I traveled alone to Paris for my 42nd birthday.
I was happy be get away for a mini-break and celebration. Sure, I had to work extra shifts at work to be able to afford the flight and hotel, but it was all worth it. My only plans while there were to see the Mona Lisa (an inspiration the came from an ex-Danish lover who called me his one-of-a-kind Mona), eat a birthday meal at the best restaurant in town, and walk around the River Seine.
For four days, I woke up late, drank the travel size bottles of Scotch in the mini bar, opened my hotel window, and wished a "Bon Jour" to my French neighbors, whose kitchens windows I faced, before I started my day. This time, Paris felt different, not because I visited it during its glorious spring season versus the winter time when I was last here, but because this time I belonged in my own skin--not even the French who asked me for directions mistook me for an American. This sense of belonging, which I freely expressed in a country that celebrates such audacity, was partly due to my stylish outerwear of a khaki trench coat with splashy silver buttons, heeled motorcycle boots, and daring black sunglasses. But mostly it was due to the fact I had arrived at the destination of being a free-spirited adventurer, charmer, and loner, with an appreciation for the vintage, madcap, and mysterious. And this journey had taken me years to complete, all the while dealing with the death of two close friends, hysterectomy, divorce, change of career and homes, and the experience of being a single mother. I was also here to celebrate the arrival at my destination.
For years, I sought an understanding of myself through books about French women--that wonderful creature who inhabited a world of her own making which others could only get a whiff of its mystery, gravitas, and joy. I especially appreciated that while the French woman was a creation of her own doing, the American one, who I admired for her confidence, seemed to get to hung up on body image, designer labels, instructions on how to be. Now I was one of the initiated and honorary members of that feminine French tribe: I walked around Paris as if it was built for my pleasure; I took pictures with the French African emigres who said they loved my smile; ate chocolate ice cream cones on bridges overlooking the Seine; drank shots of whiskey at Hemingway's long-ago Ritz Carlton hangout; ate a birthday meal of roasted duck and chocolate cake in the city's oldest restaurant; wandered around the Mona Lisa's Louvre home and visited the rendition of her Italian cohorts, Venus, Diana, The Virgin Mary, Empress Josephine...
Every night , I went out on the town in my vintage clothes of either pearls, beads, eyelet, or silk. I wore open-toed heels with pearlized flowers, an elegant black trench, hoop earrings, a touch of exotic Moroccan perfume, and the cashmere scarf I bought on a trip to Florence. When I walked around my hotel streets, which were all arteries leading to the Arc de Triomphe, even the French women gave me admiring glances. But the young men surprised me the most: Yusef bought me martinis and offered to take me to Egypt that coming winter; Armand gave me his number and told me to call him after he got off his late shift driving the underground train; Raoul and Sebastian swerved their car to talk to me on the sidewalk and beg me to join them for a late dinner and drinks.
At first, I thought these men mistook me for a prostitute. This overwhelming attention unnerved me. I stopped a storefront window with a full-length mirror and gave myself complete looking over. But I looked fine and these young men were too well-intended and charming in their flirt for me to think otherwise. Mostly, they were curious about a beautiful woman. But, that weekend it was Steva (I'm not sure about the spelling of his name) who gave am an unforgettable birthday surprise.
He was in his mid-twenties. He drove a sports cars with a shiny deck. He was listening to bluesy French music, and he hollered at me from his car. He waved for me to come inside, and spoke to me in his language. He was blonde, blue-eyed, and filled with a vitality that was contagious. I was not threatened. I sat in his car and insisted I did not speak French. He shook his head and smiled. "Cafe?" he asked. I lied and tried to get him to understand I was meeting a friend later on that night. He wanted my number, but I took his instead. Then he got real close to me and gave me one of those slow feeling kisses with just the right amount of pressure, exploration, and length that was very sophisticated for a boy of any age. I took a breath, made a gesture to call him, and exited his car. He begged for me to return with his "Si vous plaits." I waved him away with a smile and blew him a kiss. And that was when left his car standing in the middle of the road, ran up to me on the sidewalk, grabbed me tight and close, squeezed my ass, dipped me a bit, and gave me one of the most impassioned impromptu kisses I have ever been given -- there on the Rue Kleber.Memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO
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