The Last Time I Saw Paris

Here I am: 81 years old, retired and living in an “old folks home.” And I don’t have time to do half the things I want to do!

Annoying things keep interrupting my plans. After lunch today I opened my mail and discovered a mistake in my Time-Warner bill. I waited for 47 minutes while the machine kept telling me I was a “valued customer.” I finally got to talk to a pleasant young man named Karl; he took care of the problem promptly.

But . . . there went an hour out of my life.

While waiting, I read my e.mail. Two friends who keep sending me horrible Republican propaganda, full of venom against Obama with distorted facts and downright lies! I hate it. But I forward it, knowing they both believe this stuff, nothing I say will open their closed minds, and let the two of them waste their time reading each other’s garbage.

But my Houston friend also sent me photos of Paris to go along with a letter from Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It was a strange juxtaposition: pictures of Paris to illustrate the words of a man whose novels are all set in Venezuela.

The photos reminded me of the vision of Paris most of us have in our minds.

I always wanted to go to Paris. In 1957 I asked Wallace to take me for our 25th wedding anniversary,. He made reservations and then canceled them. A year later I went with our 13-year-old son, David. In Paris the garbage-collectors were on strike. Every street was piled with uncollected trash. The overpowering stink was not French perfume.

I’ve been to Paris five or six times. The stained glass in Notre Dame and Saint Chappelle are finer than anything in the U.S., but you can see a better collection of Impressionist paintings at the Art Institute of Chicago.

In 1988 I finally experienced the romantic interlude in Paris I dreamed about. One enchanting evening I walked holding hands gently through the park to the Eiffel Tower with my husband. His name was John.