Paris Stopover

So that was that. A meandering trip whose purpose I never made clear to myself, where I found myself reliving the lonely parts of my first Rome trip even as I was presented again with great beauty. But maybe I learned a good lesson: you know you're in love when you're staring at a masterpiece, wishing you were in a Brooklyn basement, doing your boyfriend's laundry.

I had arranged to return to Paris one day early to have a more civilized time catching my return flight, and to finally do the sightseeing I hadn't done during the week before. It was to be another day of solitude, alas, and even though I have a few acquaintances in Paris it was my own ghosts that were more readily available for company. I left Rome early, arrived at my fleabag hotel right back in Montmartre off the Rue des Abbesses and dropped off my suitcase although my room wasn't ready. It was a cool drizzly morning, before the museums opened, so I bought myself a baguette from the usual bakery and sat in a cobblestone courtyard before I set off.

It was a Saturday, a market day, and I walked around the neighborhood a bit, watching with envy as people purchased beautiful seafood and meats for their suppers. In the interest of economy I went to the supermarkets, buying what Parisians might consider uninteresting staples, but to me were luminous little treasures of Frenchness. Below is the group photo of the goodies that made it nicely home in my suitcase. The scallop shells are for a scallop paté, those are tubes of chestnut cream, various cheeses, meat patés, harissa (still sitting in my cabinet a year later!), cookies, tea, and, of course, chocolate. Not shown are the numerous pleasantries I gobbled up toute suite: the pastries, the yogurt, the dairy desserts such as a diaphanous rice pudding sitting provocatively sur un lit de caramel.

After the shopping, and realizing that I had limited time to travel to the sights, much less spend much time there, I hopped into the metro to head to the opera.

There was a photo shoot going on that day, which is why this picture is so nicely illuminated. I stood for a while admiring the Chagalls, choosing just to enjoy, and not peer through the view finder. For me to set foot in the Paris Opera house was to turn 13, when, don't laugh, I was slavishly obsessed with the Phantom of the Opera, first the musical then the book. I walked through the halls playing make believe, seeing the grand ladies and tailored gentlemen of the past, as if they could step out of the gilded statuary.

I tried to read my street map in the dim lavender light, hoping to prepare for an urban stroll. But I was too fearful of losing my way, and too self-conscious to walk the streets with a book in hand, so I permitted myself only a brief walk around the area before I went back to the metro for my next destination.

Paris is like a very Parisian New York. Urban, crowded, busy, and fast-paced, but set against a backdrop of elegance, cleanliness, quality, and beautiful detail. I was there during the chaotic post-Christmas sales, when people descend on stores like wasps. If only I had an eye for style and a bottomless wallet, I too would have sorted through the goods on street corners, where vendors sell designer shoes like New York sidewalk salesmen sell fruit.

For my one day I chose a museum slightly off the beaten path: the Guimet, which houses an expansive and particularly beautiful collection of Asian art, mostly Buddhist. Click here for my highlights tour. (I'm still trying to work out how to post it here directly.) Can you feel anything but peaceful there?

I lingered because I knew that the real feature that I wanted to visit would be open late, the l'Orangerie with its oval rooms of Monet water lilies. It was the one stop I absolutely wanted to make, because my first visit the museum was as crowded a subway, and I left the paintings feeling angry and cheated, surely the opposite of the intended effect. But arriving at 8 pm on a Saturday, the museum was as still as a pond. Informed by the stern admissions lady that "you 'ev an 'our," I ducked down the stairs into the grotto below.

Monet himself designed the rooms for these lilies, and their size and shape are just as important to the experience as the colors and shapes in the paintings. To experience them as one of only a few visitors, pastels floating from ceiling to floor, is to be inside an aquarium, or maybe the brain of Odilon Redon. I went to the second room first, where a young family was lingering, their son softly snoring on the central oval bench. I soon realized that the other visitors provide perspective on the rest of the painting, like mangrove trees or storks in a luminous swamp. I circled around the room like a pilgrim, zooming in on the dancing abstractions in the panels, or drifting back to admire the whole effect. The couple's smiles and the child's slumbering only added to the peaceful effect.

