In Paris, I dress like a Parisian.
I wander around the Christmas Market on the Champs Elysees in a dark purple broad-rimmed felt hat and a wool coat with a mandarin collar. I drink hot mulberry wine and walk around in a daze because I fall in love with Paris at first-sight. It is an unexpected and surprising feeling that leaves me a numb and incapable of taking in too many sites. As a matter of fact, I am only able to ride the big red bus and sigh at the Tour Eiffel. I realize that unlike having a crush at first-sight, that might or might not take, love at first-sight is alarming and requires a mental commitment to change your life — even the slightest bit — in lieu of your surprising new feelings. All I think about is how I must one day live in a city with its symmetrical marvel of design, each cobbled street, bridge, museum, garden flowing into one another other until I am dazed.
I travel to France during the end of the Christmas holiday because my children are away with their father, and I need a vacation. It has been a difficult year of plumbing, roof problems, day and night shifts at work, and all sorts of day to day challenges. I think I will only sleep in my bed and swim in the underground pool at the five-star hotel where I am staying (I once again manage to get a great travel package/deal on a internet travel site). But, when I arrive at the hotel in Ile de France, I walk around the grounds of Louie and Marie Antonette’s palace — my hotel window overlooks Antoniette’s Chateau, which I made a mental note to visit even though I never got around to it.
The palace grounds are now a park open to the public. It’s visitors are mostly French. I admire their cozy introspection. The men walk around with their hands behind their backs and the women listen to their men. Sometimes they stop and take in their surroundings with a sense of complete wonder. The young and old look as if they are visiting for the first time, and I am sure they are regulars.
The days are cool, overcast, and invigorating. I take the train into town every day. I don’t have an itinerary or a map. I listen to the other loud Americans to learn where they are going. Mostly, I end up in the Champs Elysees riding the red bus and staring at the Tour Eiffel. One day on the train two teens who speak of collecting money for the blind (I think that is what they tell me) pick pocket me of $800 dollars: My purse is open, I'm dazed by France and easy prey for criminals. I return to my hotel room and cry, but I collect myself very quickly; it is my first trip to Paris, and I don't have time to waste it with tears. I spend the rest of my three days there window shopping and eating crepes--fruit, chocolate, meat, potatoes-- for breakfast, lunch and dinner (it is the cheapest and most wonderful meal around).
In Paris, I flirt with the men on the metro who give me directions in broken English. They wait for my train to arrive and make sure I am safely on it. In Paris, I love to say "bon jour" and "bon chance," the only phrases I say with confidence and flair. I forget that in America I do not have time to think or breath; I just do, even though I know I'm suppose to stop and smell the roses. But back home, I am so stressed I feel like the victim of a brain injury: Even when I find the roses I can’t remember what to do with them. In Paris, though — because I am alone and worry-free, if only for 4 days — I take time to put on my make-up, blow dry my hair, and mix and match my outfits. In Paris, I am beautiful.
Read My Exciting Memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com (Because sometimes love, hate, living and dying all feel the same)
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