Study any painting of Pont Neuf, and it becomes obvious: it’s the center of everything. A statue of Henry IV (assassinated by a Medici, as was custom at the time) riding a horse stands erect in the middle, facing Place Dauphine—one of the oldest squares in Paris.
Carved out between two sets of buildings and flanked by two roads on the other side, Place Dauphine’s my comfort place. It looks out over the Palais de Justice of Paris, once a royal palace, then a holding area for the prisoners of the French Revolution, and now part historical monument, part working courthouse. I love it. It’s the embodiment of Paris, beautiful and romantic, but its history is brimming with a dark, creepy undercurrent. Like my soul. Like life. It’s the spot I go to when I need a reminder I’m small potatoes, and so are my problems. Thousands of lifetimes happened here before me: some not so pleasant, some wonderful. All bigger than me on a bench feeling shitty for myself.
The cold comfort of the bench chills me through my leggings as my attention rests on the columns and statues outside the cour d’appel. Madame du Barry, the maîtresse-en-titre of Louis XV, stayed imprisoned within these walls once. Red Skelton, Lucille Ball, and Gene Kelly all starred in a satire that revolved around her. It was one of Nana’s favorites—and a big reason why I adore this spot. I sense her presence strongest here.
She’s why I’m in Paris.
My lungs fill to capacity on an inhale as I rest my palms on the edge of the bench, feet stretched out on the gravel path. Head tilted upward, I soak in the warm sun peeking through the branches of an overhanging chestnut tree.
Nana. My life source. An extreme lover of old movies. We started devouring them our first winter in New England. Born and raised a Georgia peach, the stark contrast in climates between the northern and southern parts of the United States puzzled me. Whatdidsomeone do with all that cold? Nana, who moved with us when my father’s work relocated him, knew exactly what to do, inviting the rambunctious boy next door to observe “his relative” on screen and sip hot cocoa. Liam, seemingly absent of any grandparents, claimed Gene Kelly—and Nana—as his own, a declaration I found rather rude since I didn’t have much to share myself.
Nana’s other love—Paris—became ours, something Liam didn’t share. She promised to take me someday, but futures I soon learned never do pan out how we imagine they should. And I was left dreaming of my own Paris adventure long after Nana left us all.
When she passed, I was twelve, and I grew overly attached to the classic films featuring Paris in her hard-felt absence. Audrey Hepburn’sHow to Steal a Million, Charade, Funny Face,andParis When It Sizzles,in particular. ButAn American in Parishad its own unique charm too. Paris grew into a fairy tale, a place where romance, art, architecture, history, and philosophy all melded together in perfect harmony. A place of seductive glamor. How could you not fall in love with Paris during musical numbers like “I Got Rhythm” and “Bonjour, Paris”?
While I tried to bury my Paris dreams for more practical ones, after a particularly miserable semester at Alabama, I found myself at the study abroad office on campus, Ernest Hemingway’s words circulating through my brain.
“There are only two places in the world where we can live happy—at home and in Paris.”
If happiness didn’t exist at home, maybe it was time to change my outlook, throw up my windows, and let inla vie en rose,just like my dear Audrey Hepburn taught me to do inSabrina.
Paris was, after all, always a good idea.
And Audrey Hepburn was—and is—an infallible source I could never question.
I relocated the following term and never returned. I found something akin to—but not quite—happiness in this place. Peace, maybe? Contentedness? Pleasure? I never found a good word for it. But it was better thanmiserable.
The snap of a twig nearby and a familiar “shit” force me to open my eyes and reluctantly face the culprit.
A large, Dorito-of-a-man I could do without seeing stands on the balls of his feet a few steps behind me, slowly retreating—a hot beverage of sorts in his hand and a box from one of my favorite boulangeries, Castelblangeois, balanced in the other.
4
(You Drive Me) Glazy
LiamKelly—forallintentsand purposes—started out as your stereotypical sweet and charming boy next door. So naturally, I locked that shit down, marrying him at the very mature age of five in a floral crown Nana and I crafted with lilacs and ribbons and Belle’s yellow dress fromBeauty and the Beast. Liam, wearing a Nomar Garciaparra Red Sox jersey, waited for me at the end of an easel-papered aisle, a huge grin fashioned on his face.
Nana officiated. Caleb gave me away. And my bunny, Sir Stick E. Buns, ate a carrot.
After the ceremony, Liam and I split a pink-frosted donut with sprinkles on a blue gingham blanket in my backyard. I laid down, feet flicking in the air. He sidled up next to me and laced his fingers with mine while the rays of the mid-afternoon sun cast a warming glow on everything it touched.
“You know when the sun shines on you like that, your hair gets all sparkly, and you look like a fairy princess,” he said.
I smiled, basking in the glow of admiration. My mother made sure I knew I was a pretty little thing, but hearing it from Liam felt different.
His stare lingered on my face. “Mom says I’ll have to marry you a second time when we’re older to make it lethal.”
“Nana said that too.” I flipped over on my stomach and reached for the bowl of peaches covered in sugary syrup not too far away. My mom only prepared them extra sweet when she was proud of me. “We should have a big bowl of peaches then too,” I hummed, taking a bite.
The snap of a disposable Kodak camera followed. Liam always had one in his hands, running around the backyard and sneaking shots at Nana, who would loudly order him to stop if he didn’t want to break his camera with her old mug. “Oh, we should have donuts too,” he said, winding the wheel on the top right corner.
“Obviously.” I laughed. “You have to have donuts at your wedding; it’s an addition.”
“To what?”Snap. Wind.
“I don’t know. I think it means everybody does it, so we have to too.”
“That makes sense.” He captured another picture of me. “You’re so smart.”
