Paris, Je T'aime

Ten years ago, I was lucky enough to study abroad in Paris. (And yes, it really has been ten years.) Every year since, Brian and I have toyed with the idea of returning to my old stomping grounds, and every year, we’ve found a reason not to go. Until, of course, we ran out of reasons. 

In October 2015, we threw caution to the wind and booked a flight to Paris. Of all the things I knew I wanted to do in France, visiting my old street (Rue de la Baume in the 8th Arrondisement) was at the top of my list. I needed to see the apartment in which I had spent a semester away from home as a college student. I wanted to remember what it was like to love a place so desperately, while missing my family so bitterly. And I wanted to see the woman whose apartment I called home. 

But because I only had a street address (I never needed a phone number or an email address to reach her before; I lived with her, after all), I had no way of contacting her. Still, I was determined to at least see the old neighborhood and walk down my old street again.

So, after what ended up being the very best vacation of my whole adult life (perhaps more details on that at another time), Brian and I took a walk down Rue de la Baume on our last night in France. We stopped and took photos in front of the street sign, and turned the corner to find the apartment and simply gaze at it from across the street. Except then, the most wonderfully unexpected thing happened. I saw an old woman riding her bike towards me. And in an instant, I knew it was Madame. 

Goosebumps rippled over my skin and I threw my hands in the air and shouted to her. The woman who had told me and my roommates during our last dinner in Paris in May of 2007 that, “If you return to Paris, you will have to look me up. Although I may be dead,” was suddenly in front of me. I reintroduced myself as she insisted she remembered me (and Brian! “You two are married now?” she said in French,) and wanted to know if we had been on our way to see her. “Well, kind of,” I admitted, unsure of whether I would have worked up the nerve to ring the bell to her apartment. 

She kept saying that she was so sad I hadn’t called—that we could have stayed with her in the apartment during our trip or that she would have invited us up for a Scotch at the very least. (Ha!) She also pointed out that she was still riding her bike (complete with a basket full of letters to be mailed) even though she was an “old” woman—her words, not mine! Honestly, she must be in her late 80s, but on that evening she seemed just as spritely as ever.

We coaxed her into taking the photo above (yes, I know, I’m totally fan-girling out), and she even gave me her email address. I’m pleased to report that I now have an 80-something-year-old pen pal. And it’s awesome.

Anyway, we stood there in the street for 15 minutes, catching up on the years since study abroad—she, telling me about her children living in the states, and me, telling her about my life with Brian and our careers—until it was time for her to go. It was 7 p.m. on a Friday evening, and she had to go to church. Because of course she did. 

Madame was exactly how I remembered her (bike and all), and when she left, I promptly burst into tears. Had we been a few minutes too soon, or a even a moment too late, we would have missed her. I have always thought of Paris as a magical place, and seeing Madame completely reaffirmed that belief. 

We’ve written to each other a few times since that night, and I hope to sit down with her for a proper catch-up the next time I’m in Paris. Which, I’m praying, will be less than ten years from now. 

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