That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  He was laughing, maybe sharing a joke, as he and a colleague exited. His brown hair was disheveled, a reflection of his shirt and tie after hours tucked behind a desk. I took a step forward and was about to call his name, but he had already seen me.

  “Is everything OK?”

  I nodded and saw relief replace the concern in his eyes. If Pierre Duval knew the Chinese Zodiac, he would say the words my boyfriend Wang said when criticizing my tempestuous behavior: You are too much of a Tiger for your own good. Or would he? He was gazing at me with a warm friendliness that washed away any tension of the previous day.

  I handed him the check.

  “What’s this for?”

  “For last night’s dinner.”

  He hesitated a moment, glanced down at his toes in a shy sort of way, and then looked up with courage.

  “How about if we both use it for tonight’s?”

  I told myself it was perfectly fine to have dinner with the person who had loaned me money in a moment of need and it didn’t represent disloyalty to Wang. (After all, Wang was working in Shanghai and only had sporadic slivers of time for text messages or phone calls. My boyfriend was not dominating my social calendar.)

  It didn’t matter that Pierre—we were on a first name basis by this point—and I spent two hours talking nonstop over dinner and another two walking along the Seine. I told myself I wasn’t the type to swoon because of a bit of male attention and this was about as platonic as platonic could be.

  And I told myself the reason I couldn’t sleep as I tossed and turned that night was that the stars shining through the skylight were brighter than usual.

  ~~~~

  Pierre started meeting me after work. The days were getting longer as spring approached summer, and we both enjoyed walking along the Seine and pretending it was still midday rather than early evening. The sun helped us keep up our charade. Pierre was as calm as I was excitable. Together, we were balanced.

  He didn’t flinch when I told him about Wang. He seemed to accept the limitation of friendship, and I smiled with a sense of relief that I didn’t truly feel.

  ~~~~

  Two weeks passed before the storm known as my mother upset the calm of a warm, sunny afternoon. Barges cruising the Seine cast long shadows upon me as I slouched in my relaxed mode against a willow tree. I didn’t see those boats, only felt their presence and heard their sound.

  I scolded Mama for interrupting me during the rare break I had from computers, meetings, spreadsheets and four walls. I had exactly 20 minutes. Mama said that gave her plenty of time. She knew I was seeing a young Frenchman. It didn’t matter when I told her we were only friends and maybe not even that yet. I could sense her disapproval. Wang was from a good family. The right kind of family. Powerful and respected. I told her my friendships and acquaintances had nothing to do with Wang. I believed my words, but she didn’t.

  I knew she was shaking her head, pressing her lips together and squinting as I spoke. For my mother, it was clear my rebellious nature would result in a future that wasn’t suitable in her eyes. I didn’t say anything further. I didn’t even bother asking Mama how she found out about Pierre. Mama had a kind of sixth sense, and I didn’t question it. She just knew.

  ~~~~

  Pierre called me three times over the next two days, but I wouldn’t answer the phone. I told myself my feelings had nothing to do with my mother. I didn’t want to admit she still exerted that kind of power in spite of the 5,000 miles separating us. It went against the loud, rebellious side that was the best part of me. I told myself I simply needed more time alone, to focus on my work.

  But how long could I really avoid Pierre? My strategy of scheduling out-of-office meetings at the end of each work day couldn’t continue forever. I decided to take the initiative and rely on the courage that drove me to the bank many days ago. I called him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m in Paris to succeed, to focus on my internship…” My words seemed wooden, false.

  “It’s the way I feel that’s pushing you away… I couldn’t hide it, Jing.”

  Tears welled up behind my eyes. I was joyful for what I had discovered and sad for what I now was giving away.

  “We’re different!” I said. “Will I ever fit in here? I don’t know… With Wang, the future is clear.”

  “And that’s all you want?” he whispered. “Something easy? What happened to the feisty spirit that brought you to me?”

  Don’t waver, Jing! an internal voice commanded. I thought of my parents’ struggles, their success and their plans for my future. I could no longer lie to myself. This was about my mother and my father. How could I let them down by not following the path they so carefully laid before me? But then another internal voice—the rebellious one—spoke out: How can you let yourself down? I ignored it and closed my eyes.

