Last Night in Paris
On my last night in Paris, we ate dinner at Le Procope— the oldest cafe in the city, established in 1686. It was filled with historical treasures like a hat left by Napoleon to settle a debt, and letters from King Louis and Marie Antoinette.
The idea of something withstanding so much time was mind-boggling to this Dallasite. Paris is filled with so many stories- stories that are palpable, visible, revered.
Walking back to the hotel, I said farewell to I.M. Pei’s Louvre Pyramid. Seeing the structure had become a part of my daily routine, and it felt akin to leaving a friend behind.
As I packed my suitcase, I thought about Dallas and the ongoing fight to save his (our) city hall from destruction. A sense of melancholy rushed over me. Grief, even.
Mourning the hope that slowly fades when you want to preserve things others see as disposable or undesirable.
Many once argued that the Eiffel Tower was ugly. “Metal asparagus,” a group of artists called it. Originally meant to be temporarily installed for the 1889 World’s Fair, the tower was ultimately saved due to its value for radio communications and the admiration it inspired among visitors. Now it’s one of the world’s most iconic landmarks.
While so many people crave something newer and more exciting, even at the cost of demolition, I wonder… where are the ones who want to build something that lasts?
Paris had stirred something in my heart. Beyond a renewed sense of purpose to safeguard history.
Drinking coffee in the cafes where the writers of my favorite love stories once sat, I felt their inspiration vicariously.
My parents (married 48 years) and brother and sister-in-law (high school sweethearts) walked along the Seine with hands held and arms linked, respectively. I watched them with envy. They fell in love when the world was so different.
Mom will never worry about whether double-texting will cost her some measure of power or appeal.
Dad won’t follow a dozen new women on Instagram overnight he discovered through a dating app. (Bless his heart; the man wouldn’t even know how to create an account).
And then there’s me. The perpetual fifth wheel. Closing my eyes as our boat goes under the Pont Marie bridge. The tour guide instructs us to “make a wish.” And so I do.
A wish (or prayer, perhaps, befitting the nearby Notre Dame Cathedral) that I’m able to return to Paris someday… with *my* person.
Stand together at the base of Pei’s pyramid, in awe of the masterpiece and grateful that our hometown didn’t make the grave error of demolishing his city hall.
Share a creme brûlée at Le Procope surrounded by walls covered in wallpaper from the 1800s.
Sail past the Eiffel Tower at midnight in mutual shock that anyone could ever have called it ugly.
(I guess my wish was multi-part). But I almost believe in it. After all, Paris c’est magique.
Because maybe there is still hope, and some things are meant to endure.
