This was our last day in Paris.  Once before we had stumbled inside the little church that sits underneath the great shadow of Sacré-Cœur.  It is the Church of Saint Peter of Montmartre; one of the oldest surviving churches in Paris.  According to traditional history, it was founded by Saint Denis in the third century.  One of my favorite sacred composers, Charpentier, later wrote devotional music to be performed there.  However the church, like so many other Christian sites, was destroyed during the French Revolution.  Yet it still remains full of history, and there are a few Roman columns which managed to survive used in the nave.  The first time we accidentally wandered in was on our honeymoon and, to my delight, I discovered a brightly colored poster of St. Francis with a wolf next to him that read, “Choisir La Paix,” or “Choose Peace.”  I took it home and framed it.  On this trip I wanted to revisit the church again with our little one and study it more closely.  Instead of a throng of tourists and the shuffling of feet on the floors of Sacré-Cœur, we were greeted instead with an instant hush of holy silence.  I could hear the murmurs of a young woman on her knees fervently praying the rosary.  She knelt on the hard flloor discreetly out of the way but still very close to the this picture I unobtrusively took of the Virgin Mary.  Very much a working parish and clearly a praying church, they still allowed the respectful taking of photographs, for which I was eminently grateful.  The lights were dimmed inside the cool interior and the big, thick double doors managed to block out the cacophony beyond its sacred walls.  A respite from the chaos of the world, my soul settled as I allowed myself to soak in my surroundings.  According to the literature I’d just read, the church celebrated its 870th anniversary just two months prior; astounding!  There was an elegant simplicity about it, with a white crocheted linen draped gracefully over the rough-hewn stone altar.  The simple wooden pews were polished to a high sheen.  I had left my little one with my husband as I silently walked through the church and I was stunned to discover them both quietly knelt in prayer.  Afterward, we emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and decided to sit at a small café where our little one had ice cream and we enjoyed my favorite beer, 1664, as we watched people traversing up the 300 steep steps to Paris’ highest point — Montmartre.  Once we descended to the bottom, we rode the old carousel there that is astonishingly free.  It was rife with an old magic that cannot be adequately put into words, but for me it was palpable.  Watching Paris pass us by I was transported back to my first visit ten years ago.  It was on my honeymoon and I remember watching my handsome new husband smiling at me as our horses rose up and down.  This time I looked at the impossibly striking man I’d married and, next to him, I gazed with wonder upon our miracle from God — our precious only child.  Her auburn curls slightly lifted with the breeze and I saw a perfect mix of the two of us in her, complete with my mother’s features and my father’s jet black, impossibly long eyelashes.  From her father I believe she inherited her thick, wavy locks as well as her unfathomably dark eyes.  My heart was so full of love and gratitude at that moment words cannot fully describe it.  And yet I felt a great sense of melancholy knowing we were leaving the next day.  The American author M. J. Rose said:

“I think Paris smells not just sweet but melancholy and curious, sometimes sad but always enticing and seductive.  She’s a city for the all senses, for artists and writers and musicians and dreamers, for fantasies, for long walks and wine and lovers and, yes, for mysteries.”

I took in the sights and smells of the city I love and prayed we could return soon.  Leaving Paris was truly like leaving home.  It gave me great consolation that my little girl and husband did not want to leave either.  I realized with joy that she had seeped into my husband and my little one’s heart as well — Paris, mon coeur.

