Finally, it appears before me—a small shop with a green awning facing the Seine, a tree and bins full of books outside, an old wooden door at the entrance. I make my way inside and examine their collection of English-language poetry, classic novels, and history books, lined up on the shelves and stacked high in cluttered rooms. I’m having trouble conjuring up the ghost of Hemingway though. A white and ginger-colored calico cat sitting by a window and lazily licking itself adds a touch of charm. I’m not the only one who thinks so. A group of young tourists are oohing and aahing over the cat and trying to take its picture. The shop is full of people who appear to be from all over the globe. I suddenly realize how tired I am and look for a place to sit down, but there are none. I head out in search of a place where I can relax and have a decent dinner.
I walk across the Petit Pont, over the shimmering Seine, to the Ile de la Cité and pass under the watchful gaze of the grimacing gargoyles and saints, including Saint Denis holding his severed head, on the facade of Notre Dame. I barely notice my surroundings though as all I can think of is being able to plunk myself down on a seat somewhere to rest. I stop at the first café I see, even though it has a dismal air about it and few customers, and approach a waiter to ask for a table. He looks at me kindly and presses a euro coin into my hand. I stare at it in a daze and then realize that he’s mistaken me for someone who desperately needs to pee but can’t afford the pay toilet on the premises. Must be my sense of urgency, haggard look, and shabby outfit. I’m wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and old sandals—my typical comfortable attire when traveling.
As usual, I am trying to fit too much into a day and have worn myself out. I have returned to France, a country I love, after an absence of four decades. My current driven self seems so distant from the young carefree woman who wandered the streets of Paris in the seventies with daydreams in her head. I have lost her somewhere along the way but maybe she’s still buried inside of me somewhere.