At the end of that week, my husband flew home. Camila, who had become an art major, was supposed to travel to Paris that same day to join me for the second week. I was eager for us to bond while exploring Paris’ plethora of art and other treasures. However, my husband called around midnight with bad news. “Honey, I’m so sorry but the Air France people wouldn’t let Camila board. The French government requires that visitors have passports that are good for at least 6 months and Camila’s is due to expire in 3 months.” I couldn’t believe that I had never heard of this requirement. No one at Air France had mentioned it to us before and it was nowhere to be found in the guidebook I had used in my planning. Feeling guilty and forlorn, I cried myself to sleep. Camila, meanwhile, went out with friends and made new plans to go camping with our golden retriever.
I awoke the next morning with a strange realization. This was my chance to disappear for a week, go under the radar, wander through the huge maze of Paris streets, and get back in touch with my lost self. Although I started the week in my usual striving mode, ambitiously exploring the Latin Quarter to the point of exhaustion, I got looser and moved more slowly as the week progressed, becoming attuned to life in the city. I observed that the French didn’t seem to be obsessed with their cell phones and that older French women were very stylish. I bought a flowing French raincoat in a mustard color that accented my long white hair. Scanning a French newspaper, I noticed that the utterings of the U.S. president were nowhere to be found, just an article on his economic policies on page four. Taking one’s time and savoring moments—whether they involved delicious food and drink or a loved one’s embrace—seemed to be ingrained in the fabric of daily existence. One afternoon, sitting on a bench looking out over the sparkling Seine, I basked in the sunlight and sense of wholeness and freedom.
On my last full day in the city, I headed to the Canal St. Martin neighborhood, which my guidebook had described as trendy and charming. I got lost while trying to walk there from the metro station, of course. Once I made it there, I climbed up some stairs onto one of the iron footbridges over the canal and surveyed the scene. I didn’t find it charming but, as with all things Parisian, I found it fascinating. Graffiti adorned the footbridge and walls of the tree-lined canal, which shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. A few people were enjoying walks along the canal, but none looked like tourists. I was glad to have found a place far from the chic parts of Paris. I found a modest neighborhood bistro, enjoyed a delicious lunch of coq au vin, and then headed with a full satisfied belly to my final planned destination of the day, a nonprofit called Seymour+. My guidebook had described it as a “refuge for the soul,” a place to unwind, take a break from technology and other external distractions, get in touch with your “inner landscape,” and spark your creativity. Just what I craved.