Paris TriptychPosted: June 27, 2014
Charles de Gaulle Airport
Off the train and up the escalator quickly. We stopped and huddled together to take stock. My dad pulled a tattered handle out of his pocket, slowly like someone discovering a severed ear while reaching for his keys. Earlier he had ripped it off a pick-pocketers sack as the thief was trying to escape the train with my dad’s wallet. Two of them surrounded him when he first got on. They grabbed his suitcase in what looked like an attempt to be helpful, then reached into his front pocket and jacked it when my dad struggled for his luggage. They got it all wrong; my mom and dad are survivors. His wallet mattered to them, not just because of what was inside, but because of what it represents – identity, access, value – all proudly earned. I was not surprised to see them fight for it and get it back. We were happy to be leaving Paris.
A Canal Near Belleville
I’m assuming there’s no French word for hipster because Paris may have been the birth place of authentic White cool. Me and a friend plopped down on shaded canal-side real estate on Quai de Jemmapes with a couple of small beers to consider what the end of a Sunday in this city means. The beautiful youth with their secrets, whispered just loud enough. A little remote-controlled sailboat, tossing and flailing in the breeze, lazily dipped in and out of our consciousness and we were suddenly irked by it. We imagined being buddies with American diplomats. Let’s dial them up and get the nearest missile-equipped drone to pass through and take care of this little sailboat situation with the full, overwhelming force of the U.S. military.
The gardens, the palace. We’re now used to waiting in line and this one, on a postcard perfect Saturday, was epic and disorganized but somehow functional. We were moving at a pace that only tourists could tolerate. My niece and nephew, who at seven and nine years old respectively, are much better at being patient than I imagine me and my sister were at their age. They have their obsessions and these occupy their imaginations, becoming realities as much as the waiting gilded rooms and manicured lawns. For my nephew it’s all about a baseball video game and how his team dominates. He recites his players’ gaudy statistics all day in a giddy monologue, asking questions he doesn’t need answers for. He’s a competitor. My niece is a writer. She was born with an intense patience. I see her watching a scene unfold and studying its minor details, seeing humor, tragedy and meaning in those details. She prodded me to read a trilogy she wrote. Sentences were crafted with discipline and economy. I was impressed by her vocabulary. The stories were surreal, dark and frenetic like the deepest dreams. Reading them made me want to write again.