I was embarrassed by it. I was painfully self-conscious then. The coat, and the fear of the reactions I'd receive for wearing it, reminded me of the part of myself I hated most.
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Last Monday, February 3 I flew to Paris and met a series of sunny and somewhat-warm days. I stayed at the Hotel Therese, on a quiet street next to the Palais Royal. I revisited a few of the places I knew from the first time I went to Paris, back when I was a frightened little 20-something. There are still things I am afraid of, sure, but now, they feel dwarfed.
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I am full of contradictions. I change my mind so many times, and the only conclusion I make, (a trivial one) is that all my heroes are French women who misbehaved -- George Sand, Colette, and St. Therese (in her own way).
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We walk from the metro to the restaurant and Paris looks especially beautiful. The sun won't set for hours, but it's like a prolonged magic hour. The way the streets are angled allows the sun to warm the buildings and sidewalks with an amber glow. We approach the fork in the road where the restaurant sits.
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Days one and two: Paris, Neuilly, Giverny (briefly).
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In winter the well was dry, so I wondered: why now? Was it listening to Albin de la Simone on repeat? Was it the texture of herbs under my fingers as I chopped them? Or maybe the smell of the lemon zest? (Something that comes to life by scratching a surface?) Was it still the quiet restraint of "Mrs. Dalloway"?
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We wake up to loud music playing at the hotel room next door, a song is ending, and the beginning of "New York, New York" starts. Edward lifts the receiver of our vintage 1960s phone (its a boutique hotel, with a 60s mod theme) and whispers in French. The only thing I can translate him saying is: "We can hear music, 'New York, New York.'" Then much more is said in French, then he hangs up.
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