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Sitting uncomfortably in Economy Class on an international flight headed for France made me think, "I remember 26 years ago, flying the same pathway with Father Geno, Father Gregg, the bishop, and all the nuns." A strange feeling bubbled up in my belly as my lips began to point upward into a smile. Reminiscing could be fun! I know this trip will be different than a religious pilgrimage to meet the Pope and I look forward to the experience of writing in cafes in Paris.

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Sunday, June 23, 2024

While the night invades the streets back home, sunshine shone brightly on my back while a cool breeze instantly cooled my body temperature. My exploration and adventurous gene paused and coursed through my veins. Faintly, I hear a familiar voice, "Look up Tara!" Gretchen Bernabei, my writing mentor and guide calls from the Air B and B we rented in Paris.

The alarm chirped as a clear notification to attend my one-on-one session with the director of the Paris Writing Cafe. My roommate tossed and turned before departing quickly for her session. Full of confidence, I walked swiftly towards the Barbouille Café.

Tim, Gretchen, and I stepped into the cafe and awkward chairs unevenly scraping the cement ground. We peer at the French menu that may as well be Swahili anxiously awaiting to sit with Patricia.

Around the corner of the vintage French bar with the surprisingly sexy bartender, sat an unassuming blonde elder woman armed with a blue folder. For an hour, she picked apart my writing about Naverick. My heart was crushed into tiny pieces.

Later on... we all walked to the welcome dinner at a place called La Cellar. It reminded me of the tiny pizza joint near me in Paterson-Patsy's Tavern. The only table would seat all of us in the Trail of Breadcrumbs Crew plus Patricia and her husband Joe.

Heather, my tall, fair-skinned, eloquently beautiful roommate, and I bonded over a delectable Asian-infusion dinner, sinfully delicious dessert, and delightful conversation.

With the toss of her chestnut brown tresses and the medium to loud tone of her elegant voice, we became the guests of a young, mocha-skinned delivery person determined to show two American women a fun Parisian evening.

Jawher, Ya-way, as he desperately attempted to pronounce it for us, excitedly chattered on as he drove us through the bustling streets of Paris. We learned graffiti is not the derelict act there as it is in the States. It is a communication and artistic celebration. He waxed on about the 16-hour days he works and the 5-7 days he plans to visit Tunesia for"the beach." As the conversation continued, I ensured Heather knew I would protect her. She assured me we would stay for one drink and leave.

The door to L'Important in the Bastille area led to a night of Prosecco, dancing, laughter, and singing - on stage!! When Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" began, I began belting the words out and the band leader led me onto the stage to finish singing.

That electric feeling I felt coursing through my heart and veins while singing in the microphone as a group of Parisian men and women hang on my every word, is one I will not forget.

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After singing on stage at L'Important with Heather and Jawher in the Bastille, everyone woke early to meet for our first "class." I originally thought the classes would be held at one cafe, but it turns out, that each day we would write at a different cafe. My nerves jitter away while the lack of coffee churns me inside, or is that excitement at the prospect of this writing experience?

As I stepped into the Cafe de la Mairie, climbed the wooden vintage, creaky stairs, and entered the 2nd-floor cafe specifically for our group of 8 plus 1, I couldn't help but wonder about Simone de Beauvoir and Ernest Hemingway, "What did they think about or wonder or what were they in awe of to determine what to write?" At the crescent of the staircase, revealed 16 perfectly square pieces of art reflecting the passion of food. A well-lit shelf built in the wall housed an exquisite painting of a tree, decorated elegantly with beige and brown books that were antique in preservation and probably older than the states.

Patricia greeted us after we snapped a quick selfie in front of the cafe this bright morning.

Instructed to write a list of items about a moving moment in our lives, conduct an interview with someone else, and be tasked with writing about their moving moment, I clung to the mentor texts, an article by Mary Schmich and an excerpt from Alice Steinbach's Without Reservations, and the possibility of turning this into a fictional story.

As I listened to my intricately intelligent colleagues' stories, my imposter syndrome began pumping rapidly like the snare drum beat at a high school marching band performance.

Later we embarked on a mission to eat the most delicious falafel in Paris or the world. Sunshine beating down on me, and the pain in my knees notwithstanding, I pressed on not to let my colleagues know or worry. Is it my Lyme Disease or something else?

Heather, Stacey, Alana, and I decided to continue the day by walking towards antique journals/bookstores in Paris. This was the day our nicknames began to emerge. Heather, The Navigator, carefully eyed the ever-elusive blue dot guiding us to our destination. Alana, the Photographer, snaps the most amazing shots, those that most of us can't see. Stacey, Junie B. Jones, sasses more than a New Yorker on a bad traffic day and is my Texas twin, stayed back to speak with General Gretchen. Me, Jersey, takes hers to heart as a proud Jersey Girl, with all the accent, sass, and attitude that follows.

Breathing in the city of a thousand years, we delightfully saunter, sing, and sweat to our goal. Delicate paper, dripping ink-filled pens, and artfully composed postcards lined the tiny store named "Melodies Graphiques."

Parched and bags full of writing treasures, we decide to head to Le Louis Philippe on the Seine River. I sat down with the ladies and gazed at the view before me. Thousands of people sat in my place, plotting to overthrow the monarchy, deciding to pollute the Seine River, and passionately advocating for workers. Politely we ordered our beverages, cappuccinos, cafes, and a chocolate latte crafted to perfection and discussed the trials of living together for the first time since Gretchen's son tragically died in November.

