Inspiration for this trip came from my goddaughter, someone I haven’t known especially long, or even well. What better excuse to deepen our connection than her graduation from high school? This lovely kid comes, naturellement, from a lovely family of four Americans who now live in St. Germain en Laye, one of Paris’ royal suburbs.
Even a tarnished country would be brightened by these fine folks. But France! In May! A time of year when that oddest of traditions—sculpting trees into lollipop shapes—feels perfectly appropriate. A season of cloudless skies and obscure public holidays.
Another godfather, coming from the States, arrived around the same time. His godchild is the other daughter, who was both celebrating a birthday and appearing in a play at her French school. On top of the family fêtes, then, and the dinners in the Latin Quarter, and the bicycle rides past places that photographers are forever putting on picture postcards, France also offered up the joys of a godfather reunion.We all go back a long way but rarely cross paths now, living as we do on three continents. All of the adults had spent time in Europe as students. Our conversations, multilingual and abounding in time-capsuled references, began outdoors with the croissant course. My generation discussed solutions to the world’s ills—at least, as far as we understood such things. (The goddaughters gently brought us up to date about what was really important.)
When the sun grew warm, we moved underground to le Métro. There we listened to our fellow passengers expound with Gallic certitude on vital issues of the day. An accordion player sauntered through the subway cars, passing the hat after each tune. Now and then we got off and shopped for cidre, fromage, and other necessities.
Our wanderings tired us out by evening—no twilight boat rides along the Seine or midnight plats du jour in Montparnasse for our age bracket. (My goddaughter, by contrast, didn’t even start getting dressed to go clubbing until around 10pm.) We made an exception on the night of the school musical, a unique fusion of “Picnic at Hanging Rock” and “The Mikado.”
Set in Australia, and peppered with songs supposedly sung in Japan, the production wasn’t aiming for a French connection. The director’s program notes explained that she wanted to explore “liminal space”—in-between places like geographical borders, transoceanic flights, and adolescence. We all had experience with such places. Watching the ambitious efforts of the young actors, flanked by my time-honored mates, I felt a véritable source d'inspiration.
