Paris Letters (20 page)

Blue Door #5 for an interview. My doctor first asked “Fumez?” And I said, “Yes, I’m female.” And pointed to the obvious outline of my boobs on my x-ray. He laughed and suggested we talk in English because this was important. He started again. Smoker? Ahhh. No. Whew. He looked at my x-ray and told me my chest looked great. If I had a dime… He also said I had no scarring from that bout of pneumonia from when I was a kid, which now released me from the phantom death grip I’ve carried for thirty years. He listened to my chest and said I sounded stressed. “Yes, this revolving door visa experience is stressful.” He prescribed leaving as soon as I had my new visa stamp. Later, I prescribed myself a glass of wine to flush the stress out of my system. After the interview with the doctor, I was handed a prescription for a booster shot and was sent back to the…

Blue chair to wait for permission to sit in the original…

Yellow chair to wait more for the call through the…

White door, where a lady took my pile of paperwork that was more or less pretty much sort of good enough but only because it was Friday and she was in a good mood. And from there, she slapped a new fancy sticker in my passport and told me I could now go through the next door…

Exit.

I was in Paris to stay. So I immediately left on vacation with Christophe to backpack through Prague, Vienna, and Budapest.

Dear Áine

I saw a woman in a café today. She was writing a letter. I thought to myself, Gosh it’s been AGES since I wrote a letter. It hasn’t actually been so long, but it sure feels like it. I’ve been out of town on vacation with Christophe. In the month of August, Paris is a ghost town. Shops close and everyone ships out to a distant land that promises expansive beaches and cold drinks—two things you can’t find in Paris. When you’ve grown accustomed to getting tasty morsels from your local boulangerie and it closes for a month, you become motivated to skip town too. But now it’s September and I’ve returned to the land of pain au chocolat. Oh joy!

September is “la rentrée,” which is the French version of back-to-school, except in France everyone is back from vacation. As I turn left out my front door and head up to the Seine, I see a lot of tanned shop owners sweeping out and dusting off—getting ready to reopen after a month-long sojourn. They look at peace, genuinely pleased to have basked in the sun, but also to be back doing what they do. I, too, am pleased to be back doing what I do—painting, writing, and walking.

As I walk along the Seine, I see more grinning shopkeepers turning their Fermé signs to Ouvert. I wonder if I would have stayed in my advertising career if I had the full month of August to rejuvenate and explore distant lands. Burnout was a big factor in my decision to leave. Le sigh.

Best not to think back. Take the lessons and leave the rest. And stop by la boulangerie for a croissant. It has been far too long.

Janice

27

Paris Revealed Itself to Me in Layers

When I first arrived in Paris, I took in the usual tourist sites up and down the Seine. I marveled at the Eiffel Tower. I strolled from boutique to boutique, picking up culinary treasures along the way. I sat in a lot of cafés to take in the scene. All those aspects of Paris that make it a great place to visit. Over time, Paris revealed another layer of itself: the rudeness, the homelessness, the pickpockets. Aspects of Paris that made it a terrible place to visit. And still later, more was revealed: small, quiet garden courtyards tucked just beyond the hustle of the street, tiny patisseries that only make one perfect dessert, the kindness of storekeepers when I became a regular customer. Aspects of Paris that made it a wonderful place to live.

The same was true with Christophe. As we began to learn each other’s languages, we repeated our stories but with more detail. In some cases, we would ask a question about the past, and if the other didn’t want to talk about it, the question would be dismissed with a wave and a “Ma vie avant.” My life before. It wasn’t important. But there were a few stories we had to tell. For example, I wanted to find out about his scars during his “Fall. Bad.” And with a few more retellings (and more French lessons on my part), this aspect of his vie avant was revealed.

