(or "How Sean and Jasmine Experienced a Week With Jas' Uncle,
Whose Paris Flat They Amicably--and Patiently--Shared!")
"First of all, I'm NOT your uncle," I told Jasmine. "I'm your cousin twice removed". That was Lesson number one, gently delivered by myself, and instantly rejected by Jasmine, who stated: "You're too OLD to be my cousin. Cousins are young. Uncles are old. You're my uncle!"
Lesson number two from the newly established uncle was: " No shoes in the entranceway. And both bags in the corridor, please. That way we won't trip over them when we all use the den. Which is where you'll be sleeping." - Aside: both travelers left every pair of shoes they had brought on the trip right in the entranceway of the living room, right through the trip. It was so alarming, I just had to laugh each time I opened my front door and ran slap bang into these rubbery, lace-strangled, big-as-boats (Sean) or tiny as bluebells (Jas), and miraculously NOT smelly items of assorted footwear. One has to see the humor in outrage, sometimes, or where'd we all be, huh?
Lesson three, which Jasmine ingested with total bewilderment, was when I flatly told her:
"I won't carry anything, not even your shopping bag, although I did come to fetch you at the
railway station (The Gare du Nord), and you probably thought I had come to help carry all
this stuff you've been lugging around Europe. Sorry dearie, I broke three vertebrae on a
recent trip, so I won't even carry your scarf, socks, or plane tickets. Pain is more powerful
than family feeling. You'll find that out someday, trust me." Poor Jasmine. She looked at
me with skepticism and reproach. And I did suffer to see her struggle up and down those
metro steps, with a complicated change from the infamous line 4 to the more civilized line 1.
Her bag was so stuffed with the gatherings from her travels, and was such a big bag for her
in any case, that at certain angles it really looked like the bag was carrying Jasmine, and
not the other way around…
No, but seriously: A good trip, I think, for both our merry wanderers. Jasmine of course kept telling Sean, with an impatient little lilt to her voice, reminding me all the time of Harry Potter's friend Hermione:" This isn't my first time here, you know! But OK, we'll go see Notre dame, since you feel you have to." And so they did. Each time they phoned, it was from the Latin Quarter: "Hi, we're at Notre Dame. Sean's eating another gyro. Do you know why it's so rainy? What is it with all this rain in Europe anyway?"
"Sean," I said one morning, as he examined my vintage movie handbill collection with open-mouthed admiration, "you're into animation. My friend Tito works for Disney and can get us in free". "Yes!!" said Sean, and Disney it was. (Jasmine sat on her feet in the train all the way there -and back. Now as we all know, self massage feels terrific, but isn't so good for the fabric-upholstered seats in the French trains. Bad, too, for my caned bentwood chairs at home, as Jasmine's little toes almost poked their way through the wickerwork. Still, I bit my tongue and kept thinking: "Family Ties have to be more important than perfectly caned 19th century bistro chairs.") But I digress. Back at the Disney Studios Theme Park, my pal Tito signed us in, and we made a beeline for the food court and gagged on possibly the worst hamburgers in this, the food capital of the world…The Park, too, disappointed us hugely, and we wearily headed back home, feeling as if we'd learned nothing about the art of making animated movies, and glad we hadn't paid the $ 50 entrance fee.
Dinner at the Dowlings. Clement Dowling, Jasmine's friend from Paris, had spent a summer with her family a couple of years ago. Now Jasmine dare not visit the City of Light without spending at least one evening with the Dowlings. Which we did. Another train out to the Paris 'burbs, in this case to Houilles Carrières, and our Jas curled her feet under her all the way, and expressed some apprehension about what she and Sean would do all evening if they didn't understand the fast-flyin' French spoken by Herve and Briggitte, Clement's parents and by Mathilde, his little sister. As it turned out, her fears were unfounded, for to my great surprise, young Sean broke into very adequate French within minutes of downing his first 'aperitif'. And Jasmine (who, as stated earlier, is secretly Hermione Granger) also broke the ice by tooting on in French. Of course, she scolded me roundly later for not allowing her to get even a word in edgewise, since I was so talkative and had monopolized all conversation with Clement's parents. Hmmm. Let's put that one down to different perceptions of the same evening. Suffice it to say that a good time was had by all, the rare Chablis from the Dowling cellar contributing greatly to the warmth and conviviality of the evening.
And while the cranky uncle was at the office: the Seine and its magical bridges beckoned. So Jas suggested a ride on the river. "It was pretty cool," they said later of their afternoon riverboat excursion on the famous Bateaux Mouches. Not the best weather for the boat ride, though, was what I was thinking. The Arc de Triomphe is fine in all weather, however, and our Terrific Two spent an afternoon reflecting over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, with its eternal flame blowing quietly in the wind off the Champs Elysees, and looking out at the twelve avenues that fan out from the hub of the Etoile in perfect symmetry.
And last but not least: the Tower. OK, so how many are there? Not towers in Paris (there are two, the Tour Eiffel, and the appalling Tour Montparnasse), but steps. How many steps did Sean and Jas actually climb to get up the Eiffel Tower? Well, I think they lost count as each propped the other up after the first landing (which is about 55 floors up), and bravely continued to the giddy heights of the second platform, (probably 80 floors high. By then, of course, they were both crawling, chests constricted with pain, knees tingling and numb, and yes, it was a cold day and they had no hats and no gloves. And even if you've only seen a postcard of it, you know the ET doesn't have protective walls, just cold air and open spaces on all sides… So why did they do it? And how did they deal with the pitying looks on the faces of the snug-as-bug tourists floating up and down past them in those graceful, spacious elevators? Well, I don't know. But I'd be willing to bet quite a packet that our intrepid travelers will never, ever attempt this climbing expedition again…
They will, however, come back to Paris one day. I sure hope so. For I missed them once they'd left and for two days after their departure I found myself still stepping gingerly around my flat, lest I tripped on sneakers and duffle bags, then feeling a pang of regret at finding that all their stuff was gone. And that they weren't there for me to tease and nag. - Or be teased by them for my middle-aged foolishness and foibles! Still, parents and jobs beckoned back in PA and the Terrific Two are home again now, with stories to tell around the family fires. I believe some of the best of those stories will be about Paris. And some day they'll be back. Meanwhile, as Hemingway described it, Paris is truly "a Moveable Feast", a feast to enjoy while you're young. Then you can carry it around with you for the rest of your life.
In Jasmine and Sean's case, hopefully they'll come back for a second helping soon.
| b i o g r a p h y |
|
Danesh Bharucha worries about everything in general, and his valiant battle against balding and the shape of his nose in particular. He hates people who pick at their food with their hands, and uses his own to create impressive watercolors, play the piano (only after 7 PM...shhh), and pin hundreds of rare butterflies to his walls. For lessons on how to be a welcome house guest at his home in Paris, write to the editor (a recent welcome guest). |
 Goodwill Sweater |
 The Electric Big-Bang Swing Machine © 2003 cartoons | writing | movies | fun |
 Ode to a Dirty Hippie |