Paris

When you land in Paris at Charles De Gualle Airport, you are met by expectation, as if she were the silent neighbor occupying the seat next to you the entire flight. You wondered if you should speak to her but it never felt like the right time. Suddenly she looks in your direction, finally she studies you quickly, making her assessments, curious about your interests, your career, your quality of life; she leans over gently, whispers sweetly with her French accent: can you believe we are here?

I occupied a single room in a small flat just outside of Paris, in Antony, twenty minutes from the center of the city. The room was just enough. A mattress and a desk. The scarcity of it felt very French. It felt like an artist’s garret. Mine was the room nearest the bathroom, at the end of a long corridor which, for the sake of privacy, was an added bonus. Myriam was my host. She also had a partner and a teenage son. Myriam was sweet. She emigrated from Colombia over twenty years ago. My guess was she’d spent a little less than half her life in Paris. Her French sounded perfect to me. As perfect as her Spanish. But she did not speak English. Or, at least, she spoke as much English as I could speak Spanish and French combined. So, we mostly communicated in my very poor French, which improved daily over the course of the week. Every time I learned a new phrase or suddenly remembered something from a course I’d taken a decade ago, we celebrated. It was my breakthrough and the jubilation was intoxicating and encouraging. Oh, what I would have given to stay for a year. It was the best feeling. Myriam was a great host.

I touched down in Paris ten days after the Notre-Dame Cathedral fire last year. Like your average tourist, exploring the famed structure was near the top of my list. This wasn’t possible now, as the entire city block was cordoned off by policemen. Across from the cathedral, on the other side of the Seine River, are many cafés. I had a vision in mind. If there was one thing I wanted to do in Paris, it was sit outside a Parisian café, where the chairs are turned to face the street, and enjoy a coffee. It was simple. And for me, it was strangely part of the romance of the city.

I found what felt like the perfect establishment. Café Panis. It sits along the Quai de Montebello, which runs parallel with the Seine. Along the side of the café, across Rue Lagrange, is a little park called Square René Viviani. The park was vibrant and bustling with Parisian life and laughter. Here, outside the café, all that separates you from Notre-Dame…

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