It was our third visit to Versailles.  This time, instead of broiling inside the main palace along with all the other tourists pressed together without air conditioning, we chose to focus outside on the gardens, the fountains, and the Petit Trianon.  Marie Antionette’s hamlet was under renovation and I was so excited I could hardly stand it!  I never thought they would open it!  The past two times I had gazed up with admiration at the wooden outdoor curved staircase and balcony, whose boards had intermittently rotted like aged piano keys long ago.  All we had ever been able to do was peek through the glass on the lower levels and stare in awe at the floor to ceiling marble.  Outside there were giant clusters of huge calla lilies, one of my favorite flowers.  The wheel of a mill stood eerily quiet close to a curved bridge over a pond with ducks swimming languidly.  And, sadly, there were vacant places where buildings once stood before the Revolution.  This was her retreat from the rigors of the Royal Court, where she was forced to give birth in front of an audience, people fought over the privilege of dressing her daily, and she was stared at as she ate.  Here she pretended to be a shepherdess to escape the confines of the chateau and all the vicious gossip, plotting, and backstabbing that accompanied it.  I went through all my pictures and I could not find one that even came close to doing any part of Versailles justice.  As the world’s largest royal domain, the grounds cover over 2,000 acres, with 230 of them being devoted to the gardens.  Water features of all kinds are an important part of French gardens and at Versailles they include waterfalls in groves, spurts of water from fountains, and the calm surface of water reflecting the sky and sun in the Grand Canal, formed in the shape of a Latin cross.  Venetian gondolas were once housed on the grounds and even today row boats are available for rent to traverse the great waterway.  My favorite is Apollo’s fountain but, since I posted that from our honeymoon, the picture I ultimately chose was my quick shot of Latona’s Fountain, commissioned by the Sun King.  The first stage of construction lasted twenty years and resulted in the installation of pipes under the basin to supply the water, while twenty jets were placed, in the year 1666.  It was a feat nothing short of amazing.  Having previously been under renovation and seeing it working now in all of its gilt splendor was absolutely spectacular.  Our guide this visit said that at one time there were liveried, royal servants wearing whistles stationed at all the fountains.  As the king approached, they would sound a whistle and it would turn the water’s massive hydraulic system to that particular fountain.  So, as the king walked, majestic fountains rose with his footsteps.  Royal musicians were stationed in the groves to accompany the grand spectacle.  Incredible!  At the tender age of four, Louis XIV began his reign as the King of France from 1643 until his death in 1715, making the Sun King the longest recorded monarch of a sovereign country in European history.  Aside from Paris herself, this place alone endlessly fascinates me.  From the holy grandeur of the Royal Chapel to the Hall of Mirrors and to all of her grounds, Versailles speaks to me like no other site.  It cannot possibly be seen in one day.  The Italian polymath of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci, said, “For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.”  On our first visit we toured the palace itself; the second we tried to see both the chateau as well as the grounds; and on this trip we barely set foot inside the main palace since we tried to concentrate on the vast gardens.  A decade ago I tasted flight with my first footstep upon the cobblestones.  Since then I have ascended exquisite marble stairways and walked over incredibly intricate wooden parquet floors.  My feet have crossed into her formal parterres as well as her lush, shadowed alleys.  With each step I find myself looking skywards, and it is there I long to return:  to the incomparable Versailles.

I remember sitting in French class on a hot Texas day in June just after I was graduated from high school.  I wanted to start college right away and I had  enrolled in an excellent junior college by our apartment.  (All my life I’d loved the French language, but I’d never dreamt I would one day have the pleasure and the privilege of visiting France ever — much less multiple times.)  We were learning about Paris’ “bateaux mouches.”  The boats are popular tourist attractions, as they allow visitors to view the city from along the Seine.  The name is trademarked, but all the excursion vessels are generically referred to as “bateaux mouches,” whether they are open-air boat tours or glassed-in cruisers serving meals.  I adore viewing Paris from the river; every time we have gone we have taken some sort of water guide.  This time our little girl was old enough to eat with us and we could enjoy dinner while crossing underneath the famous bridges of Paris.  We do not eschew touristy things and I had always thought a sunset dinner winding through the Left and Right Banks of Paris would be lovely.  The boat was clear on all sides, which afforded excellent views from all angles.  Tables were set with red napkins on red table cloths, and an excellent bottle of red wine was waiting at our window seat upon our arrival.  I adore Bordeaux and I liked the bottle’s name so much I wound up taking it home to put in our “bottle tree.”  All the chairs were red as well as the water glasses, so I was particularly pleased with the outfit I’d chosen for our little one.  She was dressed in red shorts with a red and white striped top that read “Cherie” and, at one point, when the late afternoon turned into dusk, she wound up wrapping her napkin around her because she was cold.  Seated across from her, I was reminded of the fabled Little Red Riding Hood.  There is an anonymous quote which says, “The tiger and the lion may be more powerful … but the wolf does not perform in the circus.”  With that I realized I did not want to change her, or “tame” her, and I knew she carried the strong, independent spirit of her ancestors.  My child literally lives with wolves and there is no gruesome ending.  Never underestimate the power of the wolf … or of Little Red Riding Hood.

