Paris Can Wait

I've never been to Paris. That's not a complaint -- just a fact. Even though I love visiting new places and count myself lucky to have traveled to other European countries, I have not yet visited France. I could have orchestrated a trip to France when I was married, but I couldn't bear the thought of seeing Paris for the first time with someone with whom I was not wildly in love. The three of us -- my daughter, my then-husband, and I -- ended up going to Ireland instead. Given my lifelong love of horses, Ireland was a fitting "consolation" prize. What Paris is to love, Ireland is to the horse.

I've been "saving" Paris for a great love ever since. I have many reasons to think I would adore Paris, among them my interest in art history, the three years in high school I tortured my class with my midwestern-accented semi-coherent attempts to say simple phrases in French, and good God, I *do* so love to eat. I read once that if you smile at a stranger in Paris, the local Parisians will assume you are either an escaped lunatic from a mental ward or you're an American. That reaction delights me. I pray it's true.  

When Frenchy and I started dating, I thought there was a good chance I'd finally get to see Paris with him, but it wasn't meant to be. Frenchy and I have broken up. Paris can wait.

I'm still committed to visiting Paris one day with the love of my life. I can picture us walking along the Seine trying to find the exact place where Madeline fell in and Genevieve the dog saved her, or arguing about which street mime was better -- the one who was "caught in a wind tunnel" or the one "trapped in a box." I can even hear her chiding me, "Mom, you're embarrassing me. Stop smiling at everyone!"