Paris in Love (17 page)

Let me be the first to admit it: my Thanksgiving turkey was not all it could be. In fact, in flavor it brought to mind the Sahara desert. It was a strange turkey in the first place, as it came charred from having its feathers burned off, and wrapped in strips of lard. On the bright side, Bridget made fabulous gravy, and Alessandro’s friend Donatella brought a mock pumpkin pie with a shiny orange top. It was in reality a custard tart with a glossy sheen: as if a pumpkin pie had been to Chanel and dressed for the occasion.

The homeless man is from Bucharest! Alessandro and Anna made conversation with him on the way to school today. He speaks very little French, so Alessandro is going to look up some phrases in Romanian. Apparently, the man said he wants to go
home. I would, too. Paris is a chilly, hopeless place if you have nothing to do but sit and wait to be rained on.

In Notre-Dame: “How many people died making this church?” Anna asked. And then, exasperated by my evasive answers (“lots … no, more than ten”), she stopped below the rose window. “Well, how many died making that? Don’t you even know how many died putting it up there?” I discover, once again, that growing up is synonymous with disillusionment with one’s parents.

I was fascinated in Notre-Dame by a priest, sitting at a businesslike desk behind a pane of bulletproof glass, offering confessions in either French or Arabic. He resembled nothing so much as a lower-level banker, the kind who should not be trusted to send an international wire.

It has apparently been cold and rainy in Florence for over a week, which is distressing to Marina. Milo is supposed to take a long walk every day to help him lose weight. But she never takes him outdoors when it rains, as she says he has a delicate constitution and doesn’t digest well if he gets chilled. No one wants to know exactly how she has diagnosed this frailty.

Florent is back from Italy, and he and Alessandro met again. He is still in love with his beautiful Italian waitress, but he didn’t manage to use any of the romantic phrases Alessandro taught him. He says he thinks she is interested, but he isn’t quite sure,
because of the language barrier. So he and Alessandro talked about the fact that Florent is buying land from a swindler who considers him easy prey because he is a foreigner. There is only one standing wall on Florent’s land, but the Italian wants to sell the land as “with house.”

Varenne Métro station is home to a huge replica of Rodin’s
Thinker;
at some point a discourteous person knocked a roundish hole in his thigh, revealing that he is entirely hollow. This morning on the way to school Anna and I started discussing the family of mice who undoubtedly live inside. Anna suggested that Mama and Babbo would each sleep in one of the Thinker’s big toes. I pointed out that Mama and Babbo like to sleep together, and she allowed that they could share one big one, while the babies had a small toe each.

The newest family game: pick on Mom by way of the pack of French language cards that everyone in the family knows except
moi
. Go on … ask me how to say
frog
in French. I just learned it. My favorite card is
la girafe
.

Bridget and I took the girls off to Versailles, detouring at a photo booth in the Métro. Later Anna discovered to her horror that her beloved blue knit hat was gone, leading to tears and gnashing of teeth. On the way back, the children flew to the booth, but it was empty. Then my niece Nora shrieked. To the side sat a homeless person’s blanket roll, the hat perched on top. But no homeless person. So … she stole it back!

The Hall of Mirrors at Versailles is gracious, elegant, and jaw-droppingly beautiful. I drifted down the center dreaming that I was a member of the
noblesse ancienne
, my imaginary skirts extending three feet to each side. We all had audio tours; over the elegant sound of a British man informing me about architectural details, I heard Anna talking to her cousin Zoe: “I dare you to pick your nose in front of that mirror.… Go on, I dare you!”