My companions in the first room, the one with the sunrise, were two Japanese fashion plates who used the art as a backdrop to their constant chitchat. They were the flies ruining the picnic. Eventually they tired, took a picture using a flash, and left.

As we approached closing time it was only me and one other visitor going back and forth between the two rooms, like barges or night watchmen. We were buoys to each other's experience, we circled politely in complementary circles, each one attempting to stay out of each other's sight line, or glancing in each other's direction for a perspective. The museum guards eventually encircled us, closing off one room with their bodies and then the other. I wondered if my companion and I had entered an unspoken contest to see who would outlast the other. I chose to leave first, leaving the memory of the lilies first in my mind and not a brusque escorted exit with the guards. Here is a spot from the painting that looks like a smiley face:

Leaving the grotto and entering the misty night was like going from one moist body of humidity to another. The chill was milder in Paris than it was in Rome, more like a companionable embrace from a stranger than a cold remonstrance from an old love. I walked through the Tuileries to make my way to a bus stop. With the Louvre in front of me I realized I was probably passing the very spot where I sat, years earlier, listening to man explain to me that he hadn't needed me for a very long time. I walked on, and sure enough my ghost eventually joined me, with baby fat and her hair in unfortunate bangs. We walked in silence, she still sad and I only able to offer my company as solace. I offered to take her out to ice cream, but she demurred, and the next time I looked up, she had slipped back silently into the swampy air.

So I went on to the Ile de la Cite alone, enjoying the last scoop of salted caramel before Berthillon's closed. It was across from a luxurious shop window, which caught my eye when I saw something move in the window:

The one old friend I could meet in town was Nathalie, the art historian I had met through others in Rome. I made my way to the end of a metro line to a neighborhood far more authentic looking than most of the tourist areas I had seen, but elegant and lively. She lives with with her boyfriend in a lovely one-bedroom that is filled with books, modern furniture, and snapshots of the couple gazing at each other. The peeling ceiling paint and small window seat of her tiny kitchen made me wonder if Julia Child had lived in a place like this when she was in Paris. Even the small foyer outside her apartment door was simple, sturdy, and beautiful:

My Italian had its last good workout as we chatted for a couple of hours over white wine and crackers before I took my leave. I was starving, but I didn't dare set foot in one of the cafes on Nathalie's street, where hipsters gathered close over small tables and the bars thronged with a Paris more intimate and vivid than I could have navigated.

I found a late-night cafe along the Rue des Abbesses in Montmartre, frequented by the occasional tourist and seedy characters from the nearby red-light district. I mouse-like man with a rumpled top hat sat near me, trying to make conversation in bits of French and English. "I wrote poetry," he told me, "I have a MySpace page." I finished my salad of frisee, tough beef, and cold goose fat and returned to the fleabag, spending a fitful night on an awful bed covered in hairs. The community shower, I discovered the next morning, was operated by a special coin, available only from the proprietors. The family apparently made a home for themselves behind the front desk, and I had to wait until they woke up before I could knock on their door for a coin.

The most eventful part of the trip lay before me. Most people would have showered and gone straight to the airport. I lingered for one more stroll around the hood, one more glance at the spectacular butcher shops with their jewel-like racks of glistening meats, one more sip of coffee and plate of attitude at the bakery, another duck into a supermarket, and oh what the heck another snack at another bakery. I then set off for Charles de Gaulle.

I not only left scant time, I didn't quite know where I was going. Words cannot describe an experience at that particular pit of hell, but I will try. There are two places to get off at Charles de Gaulle, the right one, where the planes are, and the wrong one, where the trains are. I somehow opted for the latter. After exiting the train and realizing that I was not only in the wrong place but also had no cash, I frantically asked a conductor how to get to the airport. He explained to me, and I went on my way, only to flip out, get confused, and come back and ask him to clarify in English! I finally got on the right train, nervously nibbling on a salty speck baguette.