He was born in Białystok in northeastern Poland. He was the third of three boys. His dad died of cancer when he was nine years old. His mother died of kidney failure by the time Christophe was twenty. With both his brothers having families of their own, he felt he no longer had a home so he joined the army. After two years, a friend invited him to work on a construction crew in Paris. At the time, many teams of Polish men came to Paris to do renovations on old, crumbling buildings. Because of the currency exchange, they were able to make more money getting paid in Euros than at home. They came, worked, sent money home to their families, and eventually returned home themselves. Christophe took his friend up on the offer but never returned to Poland. He arrived and began working on a large renovation project. One day, while working with a team on a roof, one guy moved one way, another moved the other way, and Christophe fell three stories. He landed on his feet and one wrist, crushing them all.

He spent six months in a hospital, going through operations, recovery, and rehabilitation. His doctor said he would never walk again and if he did, he would walk with a limp and a cane.

During this time, he barely understood any French. He sat in silence as doctors and nurses discussed treatment with each other and tried to explain what was happening to him. All the other patients were French. Near the end of his stay, the doctor decided that he was young enough to go back to school while he continued with physical therapy. For three years, Christophe went to school, got an education, learned French, and rebuilt his legs and wrist.

He had a full recovery. Not only did he walk again, but he was able to do so without a limp or cane. His scars that I would eventually trace with my fingers were the only signs that he had fallen.

After school, he went back to doing renovations, finding work here and there, usually with teams from Poland. In between jobs, he befriended a butcher who was working on rue Mouffetard. The butcher had asked if he could help out at the shop for a day. Someone had quit the day before and they were down a man. Christophe agreed. The next day, he helped out at the shop, mostly roasting the chickens. That evening, the butcher offered to give him a lift home on his motorcycle and en route, they were in an accident. Christophe fell off the back and was unscathed, but the butcher broke his shoulder. Now they were down two workers at the shop, so Christophe was asked to stay on. Three years later, I waltzed down the street, sat at a café, and wrote him a letter.

Eventually, I gave him the letter and he was able to answer my questions: yes, his feet get tired, and yes, people have said he looks like Daniel Craig. He doesn’t follow one soccer team in particular, but he’s quite fond of teams and players from Poland. And he would be delighted to take a lifetime to piece together a conversation with me, as I am his sunshine, his only sunshine. I make him happy when skies are gray.

After our two-week romance in Paris, he wasn’t sure I would return. And honestly, he wasn’t sure he cared. It was a nice two weeks with a nice girl. Something to ponder and smile about later. But as the days wore on, he thought about how, since his mom died, he had been on his own. He always landed on his own two feet (sometimes painfully), but he never had to be responsible for someone beyond himself. Perhaps it would be nice to look after someone else. To dare to love and be loved. And here was this nice Canadian girl who appeared without a plan, without ties elsewhere, and though she couldn’t speak much French, he didn’t mind. He knew what it was like to not speak the language. And she was coming back through Paris. Perhaps he could convince her to stay “to see.”

And of course, I did.

Dearest Áine,

I have found the most romantic spot in Paris. It’s not the Eiffel Tower, nor is it the lock bridge behind Notre Dame Cathedral. It’s a rose garden, tucked in behind the natural history museum in Jardin des Plantes. The June sun has burned through gray skies, whispering to the flowers that it’s time. Bulbous blooms burst open in every shade from crimson and violet to blush pink and white. The bees are pleased. In the breeze, a rainbow of petals floats by, caressing cheeks before stowing away in picnic bags. Statues sit or stand along the path under the rose trellises, politely posing for artists who come along to capture the scene. As I sit and paint, I wonder if the statues are aware of each other, contemplating who will make the first move.

Le Sigh,

Janice

28

Beautiful Old Ladies

The surprising side effect to having a letter-writing business is that sometimes I got letters in return. Most of the time, it was old ladies. They would write, telling me that they share my letters with their knitting groups at their local library or they take them down to the cafeteria at their old-age homes and pass them around. In one instance, I received a letter from a granddaughter, informing me that the Paris Letter had arrived for her grandmother on the day she died. Though she didn’t get a chance to read it, her family who surrounded her took turns silently reading the final piece of mail she would receive in this life.

After my grandfather passed away, my grandmother (on my dad’s side) moved into a retirement village. She had much to say about the changes in her life. In her missives to me, Dispatches from The Home as she called them, it started to dawn on me that some people just need someone to whom they can write a letter, and I was a willing recipient.

