A whole conversation swirls around them. You clear your throat but can’t think of anything to contribute. You consider the remains of your salade parisienne and poke a wedge of grayish hard-boiled egg with your fork.
~~~~
“How are you holding up?” you ask Carey. You are calling to check on your oldest friend, whose father had a massive coronary and died in the Philippines last weekend. Carey has lost a sister, a step-father, a fiancé, and now her father; she is a veteran of mourning.
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” she says. “You can’t imagine the bureaucracy involved in shipping remains from one continent to another, even if it’s a cardboard box of cinders weighing less than five pounds. In the end, we decided not to have a service at all. It was too much of a headache to figure out what to do with all the ex-wives and former step-children. And the fact that he left everything to the last one, that internet bride he was married to for five minutes, kind of impacted how we felt about our father’s memory. His children will mourn him privately. No flowers. Donations can be made to my five-year-old’s college fund, which is currently empty, thank you, Dad.”
You hear a prolonged exhale, a puffing whisper, and picture Carey leaning out her kitchen window, blowing cigarette smoke into the airshaft.
“I guess I did wonder about the memorial,” you say. You had had two competing visions, of Mr. Roberts’ ashes resting on a mantelpiece in Manila, in a gaudy lacquer box; and of the first and the last wives standing side-by-side in the cemetery, wearing black veils and studiously ignoring each other as the pastor flung earth onto the coffin. You decide it would be impolitic to share your morbid curiosity, the scenarios you have penned in your notebook.
“I’m so, so sorry honey, it all sounds incredibly hard,” you murmur. “I wish I could help in some way.”
“I know, chicken, I know you’d be here if you could, but there’s nothing you can really do. I’ve got the hubby and kid to distract me, and this tide of bile and pain will ebb one day on its own.”
Carey is suddenly brisk. “Anyway, enough grim talk about my dreary reality. Tell me some amusing anecdotes about the good life in Paris so I can live vicariously. Have you seduced any charming Frenchmen this week?”
You admit that you have not seduced anyone lately, nor has anyone made an attempt on your virtue in recent memory. “It’s tough to meet people at our age,” you say lamely.
“Some of the classics still work,” says Carey. “Put on a tight dress, go to a bar.”
“Maybe they work in New York,” you say. You are not sure about Paris.
“It’s universal,” your friend says firmly. “I want you to try it and report back to me. I’m serious.”
You know how serious Carey can be, and begin evasive maneuvers. “I just loved the pictures of Chloe’s dance recital,” you say. “She looks radiant.”
~~~~
Perched on a banquette at Chantefable, an upscale bistro around the corner from your flat, a boy—maybe 5 or 6 years old? You can’t tell, you’re bad at judging these things—is on a special outing with his grandparents.
The waiter has taken away the remains of a plate of French fries. The boy is now making inroads on a dish of chocolate ice cream topped with a generous spiral of crème Chantilly. He has both ketchup and whipped cream smeared on his chin.
“I cried when Praline wouldn’t wake up,” he says. “Then I was angry.”
“Praline was a good guinea pig, and she had a happy life, but pets don’t live forever,” says the grandfather sententiously. His napkin is tucked into the collar of his shirt.
“We will take Praline to the countryside this weekend, and you can bury her in the garden,” says the grandmother.
Cochon d’Inde = guinea pig, you write, and you are proud that you know this.
“There are toads in the garden,” says the boy. “Maybe Praline is scared of toads.”
“Oh no, they will be company for Praline,” says the grandmother, who is a symphony of gray—discreet pewter helmet of hair, silvery twin set, Hermès scarf. “After all, you are not afraid of toads. You’re a big boy.”
“I caught a toad, and it made pee-pee in my hand!” The boy bounces emphatically on the red leather banquette.
“Ah non!” exclaims the grandfather. “Toads do not make pee-pee or have terror-induced diarrhea in your hand when you catch them. They are secreting a bad-tasting substance to deter predators from eating them. It renders them unappetizing.”
“If you had a mouth on your hand you could taste it!” cries the boy.
“Really, my dears, this is not a topic for the table,” says the grandmother.