It was June 16, our tenth wedding anniversary, and one of those perfect days as we were in Paris.  I was with our beloved little girl and the most handsome man I have ever met — my husband and our child’s father.  I have always been acutely aware of how much his love and fidelity means.  He proposed to me in Dallas on top of Reunion Tower back when the restaurant was still Antares.  We loved it because it retained the original swanky ’70’s feel and it was fun to dine while the floor slowly rotated us around the city skyline.  I remember after he proposed they brought out a three dimensional dessert which was an impressive replica of the tower.  My favorite landmark in the world is the Eiffel Tower and, thanks to my husband, this was my fourth time viewing it.  We have never been afraid to be tourists and we also never tire of revisiting places we love.  The Eiffel Tower was the first place he took me on our honeymoon.  On our second trip we noticed scaffolding and assumed it was maintenance.  Then, to our great surprise, on our third visit we inadvertently stumbled upon opening night of the new addition of the first floor!  It was the 125th anniversary of Gustave’s tower, created for the Universal Exposition in 1889.  I did not realize the floor was made of glass until I noticed tourists hugging the walls and shuffling awkwardly.  On our fourth visit we decided to celebrate by having our tenth wedding anniversary dinner in the restaurant 58 Tour Eiffel, named for its 58 meters above the ground.  We were greeted by a hostess in black tie, who promptly escorted us up a wide, sweeping curved staircase.  The views were breathtaking, with wall-to-wall glass, offering excellent perspectives of Paris and the tower itself.  I requested a window table overlooking the Trocadéro, and it was the best view in the house.  We looked out over the long, open expanse of lawn, flanked by great fountains on all sides, spraying in symmetrical perfection.  By now, as this was our vacation, every time I ordered a drink our little one would also request an apple juice.  I figured if I was cutting loose with French fermented grapes she should be able to enjoy extra fruit juice as well.  On our honeymoon I was so proud because the French asked what a Frenchwoman was doing married to a Texan.  I received the bulk of my French from a community college and to repeatedly be mistaken as French made me feel incredible.  Now they were asking what WE (my daughter and I) were doing with a Texan!  And, by the way, they all adored my husband Burk — and they loved Texas!  Our five-year-old’s “au revoir” now sounded better than mine!  Even the woman working in one of the gift shops stopped to tell me she dressed exactly like our little girl when she was that age.  With my baby doll’s dark, Gallic eyes and her auburn hair she simply looked French.  I had dressed her in pink and white Toile for the occasion, complete with a Renoir inspired bow which was set jauntily off to one side.  Our server that night was so smitten he inquired if he could get his picture with our child.  I asked her if it was OK and she agreed.  Then I informed him that if she did not order in French she was not to have anymore juice.  The handsome man looked at me as if I were horrible, and neither my husband nor our little one knew what I’d said to him.  When she was ready for another juice I told her “en Français.”  She buried her curls into my arm and said she could not do it.  I replied she could and to repeat what I said.  At first she mumbled so faintly I would not allow the server to accept it.  Finally pulling the sentence out of her, she beamed up at him proudly.  And then I think he understood.  For the rest of our meal he was careful to speak slowly and only in French.  I almost chose to post the picture of him with our child in his arms for this post.  My husband had never looked more handsome, wearing the French cuffed shirt I’d bought him along with a pair of silver Eiffel Tower cufflinks.  A young girl came by asking if she could take our picture.  She got three memorable shots of us:  one was with all of us smiling; the second was just our girl who looked stunning; and the third was my favorite, although it was somewhat staged.  She’d asked Burk to kiss my hand.  But the unexpected joy in the picture was watching our little one next to me.  She had her hands clasped together over her heart.  Smiling broadly, her head was turned to the side with glee.  I knew then she would be a hopeless romantic like me.  Next dessert came and I was reminded of another tower and another dessert which was special to me.  The French novelist Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin — best known for her nom de plume as George Sand, once wrote, “There is only one happiness in this life, to love and to be loved.”  Feeling so blessed, I knew I had found with certainty true happiness on this our tenth wedding anniversary.