La Vie est Belle

Day one in Paris.

Two and a half months -- the most time my youngest child and I have ever been apart. The fact that I fell asleep and missed by a good twenty minutes the moment she arrived at my hotel to deliver that long awaited hug notwithstanding,  I could not be more thrilled. Well, I could be, but I'm trying very hard to put the prospect of a Trump presidency into proper perspective.

Duly chastised for wasting precious moments of my brief stay in Paris sprawled unconscious and still clad in stinky travel clothes -- boots and all -- in a hotel bed, I rode the brief wave of happy adrenaline into the tiny bathroom to freshen up. Damn, no toothbrush. My daughter gave me two Altoids and a water bottle, and, settling for what she referred to as a whore's bath for my mouth, I grabbed my jacket and off we went.

A cafe au lait. A stroll through the bustling streets of her neighborhood on the left bank. A brief ride on the Metro. When Parisians push and shove unapologetically, it just seems more polite than it does at home. Warm goat cheese salad and wine for lunch. An impromptu ride on the enormous Ferris wheel I have managed to ignore on all my previous visits to the City of Light. A stroll through the Tuileries in a spitting drizzle. A visit to L'Orangerie, just because it was closed for renovation the last time I was here. Paris. My daughter. My other daughter and her fiance on their way to meet us. La vie est belle.

We killed time for a while -- I was supposed to meet up with somebody I have not seen in more than 35 years, and my daughter kept wondering aloud whether that was such a good idea. She practically had to pull my head out of my espresso to convince me to reschedule. We had a quick dinner -- more cheese, more wine -- and we parted ways so I could sleep. Well, that was my intention anyway.

Several thousand miles from home, and the realities I had so hoped to escape, at least for a brief while, collaborated with the time change to keep me awake. Were the CNN anchors really trying to coerce a rational, intelligent guest to equate Kelly Anne Conway with Hillary Clinton? Were they really trying to get her to acknowledge the enormity of the crack Kelly Anne made in her own glass ceiling, simply by virtue of helping an unqualified and disrespectful man lay claim to the presidency? Was I really listening to someone explain the unfairness of liberal protests against the appointment of a White Supremacist to a position of power in the White House? His rationale for saying Steve Bannon is not a White Supremacist: I am not familiar with Breitbart. Ignorance -- feigned or real. Our new version of expertise.

At L'Orangerie, there was an exhibit devoted to American art during the 1930's. The Age of Anxiety. I looked at the paintings, some of which were familiar, and I read the narratives. I watched footage of the joyful celebration on November 8, 1932, of the election of FDR to his first term. I bought my daughter a copy of The Grapes of Wrath, in French. I could barely sort through my thoughts in English, much less in French. Despair. Social injustice. Progress. War. Change. New world orders. New deals. The Age of Anxiety, indeed. 

Day one in Paris. Dark and rainy, but still the City of Light. Far from home, riding a silly Ferris wheel with my daughter. I gaze out at a beautiful city scape that has gone through so much. And I sort through my thoughts, and I settle on resilience.