Post by Rhonda on Jun 11, 2009 3:07:24 GMT -5
Paris When It Sizzles
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters
By Bill Zarchy
Pinch me," says Susan as we cross the Seine from the Left Bank to face the sun-drenched Gothic towers of Notre Dame. "I can't believe we're back here."
We peel off jackets and join the throngs of tourists outside the cathedral. Despite Cole Porter's claim to love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles, it's only April and the temperature this afternoon hovers near eighty.
We'd visited Paris at earlier stages of our lives, but this trip is different, and our lives have changed. Back home, we left behind an empty nest. Our kids are no longer teenagers and have their own lives. Oddly, our only agenda now is to enjoy a relaxing week together in the City of Light -- and to find each other again on our first trip alone in many years.
We sit on the wall facing Notre Dame and embrace like a pair of young lovers in a Cartier-Bresson photograph. "Thank you for bringing me here," Susan whispers as she nuzzles my neck.
We wander through the warm streets of the Left Bank and rest in the shade of the Luxembourg Gardens, where we recall renting little boats for our kids to sail on the pond. Having them grown and gone has been particularly difficult for me; being Dad was always my favorite job. On this trip, I'm certain, we'll revisit some of the places we once took them: Chartres, the Musee d'Orsay, the Louvre, Giverny, the Rodin Museum.
The timing of our trip is a bit odd. Two months before, I celebrated my fifty-tenth birthday, but my freelance career is sputtering at low ebb, and work and cash are hard to come by. On the other hand, two of our closest friends have recently been diagnosed with cancer and started chemotherapy. Life and good health feel precious. Seize the time, I tell myself. Besides, we have lots of credit, more than we should ever use.
We've been lucky. On a business trip to Paris several months before, I reconnected with a cousin who offered me the small studio apartment he and his French wife keep for guests. So we cashed in 100,000 frequent flier miles for our roundtrip tickets and made plans to farm out the dog.
On the hottest day of our visit, we stroll into the Tuileries Gardens. A young couple occupies a wall near the Place de la Concorde, limbs entwined. We head for an empty bench, but it seems all of Paris is out today in the fine weather, and a young family sprints ahead to beat us to the seating. After several similar failures, we secure a bench in the shade and pass the time watching the parade of humanity and reading our books, both set in Paris. Soon I get drowsy, recline on the bench, and snooze with my head in her lap as she strokes my hair.
We visit Montmartre, shocked by the densely packed tourists patronizing the portrait artists in the square, even mid-week in the spring. We walk for hours across the city on another steamy day, down the Boulevard de Magenta, through the bridal and formal clothing districts, and eventually meet Cousin David for falafels in the Marais.
One day, I get a call from Eric, a Parisian colleague of mine who invites us on an outing. They graciously take us into their home for champagne and then out for lunch to a guinguette, a traditional cabaret/restaurant on the banks of the Marne. As we watch Eric and his wife Paule, both in their forties with young children, we see ourselves years before. We were older parents, too, working professionals thoroughly immersed in the job of raising kids. Paule tells us she often gets home late from work and uses familiar shortcuts to prepare meals.
Would parenting have been easier if we'd done it when we were younger? I wonder. Certainly we might have had more stamina for the sleep-torture inflicted by our infants. Were we ready? Absolutely not. Do I want to go through it again? No way, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.
In the end, we revisit few of the places we took our kids. We linger in bed each morning, getting a late start on our touring, but relishing each other's company. Years before, the summer after I graduated from high school, my parents went to Europe for the first time. Their first trip ignited a mutual passion for travel that took my parents to many countries in the ensuing years.
I was the younger child in my family, about to flee the nest, but I had no clue that my folks were grieving, in their own way, for the tight family we had been… until the same thing happened to Susan and me. Now I understand their desire to travel. I think about them frequently as we swelter on our way to the Picasso Museum, near the end of our stay in Paris.
We walk to the Seine late in the day and hop a ride on the Bateaux Mouches. The cool air on the river is refreshing as the sun sets behind the city.