  ~~~~

  I shut out the beauty of Paris and the memory of our walks along the Seine. I dressed each day in drabness that would help me melt into the crowd. Like a robot, I walked to the bus stop, arrived early at the office, plunged into my assignments and stayed as late as possible. This monotony continued for weeks.

  And then, one day, I woke up earlier than usual. It was my birthday. I would have forgotten if it hadn’t been for the e-mail from my parents. Not a word from Wang. I didn’t know how to feel. I wasn’t sure that I really cared.

  What to do in Paris at 6 a.m. when sleep won’t return? I showered and slipped into a red sundress for good luck in my 24th year. I leaned out the window and watched the early morning action that I always missed: street cleaners flooding the gutters with water, the baker opening his shutters to shed light on golden croissants, a neighbor hurrying his dog to do some business. There was much to see in this city I had been occupying, yet ignoring, over the past several days.

  I would forget about the sadness I had created and take a walk along the banks of the Seine.

  A knock at the door surprised me as I was gathering up my handbag and change purse.

  Pierre. Holding a bouquet of roses in red that mirrored my dress. For luck, love, happiness.

  “Don’t ever fit in,” he whispered.

  At that moment, I realized my life and my future were my own.

  Becoming Parisian

  Chaperon et Liberté

  Lucia Paul

  Caroline Dalgrin had one afternoon and evening to herself in Paris. She was determined to make the most of it, in spite of the fact that she smelled like a sweaty athletic sock and probably looked like one too.

  Ever an optimist, Caroline had agreed to chaperone the Parisian summer lacrosse tournament for her son Declan’s team with characteristic good cheer. She had used words like “delighted,” “honored” and “certainly.” But now, a few days into the whirlwind tournament with 27 fifteen-year-old boys, she was more focused on words like “exhausting,” “hot” and “poorly thought out.”

  To be fair, it had been the iciest and dreariest Minnesota February day when Caroline first heard about the tournament, and the thought of a European escape sounded dreamy. To sweeten the deal for the six parents attending, each parent would have one afternoon and evening off duty to explore the city (or collapse in the hotel room) at his or her own liberty.

  Today was Caroline’s turn. But first, she had to briefly darken her adventure with a little mom errand. As she walked down boulevard Haussmann, she hoped Galeries Lafayette sold compression shorts. More than one of the boys had been entrusted by a naïve mother with his own packing and had arrived in Paris with his lacrosse sticks and helmet, but no socks and underwear. Caroline had agreed to add this task to her otherwise blissful free time.

  I wish I knew how to tie a scarf, she thought as she pushed open the doors of the iconic department store. Effortlessly chic women breezed past her wearing classic outfits: a pressed white T-shirt (Caroline was sure they were tailored), dark jeans, flats in black velvet or cognac-colored leather, and a perfectly tied scarf. Oh, the scarf, that scourge of Amer
ican women and best friend of French femmes. Caroline pushed the sleeves of her pale-pink linen blazer a bit higher and tried to look confident.

  It must have worked because a saleswoman with a severe chignon and flawlessly made-up face gave her a slight smile. Caroline leaned on the moderately sturdy cane of her Rosetta Stone Level 1 French.

  “Yes, s’il vous plaît, je search les chaussures…” Dammit, that’s shoes. “Pardon, les chaussettes.” The woman led Caroline to an array of neatly displayed formal men’s socks. Several more rounds of Rosetta Stone, and the words “lacrosse” and “teen boys” resulted in a handsome man navigating both the language and the problem.

  “My boys, they have the lacrosse friend at the fields as well, non? This is not the place for these things. Here, I show you.”

  Caroline carelessly tossed all advice about strangers aside, and gladly followed the man out of Galeries Lafayette and down a few doors to a sporting goods store.

