Page 28 - NyghtVision Magazine Volume 3 #3
P. 28
ier, Jerome and I ate lunch. To remember all
The Journey the times I had eaten there, looking out on the
Tower. Numb and cold and dead. How it sad-
dens me.
Home
“9:37, JD.” I have taken to reminding him ev-
The zipper turned round the last corner of ery fifteen minutes that we need to get out on
my NyghtFalcon duffel bag and pulled tightly to the street. It is a ten minute walk to the café
closed. I stood over the bag, contemplating the where we will meet Cyrille – in theory. We
more than symbolic meaning. Dishes – well have never been to Porte de St Cloud, a small
coffee cups – have been washed. The futon is neighborhood not far from here. While I have
just that again. Towels have been appropriate- checked the web for walking directions and
ly collected. Sheets from the bed bundled to- while in theory it is an easy walk, I have trav-
gether. In a matter of minutes we would carry eled enough to know better. I want to be going
our bags – laden like pack animals – to DxO down the stairs at 10:00 AM.
Labs where we would turn in the key, catch a
cab to the airport and be gone The day warms. I am sitting by the window
to my little room. “What is it about Paris?” I
The trip was over, save for the journey back ask myself. I have no reason to feel connected
to Greensboro. Save for the journey back to here. I mean, whenever I am in New York, a
Greensboro. An interesting turn of words, I place I have lived nearly a quarter of my life,
should say. I find myself listening to Jim Croce’s “New
York’s not My Home” and I do in fact remain
Greensboro is many things to me. It is where I restless every minute of every day I am there.
am based. It is where I spend most of my time.
I have family there. Friends too. But home? Not in Paris.
No. 9:45. I hear the shower. Perhaps we will leave
for Porte de St Cloud at precisely 10:00 AM.
“C’mon,” I said to JD. “Let’s keep this as stress
free as we can. I am not happy about leaving Some of the allure of Paris I understand. Mag-
and I don’t want to make it worse.” He nods so nificent architecture. The sense of history. Life
I assume he understands. I walk back into my lived on the streets. “Parisians love watch-
little room, gather a stack of used Metro tick- ing people,” I quipped to Deborah, “After all,
ets and place them carefully into my wallet. I why else would all the sidewalk cafés set their
can’t read them, I mean there is no identify- chairs facing the streets?”
ing mark that says “This one was used to get
to Café Trocadero” or anything like that. But “Because it is welcoming,” Deborah respond-
they are memories. Each and every one. I leave ed.
reluctantly and perhaps, I tell myself, they will
make the transition easier. I know they won’t, People have certainly been helpful – especially
but it is worth a try. given that we are Americans and our French is
marginal. But, no, it isn’t that.
Café Trocadero.
The cold water runs in the kitchen sink. Cog-
I shan’t ever forget that afternoon as JD, Oliv- nizant of how small the hot water heater is, I
28 | The Paris Chronicles