Then there's the sorry airport itself. The traveller must know that her airline is housed in D16 or F29, and take the most convoluted paths to get there. There is no clear arrangement of the terminals-like every other airport in the world-information booths tend to be closed, and wherever you are, you are always very, very far away from where you need to be. The airport in Guatemala City is easier to navigate.

But the mistake lay entirely with me. I arrived at Charles de Gaulle with no ticket in hand, no flight number, and merely a hazy recollection of my itinerary. I was focused on other elements of the trip-like singing!-and the tour manager hadn't reconfirmed the trip with me. When I finally managed to find my airlines, I couldn't find myself when I tried to check in. With 50 minutes to go before I had to board a plane, I was directed to a long, stagnant line of passengers with problems. With my heart pounding and tears welling up as I considered that I would need to spend all of my fee on a new flight, I miraculously found an internet kiosk, where I checked my email with trembling fingers to discover that I was not flying through London, as the tour manager had originally informed me, but flying direct. Luckily, I had the time and date right. With this revelation I took the people mover to the check-in to the monorail to security to the shuttle bus to the gate, and waited with everyone else: the flight was delayed.

And so adieu, to my first trip as a true professional musician, to another Paris and a completely fresh set of memories, to new and old friends and colleagues, to new and renewed visions of beauty. And to my ghosts, be they living or dead. Until we meet again.

A Walking Tour of Rome: Nostalgia

E pur io torno qui, qual linea al centro,
Qual foco a sfera e qual ruscello al mare….

Of course, continuing the nostalgia tour I began in Paris meant that I had to spend a few days in the city that will never live down its past: Rome. Just by setting foot there, I began thinking in the lilted, British Isle prose of Georgina Masson, whose wonderful book was my chief companion during my first visit. Here are some impressions from my trip, emulating her inimitable voice as best I can – with a few excursions of imagination and absurdity.

If the visitor is organized she will have arranged to stay at Casa Sanctissimo, Altissimo, and Really Nice Guy Paolo, a villa on the southwestern outskirts of town. As we enter Casa Paolo, we are struck by the graceful height of the ceilings, the comfortable sense of space, and the airy light flooding the loggia. This last characteristic comes from a narrow terrazza along the north border of the residence, a requisite comfort among the Roman elite.

Casa Paolo

Note the splendid marble floor, and the antique oriental tapestry. In moments of privacy, the visitor may use either one for a few yoga stretches. Most of the furnishings are contemporary Swedish, no doubt in homage to Queen Christina of Sweden, who abdicated in 1654 and moved to Rome, where she was feted for months by Pope Alexander the VII with elaborate celebrations.

The Porta del Popolo, redecorated by Bernini with the Chigi coat of arms, to celebrate the entrance of the Queen. Felici faustoque ingressui, it says: for a happy and blessed entrance.

After fortifying ourselves with tortellini, we set off to the ancient town (Paolo will drive). And what better entrance than the Baths of Caracalla and the Circo Massimo? The cypresses are as perpendicular as ever, the ruins are still ruined, and the branchless trunks of the distinctive pines still support the blue sky with their evergreen cushions.

If our visit is during the winter we must acclimate ourselves to an environment very different from the summer months. In high summer, the heat is like a constant, generous travel companion, never leaving us, embracing us wherever we are. Now, the surprisingly frigid air goes straight through our clothes and cold sunshine melts into winter darkness at an early hour. Fortunately, a bit of the excitement of the holidays lingers in the air, and the streets bustle with more Romans than tourists.

We continue our walk downtown until we come to the Pantheon. Standing beneath the portico on the left we spot Isabel, an almond-eyed Spaniard who shares our taste in guidebooks. Kiss her on both cheeks. Over biscuits and cups of cioccolato caldo (as thick as Greek coffee but sweeter than French cocoa), she may confide that she is grappling with the prospect of leaving Rome, having begun to grow tired of always being a straniera and eager for other career prospects.