  With her purchases tucked away in her new leather tote bag (her husband called it a combination birthday/bon voyage gift), she searched for a café to have a glass of wine. Caroline found a lovely table right on the sidewalk. She marveled, as she had every day since her arrival, that if this café had been in Minneapolis, it would be packed. At least during the four months of warm weather. But in Paris, it was one of countless places that beckoned strollers, shoppers and neighbors to stop for a café crème and a croissant in the morning, or a glass of Chablis and salmon tartare in the afternoon. Glancing at her watch and the menu, Caroline decided that the latter sounded like the perfect snack. While she waited, she took out her notebook to check her list.

  Caroline, like many women, was an inveterate listmaker. She had spent several months before her trip cross-referencing TripAdvisor, Chowhound, Frommer’s Paris and the recommendations of friends on what she should do with this precious free time.

  Her friend Clara had been adamant. “Darling. You must run to Musée d’Orsay and then sprint to L’Orangerie to see the Monet Water Lilies in that stunning curved room. Then, I would skip the actual Louvre, but do go to the Louvre des Antiquaires, which is right across the street. It is the most amazing place… over 200 galleries. And then…”

  Asking Clara’s advice was like walking into a wind machine. Her opinions and life experience were pretty rarified. She split her time between Minneapolis, Miami and the Irish countryside. Clara’s idea of half a day in Paris was very different from Caroline’s.

  Her friend Nina had offered her own take on a day in Paris. “Pilates is really heating up over there. My instructor trained in Neuilly, which is like the Wayzata of Paris. She said there was an amazing juice bar nearby. Honey, you’re going to need some tension release after being with the boys nonstop.”

  But that wasn’t quite the right agenda for Caroline either. I don’t know if I’m really a Paris person, she thought as she tried to come up with her own itinerary. Her husband had asked, “If you could only do three things in Paris, what would they be? Don’t overthink it.”

  Caroline had surprised herself with the speed of her answer. “Have a glass of wine and a bite to eat at a sidewalk café, browse in a bookstore and maybe buy something impractical for myself.”

  So that was her plan. Her first glass of crisp white wine had been so delicious, paired with the silky salmon on little toast points, that she had breezily ordered another glass. Not wanting to get sleepy, she had followed up with an espresso and a crème caramel.

  People were starting to drift home from offices and shops as the afternoon turned to early evening. Determined to find a librairie, Caroline paid her bill, gathered her packages and set out to let the bookstore muse lead her. Laughing teens and stylish couples made their way through the streets. Caroline hesitated at a flower shop where roses in muted creams and peonies in vibrant pinks looked artificial but were fresh and fragrant. Deciding against carrying a bouquet around, she turned into the cool shade of a small side street.

  As if indeed guided by some internal all-knowing force, she came upon a gem of a shop. Azure was casually painted in the namesake color on a wooden plank over the door. Caroline ducked her head as she entered the tiny space.

  “Bonjour, Madame.” An elfin gentleman was sitting in a velvet chair. Caroline smiled, and he returned to reading the book that was almost as large as he was. A familiar scent of old paper, leather and lemon oil filled the shop. Books reached from floor to ceiling, only some of them on shelves. A precarious pile rested unsecured in the middle of the store. Caroline carefully sidestepped the stack and headed toward the Enfants wall.

  It didn’t take long for that internal guide to offer up the third and final item on Caroline’s Parisian wish list: a first edition Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans. The book that her beloved grandmother had read to her over and over. The book that had introduced her to Paris and the idea of nuns in vine-covered houses, little girls in lines, and of course, the smallest girl, Madeline. This wasn’t just a book, it was the best of her childhood. It was a beautiful reminder of her loving grandmother and a memento of this special trip to watch her own child play the sport he loved.

  With a deep breath, she asked, “Combien?” The man wrote a number on an ancient piece of what appeared to be a torn map. Doing a quick calculation, Caroline nodded and pulled out her wallet. As he wrapped her book, she looked out the window at a vine-covered building with wrought iron window grates, just like Madeline’s convent. As she took the parcel containing the tangible reminder that she had fallen in love with this famous city years ago, she realized that maybe she had been a Paris person all along.

