Compost Studios

We arrived in Paris by high-speed train on Thanksgiving, a trip that took just a bit more than an hour from Brussels —enough time for me to doze off and drool while surrounded by serious business travelers cracking brief cases, reviewing documents, and tapping laptops with self-importance.

Our plan was that when we arrived in Paris, we’d catch a ride from the train station to the small apartment we’d call home for the next six days, but at the station the taxi driver turned us away, telling us it would only be a five-minute walk to our rental. I should have known that what he really meant was that he was holding out for a better fare, and we were on our own, thank you very much. But being naïve and hopeful, the four of us set out like a Brio train, pulling our suitcases behind us along the crowded streets and sidewalks of Paris .

It was NOT a five-minute walk. The cobblestones were hell on the luggage wheels. We were forever lifting suitcases up and over curbs, and I felt more than a little conspicuous toting my belongings through the city. But even if I felt like a dork, I was a dork in PARIS and would not let my wobbly luggage or my creaking shoulders ruin my mood.

Finally after one false stop, we arrived at our place and immediately felt at home. The apartment was small but charming, located close to the center of the city in an older building on a busy street. Situated on a corner on the third floor, it had 16-foot ceilings, wood floors, white walls, huge windows, and modern furnishings, all in my favorite color—garnet red. Black and white photos of Paris decorated the walls. In an instant I mentally transformed myself from suburban mom on vacation with her husband and kids to a chic and cosmopolitan writer on the verge of a new life. I was ready to move in and never move out. I had my Levis , my black boots, a pile of turtlenecks, my silver hoop earrings and my laptop—all the essentials. I’d buy new clothes in the spring at the shops I’d passed in the neighborhood.

My fantasy of living the life of an artist in Paris was short-lived as the kids buzzed with excitement, and we debated what to do next. Despite the clouds and cold, we opted to tour Paris ’ most famous landmark: the Eiffel Tower . E-Grrrl has been desperate to visit the Eiffel Tower since she was a kindergartener enthralled with the Madeleine books, and the adventures of Eloise further whet her appetite for Paris . She was ebullient over the prospect of finally seeing the place she’d experienced only in books. And so with parkas zipped, gloves on, scarves wrapped, and cameras in hand, we set off. E-Man, ever the amazing navigator, charted a scenic course.

The journey surpassed the destination. Of all the things we saw in Paris , I’d rate the Eiffel Tower at the bottom of my list. It’s one of those things that is best admired from afar—grand at a distance, disappointing up close. I can understand why so many Parisians thought the tower should have been torn down after the World’s Fair was over. Why it became the city’s defining landmark is a mystery to me.

Sure, the scale is impressive, there’s some fancy scroll work, and it’s a feat of engineering but basically: it’s big, it’s brown, and it’s surrounded by a plain Jane park with a wide muddy promenade. With all that Paris has to offer in art and architecture, it’s ironic that this chunk of metal is considered its visual legacy. (And why did I expect it to be Statue-of-Liberty green? Did it used to be green? I was in Paris 20 years ago and that’s what I remember.)

Standing at the pinnacle with our heads in the clouds, I was astounded that this was the place where Tom Cruise proposed to Katie Holmes in April. Clearly, the man lacks taste and imagination. With all of the truly romantic places in Paris , he chose a steel tower topped with antennae. All I can say is if you start your marriage plans at the top of the Eiffel Tower , there is no place to go but down, down, down. But then again, we already knew that about Tom. Everyone but Katie knows that. Poor girl. But I digress.

E-Grrrl, who had been a little nervous in the glass elevator going up was even more anxious on the ride down, burying her face in her dad’s parka and begging to take the stairs instead. The height was getting to her.

I hated to see her missing the view or losing the magic of this moment she’d looked forward to for so long. With my hand on her shoulders, I told her to forget she was in an elevator and instead imagine she was a snowflake drifting down from the clouds over Paris , ready to land in the heart of the city. This image entranced her and soon she had her eyes wide open, forehead pressed to the glass, mesmerized by the sparks of light beginning to punctuate the gathering dusk. The elevator slid down in slow motion and soon we were back on the streets.

Shortly after we arrived back at our apartment the visualization I gave E-Grrrl became a reality--it began to snow, big flakes swirling in the streetlights outside our windows. Cradling a cup of tea and watching umbrellas bloom on the street, I remembered it was Thanksgiving, and in that moment my blessings seemed as innumerable as the snowflakes floating like angels down from the gray skies.

Paris Day One. We were off to a good start.

November 29, 2005