Dear Janice,

Sorry it took longer to reply to your most interesting and colorful letter. Maybe you haven’t realized this yet, but you are entertaining a large group, and of course I take some of the glory. After all, this is my granddaughter’s work of art. Passed around your magazine article too. The picture of the trilliums was so real and vivid in my memories, I could nearly smell them.

I am still enjoying my laziness and getting more so, although I must have almost reached the peak. I hate to admit this, but I think I am due for the prize for the laziest person of all here. It’s not a bad life at all. There are no meals to cook, no washing to do, no groceries to buy, no house to scrub. I do have to clean up around a bit. Just unable to put up with the place otherwise.

The people here are all old and as friendly as can be. There are many planned activities and lots of phys-ed. The kids subscribed me to the newspaper so I keep in touch with the world and local affairs, and of course “For Better or Worse” and “Zits.”

I’m making plans to go to Chilliwack, B.C., in August to celebrate my 90th with the other granddaughters. I was there last year for my 89th and they want me back. Can you believe it? Me and my mouth?

Two new great-grandchildren are being welcomed soon and they must meet great-grandmother before she leaves this old planet. And who knows how soon that will be. Getting cremated so I won’t have to keep looking good. Casket is a cardboard box (burns faster). I just can’t figure out these people that have to decompose in a $12,000 mahogany job with those thousands of dollars worth of flowers. I prefer to smell any that come my way now while I’m alive. No need to wait until I’m dead to send flowers.

Your grandfather asked for his ashes to be sprinkled in the marsh where he did his duck shooting, and some in the bay at Port Rowan where he commercially fished for years. Right now they are residing in my clothes closet, waiting for a good windy day.

As for my ashes, I request that on another good windy day, you all stand down around the same marsh and let them fly. Actually, I could care less.

Have I told you what a wonderful job your sister Julie did singing at Grandpa’s funeral? She and your Uncle Brad entertained the crowd of 230.

Sun is still shining today and I have just enjoyed a great nap. Cannot say I feel refreshed yet. I’m still a bit groggy.

Your mom stopped by the other evening and we had a good chat, neither of us ever at a loss for words.

Will get this in the basket for “outgoing” mail when I go down for my next meal. Social hour is at 5 p.m. and it’s 4:35 p.m. now. A pile of walkers, all parked in the halls, lead to the dining room. I have been reduced to walking with a cane as I had three great falls, which always messes up my face. I even had a black eye. But you should have seen the other guy!

I’m reasonably happy in this place. The dining room is quite ritzy. Cloth napkins! I will never be able to use those flimsy paper deals again. The food isn’t bad, and people are friendly and helpful. How can I ask for more?

Hugs and Love,

Grandma

Mary from Massey, Ontario, was also one of my frequent responders. She lived in the back woods, the polar opposite to my life in hustle-bustle Paris.

May, Canada

Dear Janice,

Thanks for your delightful letter! Not only did it arrive in time for Mother’s Day, but also in time to share with the women in my knitting group. We take over the comfy chairs in the reading area of the local public library one afternoon a month.

I, too, walk, but not in city parks with statues and pugs, but along a gravel road in Northern Ontario. We live in the bush between the small communities of Espanola and Massey—an hour’s drive west of Sudbury.

My walks take me along a trail through the bush where things are in the early stages of greening. I am fascinated with the minutiae of life—the pussy willows, the mosses, and the first violets. The road winds past fields bordered by bush and a creek that passes under (and sometimes over) the road.

I pick up the inevitable trash as I cannot bear to have this engaging, growing landscape be marred. As we age, my husband and I find ourselves more in awe of this piece of his paternal grandfather’s farm we chose as our home.

Thanks for sharing the beauty of your chosen home. I am already looking forward to next month’s letter.

Mary

• • •

June, Canada

Dear Janice,

Your letter about rain and bookstores brought much welcomed rain to Northern Ontario—forest fires, you know. No bookstores closer than an hour’s drive so we rely on the public library for our day-to-day reading and its twice-a-year used book sales to stock up.