  10 Things I Learned When My Daughter Moved to Paris

  E. M. Stone

  I never thought I’d see a bright side when my daughter moved 4,000 miles overseas.

  Denver, LA and St. Louis—my kids and I were no strangers to uprooting and resettling throughout their childhood. Because of this early mobility, both of my children have turned out to be adventurous, always seeking out new experiences. Or maybe they were born risk-takers.

  My daughter Vicki backpacked across Europe during college with money she had saved from three part-time jobs. I was apprehensive about my teenage daughter traveling to a foreign country with only a friend or two for traveling companions, but I reluctantly let her go. After all, she was technically an adult. What could I say, except, “Be careful! And call every day!”

  After Vicki graduated, she worked in St. Louis for a while. She gave it an honest try, but wasn’t ready to put down roots until she got some of the wanderlust out of her system. So she took off for Paris.

  I shed a few tears but accepted her decision. I expected her stay to be brief, a few months at most. I thought she’d feel lonely since she didn’t know anyone there and her French wasn’t exactly fluent. The big city lifestyle would be so different from the suburban life she was accustomed to she’d surely be home before long.

  Months turned into years. Vicki made Paris her home and not just a temporary stopping-off point. I had to adjust to the reality of being separated by an ocean, half a continent, and seven time zones. Once I learned to accept it, I learned a few things:

  1. Paris is the ultimate vacation destination.

  Now I had a great reason to travel to Europe—and frequently. The opportunity to visit like a tourist as well as live like a local. I’ve experienced the beauty of majestic cathedrals while cradling my first grandchild in my arms. I’ve cruised on the Seine and dined at cozy neighborhood cafés. Paris is a beautiful, magical city—and it’s so different from the scenery back home!

  2. The French I was taught in high school does me no good.

  People don’t really say, “Comment allez-vous?” (How are you?) They say, “Ça va?” (It goes?) Each time I visited, I’d promise myself I would attempt to learn the language, but somehow I only managed to pick up a few phrases, like slang and how to ask directions. On y va!

  3. Living an ocean away doesn’t prevent a close relationship.

&
nbsp; Vicki and I talk on the phone nearly every day and email even more often than that. I love waking up to a video she’s sent of her kids doing their latest tricks. We FaceTime every weekend and share pictures and news on Facebook. (That’s a lot of “Faces”!) Although I don’t get to actually be with her very often, I know what’s going on in her life.

  4. French women really are skinnier.

  It’s not just an urban myth or a book title. I seldom see overweight people in Paris. And everyone is way more stylish than most Americans. Maybe it’s the way they dress in sleek, monotone, dark colors. Or the way they wear scarves. Women, men and children (even babies) wear cleverly draped scarves year-round. It must be a French law. Vicki once lent me one of hers so I wouldn’t look like “such a tourist.” When I asked what I could knit for my newborn granddaughter, I imagined a blanket or booties, but Vicki suggested I knit her very first scarf.

  5. Transportation is efficient.

  I love the Parisian Métro, the hustle and bustle of so many people coming and going. Everyone has something important to do, and it’s exciting to be a part of it. On my first trip to Paris, I took the train in the wrong direction more often than not and even went the wrong way through the turnstiles several times before I finally got the hang of it. Now that I’m a pro, I effortlessly slip my ticket into the slot, pass through the open doors and casually step into the Métro car.

  6. The food is… different.

  I won’t necessarily say the food is better, but it’s certainly different. Whenever I visit a new place, I sample the local cuisine. In France, I’ve tasted crêpes, croque-monsieur, macarons, espresso, pain au chocolat, and fondue. OK, so maybe I haven’t tried anything really exotic like Roquefort or pâté or escargot, but you don’t need to be adventurous to enjoy amazing food. To these Midwestern taste buds, a baguette spread with butter and filled with jambon and fromage (ham and cheese) is one of the simplest yet most delicious lunches you can enjoy.