We eventually push off to our dinner appointment with the indefatigable Sarah, our lively English friend who has been teaching in Rome for several years. Past the Colosseum, over the Celian hill, up some steps and behind a door with a broken bell we find Sarah’s flat. She has impossibly light blue eyes and will give you a hug that cuts off your circulation. During the meal we marvel at how her Italian has grown- three years ago she couldn’t roll her r’s, now every word gets a trrriple rrrrrr! Nonetheless, her Italian is easier for a foreigner to understand than her strong York brogue.

The next morning, we set off from Casa Paolo on our own. Hopefully he has given us keys to the apartment, which resemble something that might have opened your Grandmother's lingerie closet:

Spend 45 minutes figuring out how to lock the door. We set forth from the loggia, witnessing the quotidian bustle of a local Roman neighborhood. If we arrive just right in the season, we will notice copious quantities of cyclamen at the markets, which perhaps arrived from the Near East in the bellies of animals brought to the Coliseum:

If the visitor is tall, blonde, and/or female, she will likely be regarded as a rock star. Live it up. While difficult for foreigners to become accustomed to, the attention actually invigorates, making us feel like a walking piece of art. After a few minutes we arrive at the magnificent "Spanish steps," replete with loitering "businessmen" at midday.

The central post office, in a restored villa.

A winter visit is the best time to acquaint ourselves with the famous winds of Rome. If we were here once in summer, we are already familiar with the sirocco, the sandy heat blasts that sweep up from the Sahara. In winter, we can expect to encounter the tramontana, bringing rain and cold northern air from the Rhone Valley. On fair days, the air is swept free of clouds, and frames the city in picture-perfect colors and shadows.

On one visit to the ruins we are ogled by a man. He could be 40, he could be ageless, a condition mastered by so many Italian men. Eyeing your blonde hair (after surveying your midsection and behind), he hesitates to greet you in his native tongue. He begins the guessing game: Are you from Norway? Germany? England? We go through all of Europe. Americana? Si. Pause. Do you like Rome? Si. Ciao.

We spend our days as before, traversing layers of history and style, accompanied only by the tramontana, our own will, and the murmurs of the locals, who take to the streets for the after-Christmas sales. And it's all just so wonderful.

Or it's not. You stuff your guidebook and umbrella in your purse, which is too small for all your things, and you walk around with your hands stuffed into your autumn jacket, which fails to warm you against the cold. But is it not a joy, you think to yourself, to be here again? To take the same pictures, to eat the same gelato (now slightly stale in the off season), to see the same exhibit you saw years ago, to walk the same streets, if only this time you are even more out of place as an out-of-season tourist, and even more lonely as you wonder why you chose to spend time away from your loved one, even if it meant an encounter with beauty. Everywhere, we are confronted by the purposeless of the journey, and reminded of the places where once we were greeted with kisses, but now we can expect only closed doors.

But if it's humanity you want you need look no further, as you also will be keeping company with la bella Cinzia! Cinzia, a mystery writer, resembles a delicate, rare bird. She lives in the Palazzo Barberini.

It is at the Palazzo Barberini that we encounter an old friend. No, not the sleeping drunk who does not prevent us from walking down the Borromini stairs. Not the adolescent guide at the ridiculous exhibit of Bernini paintings. The Toilet of Bathsheba, by Iacopo Zucchi, which we last saw in, of all places, the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, until they had discovered that it was pilfered wartime art, and willingly sent it back home. It is a sweet reunion, as neither of us ever thought we would see each other again.

Up these stairs - the Borromini stairs - we encounter Cinzia's sumptuous apartment, which she shares with her husband Giovanni. The two welcome you as if you had never left, with rich pasta and cordials and conversation. After paying respects to Janus, the two-faced god in the palace's newly restored hanging gardens, we set out on our way refreshed and invigorated.

