Last Look at Paris

If only there were a way to perfectly preserve the sights I’ve stored in my mind’s eye these four days in Paris. The beauty of this incroyable (incredible) city goes beyond what I dared to dream.  I’ve said, “Would you look at that?” so many times; no matter where my eye falls, my breath is taken.

I lean as far as I can toward the airplane’s little rectangle of a window to seek one last sighting of the Eiffel Tower before Air Canada jets me back to North America, first to Montreal and then a last leg to Philly and home. Once there, we’ve got two days to prepare for a houseful of Christmas guests. I know, it was crazy to extend our Christmas Market tour two extra days and cut it this close to the holiday. But one trip to Paris is privilege enough for a lifetime—I may never get here again—so I’ll extend every moment I can.

I’m not ready to think about the next 48 hours of work ahead. Instead, I let my mind linger on the romance of the Alexander Bridge, where Dan and I waited for the Eiffle Tower to offer up its first sparkle last night.  Right in the middle of the span above the Seine, we’d positioned ourselves, all wrapped in layers of down and topped with American ski hats, full of hopes this would be worth our efforts. At seven o’clock sharp, the sparkle of 20,000 twinkling lights tickled us warm again. I could have stood there another hour for the next five minutes of sparkle. 

Oh, how I fell in love with Paris: from the crosses atop the white domes of Basilique du Sacré-Cœur high atop Montmartre, down to Napoleon’s tomb; at the faint whisp of a smile on that famous portrait in the Louvre, to my own broad smile at Mussée D’Orsay where I recognized the miniature sculpture of the Thinker in “The Gates of Hell;” from standing in a window looking onto the fountains of Versailles, to my first taste of foie gras at Valoise. We seized every sparkle and spectacle between the Seine and the Arc de Triomphe and walked the Champs-Élysées until I couldn’t take another step.

The fourteen glühwein mugs I’ve collected (two from each Christmas market) are indelicately wrapped in Dan’s socks and tucked in the belly of the plane. A multitude of gift boxes from À la Mère de Famille are safely stored in an overhead bin, filled with bon bons that reveal every previous one to pass through lips as mere posers.  The only thing left for me to do is to check my phone one last time to see if our son has replied to my message requesting his arrival time at the Philly airport. Still no answer. My heart gives a little lurch about some medical issues he’s having. I frown at my phone while swiping right on the airplane mode toggle.

After dreams of baguettes and croissants, wrapped in fresh ribbons of worry about my boy, we awake a little foggy on landing in Montreal. I reach for my phone as soon as the wheels touch down and find the awaited message. “Hey, I didn’t want to worry you on your trip. Just call me when you get to Montreal.” Never tell someone who you don’t want to worry, that you didn’t want to worry them. It’s guaranteed to cause the most worry ever.

We gather all our luggage, customs forms in hand, and wind our way through at least three miles of Montreal’s airport, down a hall that seems to have no end, then finally find a small waiting area for our flight to Philadelphia.  It’s almost empty except for an older woman traveling alone who drags all her suitcases to sit right behind me.

I’m busy doing mental triage, speaking quietly and reassuringly into my phone to find out what’s going on in Nashville. Our son is doing ok, but doesn’t think it wise to fly home, so he won’t be at the airport when we arrive. “You can’t spend Christmas alone. Are any of your friends there?” I run through a few scenarios with him, until I say, “Do you want Dad and me to load up the dogs and head down there tomorrow?” If sighs could travel through the phone, I would feel this relieved one breezing through my hair.

“Would you really do that for me?” Oh, child of mine, what would I not do for you? I hand my phone to Dan whose strong steady voice is lowered to a hushed reassurance for his grown son on the other end of the line.

How will we manage this? I form a hasty plan to dump all our suitcases on the porch, spray them down with sanitizer, and shuttle our dirty clothes through the laundry, before repacking them. (The bedbug crisis in Paris has me concerned about a few Uber seats.) Goodness, the dogs will need a bath, and we have to tell our relatives we can’t host Christmas dinner.  Oh no, I hope our daughter understands this last-minute emergency.  I think a quick prayer that her boyfriend’s family will fill any void caused by our hasty decision.

Dan and I both whisper “I love you,” and, “See you soon,” into the phone before hanging up.  We look at each other, eyebrows raised. Before I launch into my master plan of how we are going to make this happen, the woman behind us turns in her seat.

“Excuse me. May I ask a favor? Would you watch my things while I find the restroom?”

The rule-follower in me can’t help herself. “You know, we’re not allowed to do that anymore. How do you know we aren’t really bad people who might use your valise for our evil intentions?”

My husband rolls his eyes. “We’re not supposed to, but of course we’ll watch your things.”

She smiles her thanks, “Well, I know you’re not bad people.  I couldn’t help but hear you talking to your son and I know you must be good people. Very good people.”

My eyes fill with the tears I’ve been holding back, not from the sadness of missing my new favorite place in the world, but from gratitude. May any small measure of goodness noticed in me be poured out for my children.