Dear Sofie,
A few years ago you were asked to express a situation that
would reduce your anxiety; a scenario that would bring you a sense of safety. You
answered: “Being in Paris with my uncles.” As we were not present with you at
this moment, and had never discussed travelling, France or Paris with you in
any real sense, we, along with your parents, thought that this was both lovely
and interesting. But it was also the beginning of this journey.
Paris is a beautiful city, with its halls of art and its winding
streets full of bustling cars and old boxes nailed to a wall following the
shore of the Seine full of used books. It is gracious in its old age, even as
it strained under the pressure of volatile politics and urban decay. It has unidentifiable
smells that assault your senses that are mingled with cigarette smoke and wafts
of baking brioche. Paris is harsh as well as genteel; aggressive while
maintaining a suave regard for it inhabitants. Paris is a passionate city that
presents itself to you with the understanding that you must feel gratitude for
her gifts.
And you do.
This is not our first trip to Paris. We first came here for
a short trip in 2006 for our honeymoon. I have returned once with students for
a week-long stay and Eric has led groups here twice with three weeks to
discover the city. While I am aware of the many things to see and experience
here, Eric is the expert when it comes to directions and navigating the
labyrinthine tunnels of the Metropolitaine.
Oh, we have both seen Paris and experienced her challenges and gifts,
but we have never travelled with a young person before. This was a whole new
game for your uncles, my dear Sofie. Our comfort with travelling was
compromised. Our easy way of being travelling companions, long established and
perfected, has been compromised. I admit, it is both exciting and daunting.
We are staying in Montmartre. Our immediate neighbourhood,
nestled within the shadow of Cathedrale Sacre Coeur, is relatively quiet and
hilly. Our flat is too flights up and very small. But we have two distinct
rooms and a kitchen with a stove and a fridge. We are blessed even though our
bathroom is right off the kitchen and seems to amplify any natural noises that
occur when participating in typical bathroom activities.
“It’s a little embarrassing,” you state quietly, “But we’re
all friends here, I guess.”
Our first day we force you to stay awake so that you can
readjust to the new time zone. You don’t complain, but we watch you wilt as the
day progresses. We are not far behind you. I am ready to fall over. We take you
to Sacre Coeur and its surrounding streets lined with artists and souvenir
shops. We hint at the artists and their paints ready to take our portrait
together, but you are uninterested. Instead you count pigeons, poke around
shops, and take delight in the funicular and the ancient carousel. We offer you
a ride and you shyly refuse. Eric and I look at each other. We will need to
adapt our expectations as you negotiate childhood delight and a growing sense
of self. It makes me sad to see you refuse abandon, but I understand the drive
to move toward what you think adulthood should look and feel like.
We find a store with macaroons and we ask if it is safe for
you to have them with your peanut allergy. No. We ask another place to the same
question with the same answer. And then another. And another. As you remain
philosophical, I get annoyed and speak against an uncaring world while Eric
determines it to be his mission to find you a macaroon that won’t kill you. We
are your defenders! And I believe that you are amused by us even as you skip
along the cobblestone streets and count pigeons.
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