The days pass and we find ourselves with much too much time and not nearly enough. There are people to visit, but the visits are shallow and contrived. For although all past acquaintances indeed welcome you again, your sporadic emails and limited language skills do not a friendship make, and after your brief appearance, you will once again fall into internet obscurity. After a few awkward encounters, we limit ourselves to our more forgiving friends, or we pass the days alone.

But there's a break in the rains to revisit an old site, the magnificent Santa Maria Maggiore, whose origins as a papal basilica date to the 4th century, on ground that was sacred to Romans for millenia. The early Christian mosaics on the apse are indescribable, like a glimpse of the heavens themselves, and merit return visits again and again. Only this time we arrive too late, and the apse is no longer illuminated, and the church is being used for a few evening prayers before closing. We can only glimpse through the gloom and use our imagination. We had a similar experience trying to see the Pinturicchio frescoes at the Santa Maria del Popolo.

Again we tire of our own company and we chose to spend time with the lively family we knew those years ago. Their 4-year-olds are now world-weary boys of seven, and they scarely notice you as they slink off to the television set while you chit chat with the parents. Again, regrettably, we have an encounter that neither satisfies our need for a human touch, or illuminates us with a revelatory tourist experience. But perhaps there is one thing we can take away from our boring evening with the fam:

A creche. A family creche. Families traditionally keep a creche in their homes until epiphany, just like catholic churches do. The family creche is dying even in Catholic Italy, but this family's is nonetheless immense, replete with running water and a train.

Another greeting, another parting, and we are back on the streets, making our rainy way back to Paolo's to collect our things and return to Paris, beginning the long leg of the journey home.

Roma, una vita non è basta! True. It would take millenia to truly know the city in depth, from the highest terrazza to the lowest pebble of ruins. But a meandering trip - where friendships were once sunnier, where high ramparts that were once open to you are severely shut, where the flickers of connection are too easily extinguished by distance - serves only to sadden you. We depart like a ghost, unable to truly relive our sunny past, but backing in the glowing remains of the beauty we remember, and open-ended friendships.

perry

As expected, the minute I got on site and on task, there was little room for emotion. And even less room for sightseeing! The downside to making your debut in Paris is that you might have been making your debut anywhere- we spent four full days in rehearsal, and in the off hours, I only wanted to study and review and rest. The rehearsals were productive, collegial and nurturing, and demanded my full concentration. I would have loved to have seen more of Paris, but on this trip it was really more of a distraction.


But oh what a distraction! Even if I didn’t get to spend full days touring around, I got to know Montmartre well, and the small excursions outside the rehearsal room were enough contrast to keep the trip in balance. After all, I did spend my days immersed in culture, if not in museums, then in singing in long-forgotten languages and trying to pick up enough of French to understand my cues! And even our rehearsal rooms had some panache: at the Theatre de la Ville at Chatelet our sundrenched suite overlooked the fountain on the plaza and the Eiffel tower in the distance, and another room was filled with Sarah Bernhardt paraphernalia, which we enjoyed playing around in.


Moreover, it was very satisfying to feel that we were contributing something to life in Paris, not only walking the streets looking for thrills. Je suis ne pas un touriste, je suis artiste!

In front of Sarah Bernhardt's mirror at Chatelet.

And in her bathtub!

Here's most of the group in the metro, on the way to rehearsal.

This version of Tristan has nearly as much of a curse on it as does the more famous one. Two previous Tristans died after the performances. The woman who narrated the original version of the story by Gottfried von Strassburg also passed away. More than once during rehearsal, our director was in tears. I had never known that medieval music was so impassioned and dramatic. And I was reminded of the wordless comradeship that develops in chamber music, with every person giving and helping each other and the performance. Two of my solos were accompanied only by a single-note drone, a companionable experience, as my line harmonizes, clashes, or unifies with theirs. Companionable in a very naked way....


