PARIS 2019
Nearly every week, especially now, I have the same recurring dream: I am sitting alone in a beautiful European cafe, savoring a perpetually hot cup of coffee, watching elegant passersby begin their day. Consciously, their faces remain unmemorable, but this dream is such a pleasure that it would not surprise me if Michelle and Barack Obama make an appearance, strolling hand and hand, smiling to acknowledge my contented gaze.
That’s it. That’s the dream. I am alone, in a cafe in a European City, slowly drinking a cup of coffee, watching beautiful people walk by. If you don’t get why this dream is such a joy, I recommend you stop reading now because the remainder of this “guide” to Paris will leave you utterly disappointed.
That’s it. That’s the dream. I am alone, in a cafe in a European City, slowly drinking a cup of coffee, watching beautiful people walk by. If you don’t get why this dream is such a joy, I recommend you stop reading now because the remainder of this “guide” to Paris will leave you utterly disappointed.
Before I became a parent, I visited europe almost every year and sometimes twice a year. My NYC apartment, once referred to as Saddam’s Spiderhole by my roommate’s “gentleman caller”, was simply a placeholder so she and I could travel as often as possible. In my early twenties, a tradition was born, and Paris became a cherished destination as I reunited there with dear friends I’d met not long before studying abroad in Dublin. While it was a blast to be together, I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious and unsophisticated. Looking back, I can see that I was just young, and if there is one thing I now understand and love about Paris, it’s how youth not enough to be considered interesting.
Ten years later, Paris collectively resuscitated me, my sister, and my father (temporarily) after the death of my mother. My dad had never been anywhere in Europe and the three of us had never traveled together before. You can read more about that trip here, and how it sustained me during the most difficult time of my life.
Ten years later, Paris collectively resuscitated me, my sister, and my father (temporarily) after the death of my mother. My dad had never been anywhere in Europe and the three of us had never traveled together before. You can read more about that trip here, and how it sustained me during the most difficult time of my life.
And now, with nearly another decade gone, there is this recurring dream. I can interpret it superficially as a brief respite for a busy person, or I can look at it honestly for what it is, an inescapable urge to do what I have always loved, even in the midst of motherhood.
My sister and I took this journey together and thank god for that. There are few people who can travel with me and not want to kill me, the aforementioned spiderhole roommate is one of them, as is my sister Kathy. While I haven't traveled alone with my husband in over four years, he still knows to pack extra necessities for me, because while I will absolutely know what restaurants we cannot miss, I will not remember to pack any pants to wear there.
And Kathy knows that too. She knew to pack enough funds to float the both of us, because I somehow managed to leave my purse and wallet at a cafe back home before starting the two hour drive to the airport. If you are a former colleague of mine, you may be having PTSD reading this, because on the rare occasion I’d leave our NYC office for lunch, I almost always failed to return with my purse, and because you are a nice person, you felt obligated to offer to get it for me, which I’d probably take you up on. Fear not, though, because I did have my passport, and miraculously, that was enough. My purse spent a glorious week at Fire Dog Breads, while my sister had to pay for literally every meal, every gift, every drink, and every hour of Karaoke purchased on the trip. Kathy rolled with this challenge, not once indicating even the slightest bit of concern, and embraced my travel motto: It all works out in the end. Which it did, and thensome.
My sister and I took this journey together and thank god for that. There are few people who can travel with me and not want to kill me, the aforementioned spiderhole roommate is one of them, as is my sister Kathy. While I haven't traveled alone with my husband in over four years, he still knows to pack extra necessities for me, because while I will absolutely know what restaurants we cannot miss, I will not remember to pack any pants to wear there.
And Kathy knows that too. She knew to pack enough funds to float the both of us, because I somehow managed to leave my purse and wallet at a cafe back home before starting the two hour drive to the airport. If you are a former colleague of mine, you may be having PTSD reading this, because on the rare occasion I’d leave our NYC office for lunch, I almost always failed to return with my purse, and because you are a nice person, you felt obligated to offer to get it for me, which I’d probably take you up on. Fear not, though, because I did have my passport, and miraculously, that was enough. My purse spent a glorious week at Fire Dog Breads, while my sister had to pay for literally every meal, every gift, every drink, and every hour of Karaoke purchased on the trip. Kathy rolled with this challenge, not once indicating even the slightest bit of concern, and embraced my travel motto: It all works out in the end. Which it did, and thensome.