at many more tiny restaurants whose proprietors invariably accused us of being sisters. Ah, such are the French, if one allows them.
On our last evening, I watched the head steward of our Bateaux Parisiennes river cruise approach my daughter and invite her en français to help him begin the dancing. En français, after an encouraging nod from me, she accepted. Teary-eyed, I watched this tall, gorgeous twenty-year-old Frenchman glide my tall, gorgeous baby around the polished wooden floor in a polished Viennese waltz. When the music stopped, he led her into the shy arms of a pubescent Italian boy, next table.
Jennifer danced all night. With French as their common language, she danced with ample-chested Austrians, Nice schoolboys and Saudi semi-royalty.
“Mum, I was embarrassed at first, but it was so much fun!” she exclaimed as we walked along the Seine later that night. “Oh, Mum, I love Paris.”
Oh, Jennifer. Me, too.
.2006 Ev McTaggart