But let’s see, what were the extra-curricular highlights? A Parisian croissant is like a well-poached filet of fish: buttery, tender, slightly flaky, and sweet. It is revelatory. So are all the pastries and breads in most any corner bakery. The one difficulty I found is that the starch made me so incredibly tired, and when I woke myself up with bitter French coffee, I was irritable and jittery. My singing companion – a French native herself! – explained that this effect accounts for French grumpiness overall. After dining at Bofinger, I glimpsed the gold standard of service and cuisine. I also discovered what it was like to have a pound of butter in your gut.

Beneath the art-deco ceiling at Bofinger.

On Rue des Abbesses in Montmartre, where we trod between our hotel and one of the venues, I tried to sample the different shops and restaurants and bakeries. One charcuterie in particular, where my grandmother would have been in seventh heaven, was piled high with sausages, seasoned chop meat, pan ready duck confit covered in white fat, roast meats and delectables. The shopkeeper served me a lovely piece of rotisserie chicken, and a heaping portion of attitude.

But how much fun was it to pretend that I spoke French! I took what I could from Italian, added a few words I've learned from songs, tossed in a prayer and voila! I was actually delighted that I could understand far more than I expected to, even if I could most steadily reply en silence.


But the music was the main event. If you had told me when I was a child that I would eventually be singing French music to Parisians, the stars would have lit up in my eyes with equal parts thrill and terror. What was the whole process really like? Nerves. Winning one gig doesn't mean you've "made it." Only that you have the chance to continue to prove yourself. Did I gaze into the footlights, enjoying myself to the core, thinking about how beautiful I must look and sound, how everyone in the room must really love me? Please. Was I frightened out of my mind, apologizing when I sang and dreading every note? Well, no. But the job was just that, a job. I was concentrating on doing my best, and felt some relief afterwards. I drew praise from the director (yehoo!), but I learned that work is work, even if you do have some glamour to it. I had to wonder, is this something I could do every day?

Click here for another slide show of a walking tour of Notre Dame!

Here are some views from the top of Notre Dame, and, though barely visible, the glistening Eiffel Tower in the distance from the dressing room at Theatre des Abbesses.

Voyage

It's as if I've been living someone else's life lately. Right now, I am sitting in an airport, waiting to depart on a trip usually taken by undergraduates and retirees: Paris and Rome. But it's no ordinary trip: I will make my debut as a professional singer in Paris. After the shows, I will spend a few days in Rome, retracing my steps from two years ago. Then, I will return to Boston, having shed my drab old job for a new one, one with 'Senior' in the title, a healthy pay raise and generous benefits. There's another circumstance that is cause for celebration, but that will need its own post, and I do want to avoid the malocchio. Just in case it reads this blog.

Ah, Europe, that lock-box for American nostalgia. To go there means to go back in time, to sense deeper layers of history than can ever be possible here in the colonies. This is an odd trip for me in that I am visiting two cities I've known before, two places that call up strong emotions....

When I listen to a familiar piece of music, I am reinforcing the memory I have of it. I do not expect to hear anything new, so much as to enrich my understanding of what I already know. Because the experience of hearing a piece is temporal- there's only so much that can happen at any one moment of it- there are only so many different ways the ear can receive it. A piece of visual art, however, gives you no temporal beginning, middle, and end. In that way, you can never see it the same way twice. While each performance of a piece of music is entirely new and different than any other, we hear what we most want to hear no matter what the new interpretation is. But we revisit a piece of art expecting to duplicate the wonder of our first experience, and walk away disappointed. Even if the image has not changed, our way of seeing it has.

Apart from the musical demands of this trip, I will be walking around cities of art expecting glimpses of my first experiences. Will I find the palatine warmth that thrilled me the first time? And in Paris, will I turn into the sad and hopeless girl I was during my first trip, nearly 10 years ago? If there's any city in the world that needs some reclaiming for me, it's the ville de l'amour.

