Carnet de Voyage: Precious Paris Memories

Our tour group was somber and quiet. The two of us went as high in the Tower as tourists were allowed to go in such windy, frigid weather. The iciness of the steel floor crept from my booted feet to my stockinged legs. “Let’s go. It’s too cold and too weird here,” I complained. 

 “Not yet.” Sally said. “Take a picture of me with the Arc de Triomphe in the background first.” Surprised, I was heartened by her request. She had barely acknowledged any interest in anything the city had to offer. I clicked a photo of her.  

When we returned home, I had the roll of film developed. The picture I took of my friend reflected her intense misery, mirroring the greyness of the sky and sucking the majestic grace from the Arc.  

Sally has never mentioned a desire to see the photo but I still have it, tucked away in a flat, thin paper bag in my dresser. Just in case. The photo does not really belong to me but I am its custodian.  

In Paris one summer, I bought a linen suit, a dull black and brown pattern, lined with brown satin. The suit was a bit too big, both the skirt and the short-sleeved jacket, but I did not care  – it had a “Made in France” label inside the neckline. The shop proprietor at first refused my American Express card as payment. After many useless hand gestures between us and my attempts at French words and phrases, he understood that I was not going to purchase the suit if I could not use the card. He took it, unhappily. With the ill-fitting suit in a distinctly Parisian boutique box, I left the place triumphant.   

Standing in front of a store window in Les Halles, I became fascinated with a watch, its face almost as wide as my wrist, its numbers scattered about, like large and small marbles thrown by a mischievous child on a playground  – except for the prominent twelve at the face’s top. I bought it quickly with my limited stash of francs.