Paris, Mom and Me
I went to Paris with my family in 1995 when I was 26. I was in the middle of what they now call a quarter-century crisis and I was directionless and depressed. The four of us—my mother, father, me and my younger brother, Seth—spent three days in Paris before traveling to Italy (a story for another time). It was a short stay but long enough for Paris’s charm and essence to become indelibly imprinted on me.
We stayed at a chic little hotel in Saint-Germain-des-Prés and my mom and I shared a tiny room that was barely big enough for the two of us and our luggage. I remember pulling up to the hotel in a taxi just as the sun came up, illuminating the wet cobblestone streets. The hotel’s elegant reception area had floor-to-ceiling windows framed by heavy velvet drapes that made it feel cozy and welcoming against the daily rain showers. There were ornate chairs, Art Deco lamps, and a marble front desk festooned with bouquets of pink peonies. It smelled mysterious and alluring. It was everything I had imagined it would be.
Nicole, my mother, was an artist with a Bohemian sensibility that stood out in our conservative Washington, DC neighborhood. She wore stacks of Bakelite bracelets from the 1940s, long peasant skirts, and colorful scarves from craft shows. She had one-of-a-kind handbags and wore chunky black boots. Like me, she often felt like an outsider.
But in Paris, we felt at home. We were enamored of its beauty—the lush gardens, Haussmann architecture, wide boulevards and quaint winding streets, politesse, cafe culture, rich literary tradition, elegant fashion, exquisite perfumes, and outrageous chocolates and pastries. French joie de vivre infused everything from food and wine to art and culture to those lovely month-long holidays that Americans only dream of. And the pace of life, even in Paris, felt calmer than here in the U.S., especially in DC, where I’ve spent most of my adult life.
This is not to say that our time in Paris was perfect. Far from it. We were all fragile and raw, especially my mom, who had just been diagnosed with a terminal illness. We were all in various states emotional fragility and grappling with our inner demons. We fought, got lost, mispronounced almost everything, and struggled to understand restaurant menus. I’m certain that we made more than a few faux pas. But even though the trip was challenging, I fell head over heels in love with Paris and dreamed of returning one day.
Fifteen years later, after my mother had passed away and I was in my early 40s, I returned to Paris with my husband Jason on our honeymoon in 2013. We stayed at Villa Madame, an impossibly adorable hotel on Rue Madame in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. We had a top floor room with a balcony ringed with flowers that overlooked the courtyard. They welcomed us with a plate of pastel-colored macarons, champagne, and a sweet note congratulating us on our wedding. We ate pounds of cheese and drank our weight in wine. We walked for miles. I had a pain au chocolat every morning. I never wanted to leave.
For me, the return to Paris was bittersweet. Mom never had a chance to meet Jason and I never got to tell her about our honeymoon in her favorite city. I know they would have loved each other very much.
Each time I return to Paris, I think about my mom. I think about how much she loved the City of Light — its art, food, flowers, and fashion. How she loved the French writer Colette so much that she cut her hair in the same stacked curly bob. How she dreamed of life in Bohemian Paris and how it contrasted so starkly with her domestic life. How the flower bouquets she created at home mimicked the wild and free-flowing flower arrangements she admired in those Paris shops. How she relished time spent browsing the shelves of Shakespeare & Co., filled with musty books and literary ghosts.