"You're my life," says Susan as she squeezes my hand. Porter's haunting lyrics sneak back into my consciousness and I concur: I love Paris every moment, every moment of the year. We sit very close, embrace in this most romantic setting, and face the future together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters
By Bill Zarchy
Pinch me," says Susan as we cross the Seine from the Left Bank to face the sun-drenched Gothic towers of Notre Dame. "I can't believe we're back here."
We peel off jackets and join the throngs of tourists outside the cathedral. Despite Cole Porter's claim to love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles, it's only April and the temperature this afternoon hovers near eighty.
We'd visited Paris at earlier stages of our lives, but this trip is different, and our lives have changed. Back home, we left behind an empty nest. Our kids are no longer teenagers and have their own lives. Oddly, our only agenda now is to enjoy a relaxing week together in the City of Light -- and to find each other again on our first trip alone in many years.
We sit on the wall facing Notre Dame and embrace like a pair of young lovers in a Cartier-Bresson photograph. "Thank you for bringing me here," Susan whispers as she nuzzles my neck.
We wander through the warm streets of the Left Bank and rest in the shade of the Luxembourg Gardens, where we recall renting little boats for our kids to sail on the pond. Having them grown and gone has been particularly difficult for me; being Dad was always my favorite job. On this trip, I'm certain, we'll revisit some of the places we once took them: Chartres, the Musee d'Orsay, the Louvre, Giverny, the Rodin Museum.
The timing of our trip is a bit odd. Two months before, I celebrated my fifty-tenth birthday, but my freelance career is sputtering at low ebb, and work and cash are hard to come by. On the other hand, two of our closest friends have recently been diagnosed with cancer and started chemotherapy. Life and good health feel precious. Seize the time, I tell myself. Besides, we have lots of credit, more than we should ever use.
We've been lucky. On a business trip to Paris several months before, I reconnected with a cousin who offered me the small studio apartment he and his French wife keep for guests. So we cashed in 100,000 frequent flier miles for our roundtrip tickets and made plans to farm out the dog.
On the hottest day of our visit, we stroll into the Tuileries Gardens. A young couple occupies a wall near the Place de la Concorde, limbs entwined. We head for an empty bench, but it seems all of Paris is out today in the fine weather, and a young family sprints ahead to beat us to the seating. After several similar failures, we secure a bench in the shade and pass the time watching the parade of humanity and reading our books, both set in Paris. Soon I get drowsy, recline on the bench, and snooze with my head in her lap as she strokes my hair.
We visit Montmartre, shocked by the densely packed tourists patronizing the portrait artists in the square, even mid-week in the spring. We walk for hours across the city on another steamy day, down the Boulevard de Magenta, through the bridal and formal clothing districts, and eventually meet Cousin David for falafels in the Marais.
One day, I get a call from Eric, a Parisian colleague of mine who invites us on an outing. They graciously take us into their home for champagne and then out for lunch to a guinguette, a traditional cabaret/restaurant on the banks of the Marne. As we watch Eric and his wife Paule, both in their forties with young children, we see ourselves years before. We were older parents, too, working professionals thoroughly immersed in the job of raising kids. Paule tells us she often gets home late from work and uses familiar shortcuts to prepare meals.
Would parenting have been easier if we'd done it when we were younger? I wonder. Certainly we might have had more stamina for the sleep-torture inflicted by our infants. Were we ready? Absolutely not. Do I want to go through it again? No way, but I wouldn't trade the experience for anything.
In the end, we revisit few of the places we took our kids. We linger in bed each morning, getting a late start on our touring, but relishing each other's company. Years before, the summer after I graduated from high school, my parents went to Europe for the first time. Their first trip ignited a mutual passion for travel that took my parents to many countries in the ensuing years.
I was the younger child in my family, about to flee the nest, but I had no clue that my folks were grieving, in their own way, for the tight family we had been… until the same thing happened to Susan and me. Now I understand their desire to travel. I think about them frequently as we swelter on our way to the Picasso Museum, near the end of our stay in Paris.
We walk to the Seine late in the day and hop a ride on the Bateaux Mouches. The cool air on the river is refreshing as the sun sets behind the city.
"You're my life," says Susan as she squeezes my hand. Porter's haunting lyrics sneak back into my consciousness and I concur: I love Paris every moment, every moment of the year. We sit very close, embrace in this most romantic setting, and face the future together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~