You twist the top back on your pen.
An Attempt to Explain the Paris Fandom
Anna Weeks
Paris. I am so overwhelmed I don’t even know where to begin. I am generally a sarcastic person, but somehow, when it comes to Paris, sarcasm seems wrong. Oddly, everything serious I write makes me sound like an insane fangirl. If Paris were a leading Hollywood actor, it would be Brad Pitt, Tom Hiddleston and Chris Evans all rolled into one. Beautiful, romantic, and somewhat unbelievable.
Why the infatuation? Maybe because Paris is the one thing that has never disappointed me. Paris is as spectacular in real life as it is in your dreams. That’s quite a distinction, don’t you think? What other piece of your life has that kind of spotless reputation?
More specifically, Paris is beautiful. Its architecture and monuments are so rich, yet somehow they are squeezed into this tiny space, making them all the more impressive for their dense concentration. Even a great city like New York doesn’t constantly assault your senses with so much beauty. And it’s not only the architecture and the façades of the buildings. The interiors are just as lavish.
See. There I go. Fangirling.
But Paris not only has beauty, she also has brains. Would you like to see priceless pieces of art by the great movers and shakers in human history? Easy. How about expansive gardens and parks that make you glad you’re alive to see them? No problem. Oh, you’re interested in history and would like to relive it on the actual ground where it took place? Right this way.
You get the idea, and I know you’ve heard this all before. Still, it’s not just these commonplace miracles that make Paris so special.
The best parts of Paris, like anything close to your heart, are the little things. Lovers on park benches. Corner cafés overlooking quiet, picturesque streets. Somehow, even everyday annoyances are touched by magic, making them charming and easier to bear. And if the annoyances are semi-mystical, day-to-day life becomes ethereal.
I know, I sound like a hippie on LSD. A hippie on LSD fangirling out, no less. Would you like an example? I am happy to comply.
It was 2008, and I was living in Paris. At 22, I was ecstatic. I couldn’t believe I had beaten other applicants and landed a scholarship to study abroad. I had visited the city several times on vacation, but to live and breathe Paris for six months was a dream come true.
One afternoon, I witnessed the real magic of Paris. I was out for a leisurely stroll, so as to enjoy the lovely spring day. I meandered down an uncrowded avenue, glancing in the windows. It being Sunday, the shops were closed, so I took my time and appreciated life. Smelled the metaphorical roses.
My pace wasn’t quick, but I was still going to overtake a gentleman who also appeared to be window-shopping. As I approached, I noticed him frequently glancing behind himself. It seemed odd, but–shrug–pas de problème.
I was getting closer and closer, and the next time he turned around, I noticed he was looking down. It seemed like he was waiting for someone to catch up. I followed his gaze. What do you think I saw?
Do you want to guess?
Not a dog, not a frog, not a house, not a mouse.
Not a boy, not a toy, not a moose, not a goose.
Give up?
It was a bunny rabbit.
This completely amazing Parisian man was taking his pet bunny out for a Sunday s
troll.
The monologue in my head went as follows:
Is that a rabbit? It is a rabbit. Aw, he’s so cute and fluffy! Wait. Is that guy actually waiting for the rabbit to catch up? He can’t be. No way, that’s not a thing, you don’t “walk” a bunny. Holy crap. Oh my God. I can’t believe it. That rabbit is following him. It is his pet bunny! HE’S TAKING HIS PET BUNNY FOR A WALK HOLY OH MY GOD WHAT THAT’S SO ADORABLE AND AMAZING.
Toward the end of my thought process, I was basically squealing inside. Outwardly, I had a restrained smile on my face. I hoped it looked indulgent and admiring, appreciative and knowing. Most likely, I looked like a crazy person with an exceptionally red face and a painful grimace. I probably looked like I was having a mini-stroke. It’s possible that I actually was, considering how much I had to contain myself in the moment.
All of this happened in the blink of an eye, as I got close enough to identify that it was, in fact, a bunny. Once I passed this delightful duo, I couldn’t resist turning around to confirm that I actually saw what I thought I saw.
