In The Art of Pilgrimage, Phil Cousineau writes: “What matters most on your journey is how deeply you see, how attentively you hear, how richly the encounters are felt in your heart and soul.” I stood before No. 9, rue de la Tour, no longer the Paris pied-à-terre of my parents, who for a decade owned an apartment within its garden courtyard. The tiny place in Passy, with its walls painted happy pink and its jewel-box décor the dream made real of my mother, who all her life longed to live in Paris, was now the possession of strangers – a pair of bankers, I think. Unlocking it by code, residents came and went through the heavy, huge porte, once crimson, now green, and I saw my parents step out, too – Dad in his tweed sport-coat and jaunty French cravat; Mom in her chic Paris black. As Phil so encourages, I did deeply see, I attentively heard, and I richly felt in both heart and soul the special time I shared with them in Paris, thanks to the apartment. My pilgrimage along the Camino, now in the company of kitty and detoured out of Spain and into France, was soon to veer wildly in yet another unexpected direction: the Swiss Alps. Yet The Art of Pilgrimage tells me it’s cool. I’d get to Santiago de Compostela with everyone else, when I would. For now, it cheers, remember: “A journey without challenge has no meaning; one without purpose has no soul.” Being in Paris meant being with my parents. Challenge lay in reliving – with joy, not sorrow – every little thing they each loved about the City of Light – re-strolling Dad’s cherished Luxembourg Gardens without his step beside me, or re-eating Mom’s adored tarte aux framboises without her sending me back into the patisserie to fetch a second but in lemon. Purpose would be found in knowing my soul would be a sorry, shriveled thing without Paris, with my parents, and because Paris, with my parents, was so deeply a part of it, my soul, it’s safe to say, felt full and rich and bursting with the gratitude I had for them, and the love.
Mom died at age 90 in 2019 and Dad at age 98 in 2025. Today, just past dawn when the streets of the 16th arrondissemont had yet to awaken, I set out and, matching my mother’s peppy pace, sped to the Bois de Boulogne. These parkland acres of misty November chill and foliage a’blaze in fall hues of flame and gold told me she’s here – here by the lake where swans sail in exquisite serenity, a handsome blue heron stands sentry in the shallows, and the path at water’s edge still, after all these years, holds her daily steps. Mom, it’s all still here! I was bursting to tell her everything I saw. All the magic, the romance, and the dog walker with his dozen pups that leap into the lake after balls. I placed my own steps in the imprints I sensed and felt every flash of thrill she did when, looking up, she glimpsed the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and every jolt of joy she did when, disbelieving, it all appeared surreal – the lake with its beauty and birdsong and Chalet des Îles, the island restaurant where cocky peacocks strutted on the lawn and fanned their iridescent feathers with the sauciness of Moulin Rouge dancers. I can’t believe I’m here! Mom never could, nor I. Her morning walk in the Bois always made her giddy and grateful to be living in Paris, and this day my own found me exactly so. Later in the day, she would spend hours in the markets, and there I next trailed: the outdoor fruit and vegetable vendors of rue de l’Annonciation; the indoor Passy grocery with its two entire aisles of French cookies (a mother must-visit); and the twice-weekly mega-marché that popped-up on the street radiating off the Trocadéro. There, everything from antiques to art to clothing, housewares, and handbags– a thousand varieties of cheese, if you please – turned my enthralled Mom into a first-rate female flaneur, that is, flâneuse, a woman whose city wanderings infused Paris deep into her being, heart and soul. Add endless trips to Monoprix, Paris’s more soignée version of Target, and Mom’s market-hopping became pure pilgrimage. The Art of Pilgrimage author himself asks us to make travel sacred. “Uncover what you long for and you will discover who you are,” Cousineau counsels. My Mom longed for beauty, joy, adventure, and creative expression – all to be shared with those she loved.
I followed her joy – now my own – onto the No. 63 bus, which, unlike the Métro, allowed us to see city life in full thrive as in my mind we again rode together, she and I – and viewed the streets and shops, cafés and musées teeming with everything interesting. Parisians going about their lives was one marvel Mom thought wondrous. Celebrate life! She learned this from them in a hundred ways, from the boulangerie croissants wrapped to go like a festive party favor, complete with a fanciful bow, to sacred Sunday lunch with family; from best clothes, best friends, best life enjoyed not someday but now, to the idea that style and beauty….well, if it isn’t stylish or beautiful, why bother? I hopped off the No. 63 across the street from Café de Flore in Saint Germain des Prés. I saw my dad waiting for us at a table on the terrasse, under the awning emblazoned with the famous café’s name. This Art Deco landmark where Picasso – and Dad – were regulars, suited my father with his expertise in French history; its WWII-era red-leather seating, mahogany walls, and mirrors even today unchanged. I seated myself close by and ordered in his honor the towering pile of hot, salty frites he loved, all the while knowing a few moments in the Baroque Saint-Sulpice church – with its Delacroix frescoes – and a long afternoon meandering around the Luxembourg Gardens would do the day Dad-style. Paris suits you, he’d said, as always, knowing of course that Paris suits everyone, especially those who, like Dad, an avid reader, knew intimately the life and times of every queen of France whose statue stands in the gardens. Did you know that Catherine de Medici is rumored to have gifted gloves laced with poison to her rival Jeanne d’Albret? Well, no, but Dad’s stories – so funny, so dramatic – reflected the fierce fascination he had for Paris. The city suited him so well that, loathe to appear on its streets unless dressed as a gentleman, he was never mistaken for an American. Pardon, Monsieur, approaching strangers would say before asking directions or holding forth in the French he did not understand. How they were startled when he replied in his version of their language – English spoken louder than usual! Yet again and again they were charmed by his good humor and suave. Dad fit in just fine.
Being in Paris with my parents, as opposed to being there alone while kitten Camino napped in our Avenue Kléber studio, made my time there far from a sad, lonely trip into the past painted in shades of missing them. Instead, though missing them was a given, to remember Mom and Dad by sensing them at my side as “we” enjoyed every little Paris thing they loved made the City of Light bright and alive, as new and exciting as those first days in their Passy apartment. My parents’ Paris, which grew from my mother’s dream, made real, included me from its start; I was invited in to share the adventure, to make Paris mine, too. The poet Rumi understood something of this, to me, tremendous gift. “There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled,” he said. “There is a void in your soul ready to be filled. You feel it, don’t you?” Mom’s and Dad’s love of Paris, expressed in the apartment that afforded them years to learn the city, know the city, and all the while share the city with me…well, this generosity of spirit lit the flame of my own heart’s candle; all the adventures we enjoyed together overflowed my soul’s open, eager, waiting, grateful space that only Paris, with my parents, could fill. I know this now, even though they, and the apartment are gone. My own passion for Paris burns so brightly in the thrill I feel while walking, exploring, and discovering all there is new to be seen each time I visit, whether musée exhibit, Monoprix find, or fun fashion statement. And my soul feels never more full than when, with joy, I remember – and relive – Paris, with my parents.
Recent Comments