Since 1995 when I saw the movie “French Kiss” starring Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline, I knew I needed to visit Paris. I learned the language. I had a poster of the Eiffel Tower on my bedroom wall. And for my birthday I made it happen. On my own. For myself. No one to burden me with their whims.
I boarded the plane at JFK and woke up in France. The train ride from the airport to the city was breathtaking. Even the graffiti on passing bridges and tunnels brought a sense of accomplishment accompanied by the tears that threatened to plummet from my eyes. The accents were beautiful. The people were perfect. The art was brilliant. I was wholly swept away by the city and everything it embodied; it exceeded every expectation.
During the first few hours in what was clearly where I belonged, I felt waves of emotions ranging from disbelief to happiness to panic at my level of complete comfort. I was thousands of miles and an ocean away from everything I knew… until now. My mind was open to all new possibilities of life, love, food, art, and spirituality.
I decided to leave my camera at the hotel that first night. I wanted to experience it with my own eyes rather than through the digital screen of my cheap Sony Cybershot. I had been told about a champagne bar on the Champs-Elysee called Monte Cristo so I went. Walking up to it, I was less than amused. This was totally a Carmine’s meets Paris kind of vibe. I go in, expecting whatever the Universe wanted to hand out. In the back was a small sign: EN BAS A LA BARRE (downstairs to the bar).
I entered Mecca. Champagne. Beautiful Parisian men. Exotic French women. And me. “Transform me! Teach me your ways!” I wanted to shout. But I played it cool. A dark and brooding man overheard my American accent when I ordered and came over. For the next three hours I sat, sipping champagne, answering questions so this Frenchman could hear my accent. All the while wanting to hear his.
We closed the bar and went back to my hotel’s bar. He was terribly French in every sense of the word. I swooned. He embodied Paris and I took every advantage of the gift I’d been given. The next morning we went our separate ways and I marveled at the fact that I never do things like that back home. And then I laughed at the fact that I also came to Paris alone so maybe my coy act in the city wasn’t getting me too far.
I did the touristy thing that day and soaked up a number of sights – The Louvre, The Eiffel Tower, The Opera House, and more. I walked the quaint, cobblestone streets basking in the French beauty I had dreamed of.
I returned to the hotel after hours of wandering the city in too expensive, too cute shoes (I was in Paris… comfort was not an option) exhilarated. A note from my new French hottie was at the front desk. MEET ME TOMORROW, it read. The place: The St. Louis Bridge behind Notre Dame. The time: 4pm.
Around 3pm the next day the grey sky opened up. I love rain. I find it a good omen unless it’s a steamy rain causing my hair to frizz beyond comprehension. This was not one of those rains. It was more than a drizzle, less than a downpour. It was perfect. As I rounded the corner (in yet another pair of fabulous shoes), umbrella shielding me, I heard the faint sound of an accordion player. Smoking a cigarette, wearing a black jacket and hat, and leaning against the railing of the bridge stood my Frenchman. It was out of a movie. I paused breathlessly before approaching.
My night was filled with everything perfectly Parisian. We had a chocolate dinner with too much wine. We went to a piano bar in Montmartre and had crepes and more wine. He introduced me to Parisian macarons. We walked down all over the city until well after midnight. After four more nights spent together we decided to leave our tryst in Paris. We wouldn’t even try to top what we had experienced with a long-distance thing we both knew would never work.
I spent my final day doing more sight-seeing things that had not been checked off my list. And when I went to the airport that night, he was waiting for me at the check-in counter. A gift in hand, he made me promise not to open it until I was on the plane. I promised, kissed him goodbye, and went to my gate. As soon as I got to my seat, I tore open the gift. In French he had written a note, “We’ll always have Paris and the best week of my life. If you’re ever back or want to see me in the States, here is my info. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll always think of you fondly.” His phone number, address, and email address was covering the title of the DVD I held. “un americain a paris”… An American in Paris.
My flight back was reflective. The eight hours were devoted to looking through pictures, recalling my incredible, dream-like week, and re-reading his note. I had lived a fantasy to my wildest imaginations.
came across your blog today, can't stop reading it! Thanks for a great way to spend my afternoon at work :)
ReplyDelete