Yup. It was true. That man was walking his bunny.
After I let that wash over me for a block or two, grinning like an idiot the entire time, I decided there was simply no way my day could get any better, so I headed home to cook dinner and relive the experience in my head.
Now, be honest. That’s not what you expected, right?
Remember, this event took place back in the spring of 2008. Social media was going strong, but it wasn’t as all-pervasive as it is now. At the time, it didn’t occur to me to tweet about it or snap a photo for Instagram. Maybe I was behind the times, but even putting it on Facebook didn’t cross my mind.
In fact, I felt quite the opposite. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone about it yet. This was one of those special jewels that not everyone gets a chance to see. This was it–my proof that Paris is a magical, wonderful place. I selfishly wanted to savor this joy a little longer before I enlightened the rest of humanity.
Eventually, I did share the news. The only other reaction I remember is the one of my best friend. Her response to the story was the way I reacted in my head while in the moment—she just did it on the outside. This gave me third-party confirmation that my experience could be categorized as out-of-this-world amazing.
And that’s really what I’ve been talking about this whole time. That is the essence of Paris. Sure, the experience was enhanced by the city as a backdrop, but it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower that made my day. It was Paris herself. I feel confident that this moment couldn’t have happened to me in any other location in the world. The Musée d’Orsay, the Pont Neuf and the staircases up to Montmartre are beautiful and dreamy, but they merely set the stage for the best Paris has to offer—Bunny Rabbit Walks.
The Glove
April Lily Heise
Where was he?
My frosty sigh hovered in the thick January air. I checked my phone again. Zero missed calls, 15 late minutes—not great odds. I shuffled from side to side, a stiff arctic jig to unthaw my Popsicle toes. I really should have worn footwear more suited to the level of the thermometer. However, I thought I’d agreed to a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood, not a waiting marathon in front of the Anvers Métro station on this grisly afternoon.
A new trickle of passengers slowly climbing the subway steps, gliding through the fog of their united glacial breaths, lifted my spirits. I caught sight of a few blond heads emerging from the mist—well, I assumed he was blond. I forced a precipitous welcome smile in case he was the owner of one of these. However, none returned my petit sourire, inciting my chapped lips masked in Chanel rouge to curl back into a frown.
Another icy exhale. That was it. This was the last time I’d agree to my sister’s virtual matchmaking. Or rather, attempts at pimping me out to her husband’s friends as a Paris-friend-for-a-day (or night).
“But he’s really cute!” she’d said, struggling to clinch the deal. She’d said the same thing a few months back when I got stuck showing around yet another of his seemingly endless best high-school mates passing through Paris on a European tour. Cute or not, that didn’t change the fact that these guys all lived in my sister’s adopted country of South Africa. Perhaps these set-ups were part of a secret ploy to get me to move there. Nevertheless, it was impossible to say no to her persuasive pleas. In the end, I’d given in again.
I’d reckoned it wouldn’t do any harm to meet him for coffee—in the afternoon—and have a little neighborhood amble. It’d make my sister happy and earn some good karma. Right then, in my shivering state, I might have accepted to marry him on the spot just to escape this dismal Parisian winter. Each day had become grayer, the thermostat descending yet another few degrees, and our morales were almost as miserable as those who suffered through the Siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian war.
I was getting antsy. Could he have sent a text message or e-mail while I was doing my desperate warmth-seeking foxtrot? I pulled my phone out of my pocket, stabbing at the screen with my gloved hand. Oh merde! I’d have to remove this source of precious warmth to punch in my passcode. What was worse? Suffering from frozen fingers or the nagging voice in my head repeating that I might have missed a call? With a tug of my right hand and a roll of my eyes, I reached my home screen. No little red #1 on my e-mail icon, no missed call from a numéro inconnu. Rien. My inboxes were as barren as the South African horizons.