Spring 1998. After many months of an increasingly less passionate letter exchange with the person I thought was sort of, kind of, maybe, hopefully, just a little bit, still my boyfriend, I decided to pick myself up and see for myself. This was the German I had met during my semester in the Vaterland the year before, and he was spending a year in Paris. We had never officially broken things off in our letters, even though neither one of us spoke of visiting. Even though I intellectually understood that he was an idiot, he was my one strong tie to Europe, and staying connected to him meant a validation more important to me than anything.

To make this (fool's) errand appear less dubious, I had my brother tag along under the guise of a tourism trip. I wrote to the boyfriend. He knew I was coming. He wrote back. Yes, we would see each other. We would meet in from of the Louvre and spend the day in museums, sending my brother off to fend for himself. I greeted him with an enormous embrace. He had his hand extended.

Still, while I was sitting with him in the Tuileries, listening as he itemized his accomplishments, I felt the sun on my face and relaxed. My German had somehow improved since I last saw him, and I no longer had to exert myself just to understand. He was rather boring, I realized. And the only reason I had liked him was because he liked me, and because being with him meant a triumph on my part: that I was fluent enough in a foreign culture and language to win the heart of a native. (Bear with me, I was thinking like a 20-year-old.) "I don't need him anymore," I remember thinking.

Somewhere in that reverie I started listening again. He was informing me that he had met someone else, and had been together with her for nearly an entire year.

So we spent the day together. I was in a cool shock, but lacked the German skills to become indignant. He showed me some masterpieces, including the first time I saw this gem by Rodin's old flame Camille Claudel, whose story is one of the great tragedies of art history.

I will not be seeking another look on this trip.

Being the good, foolish person I was, I pledged allegiance to the newfound "friendship" with my apparantly ex-boyfriend, and I even agreed to meet his new woman. He walked me back to my hostel and gave me a hug that I would not let go of. Still in denial, I asked if it was a serious relationship. When he looked puzzled, I guessed that that expression didn't work in German, so I asked him outright if he was going to marry her. Without even closing my eyes, I can still see his face now as he silently nodded 'yes.' Backing towards the hostel door, I stepped in dog shit.

Well, if you're going to get dumped, do it in the most romantic city in the world.

I met the two of them a day or two later, in front of the Hôtel de Ville. In my revised memory, I see them on the plaza, approach just close enough for them to recognize me, and I turn and disappear down the streets. But that's not how it happened. I spent the whole evening with them, down to another awkward goodbye. My only solace was thinking that the occasion might have led to the couple's demise: he and I spoke German and walked together, and he rarely translated for either of his ladies. She trailed behind us as we walked, like an ill-favored wife in a mormon family.

My brother met us later on. After I had said my goodbyes and turned my back to them, he gave me some much-needed comic relief: "Boy, you sure are prettier than her, Amanda!" I was relieved to laugh! "Rabbit teeth, bug-eyes, and nostrils so big you could open a beer bottle with them." Oh my little brother, what would I do without him.

Paris was grey to me, despite springtime and waterlilies and Versailles. Salted butter and glace and fromage were delicious, but pleasures vanished the minute they melted on my tongue. I returned home, feeling as if all of Europe had rejected me, and I composed a carefully worded letter. I was hurt, I explained, not angry, but I still wanted to be his friend. I even quoted Edna St. Vincent Millay, for chrissakes. Day after day, he filled my mailbox with nothing.

So here's hoping Paris won't be so grey this time. That she'll reveal herself in pinks and yellows, with delights and pleasant memories. But I am certain I will meet my own ghost one evening. And what shall I say to her?

Too Funny

While reviewing the flex-spending plan at my new place of work, I found the following eligible items under "Medical Equipment:"

• Air conditioner, if medically necessary for relief from allergy or difficulty breathing
• Reclining chair if prescribed by physician
• Wigs, if advised by physician because of hair loss from disease
• Clarinet lessons, if advised by dentist for treatment of tooth defects

So, if you have just the right curious combo of ailments that requires this curious combo of treatments, you could crank the A/C, lean back in that easy chair, don your fancy locks, and play a little Benny Goodman tunes counting your tax savings!