Maybe I hadn’t chosen the easiest place to meet, way up in the north of the city. While it was worth the trek, I’d extolled the many wonders of Montmartre mainly out of laziness. I’d just had to wander down from my bird’s nest apartment perched high on la Butte to meet him. It’d taken me less time to get here than I’d been waiting. Geez, he’d only been here a day, and he’d already taken on the French habit of arriving fashionably late. I was all in favor of adopting local customs, but today was not the best day for this particular one. Not unless he wanted to meet me in the hospital’s hypothermia unit or experience another form of Frenchness: the fury of an enraged Parisienne.
Maybe he’d misunderstood where we were meant to meet? I’d mentioned Sacré-Cœur in passing, yet I was planning to take him there after we’d defrosted in a nearby café with hot chocolate or vin chaud. Another wave of Métro-goers failed to produce any dreamy South Africans.
I looked despairingly up at the Basilica, regally crowning the mountain like a snowy fairytale castle. Is that where this prince was awaiting? One last glance at the empty Métro entrance and upward I shot. I’d zoom up for a quick look and could be back down in a flash.
I’d never run to God with such purpose or speed. Onward I raced, zigzagging through the sea of tourists browsing the tacky souvenir shops lining rue de Steinkerque. Surfacing from the masses, I paused to assess which staircase would get me up the slope the fastest and with the fewest human obstacles.
As I was about to launch upwards, my Himalayan hike was halted by a gentle tug on my sleeve. Spinning around, half expecting a sturdy rugby-playing Afrikaner, I was surprised by the smiling face of a tall, slender, well-dressed brunet. He raised a familiar-looking black glove. Mine, which I’d carelessly shoved into my pocket before my sprint.
“Merci,” I blurted as I snatched it, immediately swinging back to my mission. This interruption threw me off and instead of taking the more direct staircase by the funicular, I charged past the Amélie carousel toward the series of lazily curving staircases that hug the gardens under Sacré-Cœur. A mistake soon signaled by the throbbing pain of under-exercised lungs after the second set of steps. What had I been thinking? It was insane to run up any set of Montmartre stairs; my silly choice of routes was a complete folie. By then it was too late. I was stuck halfway and had no time to lose.
I somehow reached the top without collapsing from lung failure. At least the horrific jaunt had warmed me up. Gasping, I scanned the petite place in front of the church. A quivering accordion player squeezed out a shaky tune. A young Spanish couple in fur-trimmed puffy p
arkas took selfies. A Polish tour group happily snapped shots of the city, oblivious to the frigid weather. No grazing blond springbok. Turning disheartened back toward the treacherous stairs, I froze midway. I hadn’t come face-to-face with a suave fair-haired god at this religious summit. Standing a few feet away was my glove savior.
My embarrassed eyes darted out at the ashen rooftops. Had he chased me all the way up here? I doubted he’d come racing up just for the view, no matter how breathtaking. Sure, people probably practice for triathlons year-round, but he was hardly dressed for it. Athletic hypothesis aside, was he instead a Cinderella Prince Charming, the clear glass slipper replaced with my black leather glove? A sleazy gigolo straying from the seedy Pigalle sex shops a stone’s throw away? Or was he simply a tourist bewitched by the magic of Paris?
I snuck a discreet glance. Refined Italian shoes, slim-fitting dark jeans, a smart wool coat and his own smooth leather gloves. He wasn’t dressed like the average tourist. Perhaps he had just been an innocent local passing next to me when my pocket rudely spit out my glove?
I admired his distinguished Andy Garcia-esque looks with the same dark hair, parted in a wave skimming his ears. As I evaluated his age—possibly mid 40s—his eyes met mine. He smiled, nodding toward the foggy city as if to say, “Isn’t she something?” I looked out at the endless architectural plains, interrupted by the occasional church tower and unfortunate 1970s tower block, and smiled back in agreement.
Our eyes locked for a millisecond. But I was supposed to be locating the missing South African. I broke our gaze, fleeing in renewed pursuit. Down the hill I swooped, not looking back and not being chased.
Arriving in front of the Métro entrance, my breathing slowly returned to normal. I shooed away any regrets—it was now too late.
A new wave of bodies ascended the concrete steps. This time they did produce the attractive blond I’d been expecting, almost half an hour late. He’d gotten lost.
That's Paris Page 6