An impending issue arises, so I depart briefly and discover upon climbing back up the spiral staircase that another leads up to the top of the cafe. A lanky, dark-skinned, dark-haired waiter notices me admiring the unique and narrow spiral staircase as I comment politely, "Wow, it's amazing! I sure wish I could climb that." He smiles and replies, "Of course Mad'am, welcome to Paris!"

Gingerly stepping up the creaky, antique stairs, I am transported to a private and intellectual room lined with small cafe tables, velvet couches, and recessed bookshelves.

Shakespeare and Company bookstore appears as the four of us now anxiously await the winding line leading to the promised land for a writer. Notre Dame in the background and Le Petit Chatelet directly next door, the remainder of our party of 8 joins us as we patiently wait at the front door to be escorted up yet another winding staircase to the 2nd floor of the restaurant.

Three courses designed with a unique palate in mind, I choose the escargot and mushroom soup contained in a Philo dough cover baked to a light brown crust.

Laughter, wine, and poached pears in a violet ice cream filled my heart and mind with joy and happiness that cannot be explained in words.

Rubber Duckies traveled with me as Jay's band name is Rubber Duckie Riot as seen in some of the pictures. He became the mascot of our Paris trip and the many that followed.

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Two small red bikes, topped with two young girls, stopped in front of a lovely house and swung open the perfectly placed screen door.  It was a quiet Friday evening in the 1960s and the street lights flickered.  They looked like that when it was time to go back home.  A sweet aroma of roasted chicken wafted through the white colonial home with blue shutters while the middle-aged midwestern parents spun around startled at the intrusion.  It was a colonial not unlike others.  A classic architectural style characterized by a simple yet delicate rectangular shape, with a large, blue wooden front door flanked by evenly spaced windows. The second-story windows align directly with those below with white-laced curtains that could be seen peaking out. Outside was draped in wood siding and the roof was pitched with side gables. Usually, the chimney seemed welcoming. The beautiful red wheels of freedom and childhood lay sprawled under the formal living room window.  Giggles and red splotchy faces race in and slide effortlessly into the country-styled kitchen.

"What time is dinner?" the girls asked cheerfully.

That's the moment, she'd say that everything changed.  Her mother's blonde hair cascaded gently down her back while she approached her daughters.  Pa stood peering out the window. You may not notice the strained look of worry in his eyes.  These eyes danced and sparkled for as long as the girls were present.  His work at the local paper, The Branson Beacon gave him such joy, as did his family, but not today.  Pa was not smiling.  His eyes were not dancing or sparking.  His effusive reaction to landing the editor of the Globe-Democrat seemed a distant memory despite it happening not 30 minutes before this conversation.

Donna ran with tear-stained cheeks to the place that no one else dared follow.  A 200-year-old oak tree towered over the house and yet today it seemed hollow.  Empty.  Lonely.

"I am never leaving.  I won't go!" her voice choked as she proclaimed, while simultaneously climbing HER tree. Her hands slowly caressed the carving of her initials, DR, thinking of all the moments spent in Branson, Missouri.  HER oak, HER bike, HER home, HER life.  The gentle sobbing could be faintly heard in the kitchen where she left her younger sister Janeyce and her parents stunned.  "This can't be happening," Donna repeated over and over in her mind. "This can't be happening."

Donna thought agonizingly over the prospect of leaving the walls of comfort and safety for the concrete jungle. After living in the small town, surrounded by family - her grandparents lived between home and school - she could not imagine having to lock the doors, the cars, or even the bikes.   She wrote feverishly in her journal that night and the twenty nights after that.  Pages filled with her anxious thoughts about the frightening big city.  She had often found comfort in her small town where eyes were always watching.  She couldn't bear the thought of leaving all she had ever known.  Michelle, her best friend knew the depths of her as their bond formed when they entered kindergarten.

"Would I make new friends?  Will I ever come back to visit my old friends?  Why do we have to move 6 hours away?"  Her journal was her confidant and this was no exception.

"We need to move to the city for more opportunities," her father's words echoed and reverberated in her head as the moving truck held all her memories.  A month of worrying and recognizing the storm within crept to an end.  She wiped her salty memories aside to remember what her mother told her the night the world stopped.

"Memories never disappear.  New memories are made that make the old ones fade.  That's why we write them down."

Donna vowed to perpetually use her lightsaber of words to mark down and savor each memory and moment in the new dark brown leather notebook that smelled suspiciously like the attic.  She knew she may never return to the only place she had ever known until this point.

Home is Branson.  Branson is home.

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Le Progres, a brassiere located at 1 rue de Bretagne for the writing seminar analyzing Bonjours Provence and The Old Patagonian Express for techniques and writer's craft. We learned how to weave a foreign language into our writing without making the reader frustrated they can't speak the language. We learned to use sensory details to show not tell. It is a technique I have attempted many times but have never been able to do well. Our mentor text, "The Old Patagonia Express" allowed a glimpse into building up a description so the reader escapes their lives transporting them to the place you aim for them to be.

Step by step.  My feet march to a familiar cadence.

Left, right.

Left, right.

Hurry to catch up with the friends I traveled towards this amazing opportunity.  Piercing pain pulses with each step.  Don’t stop.  I must keep up.

Left, right.

Left, right.

Gentle wind blows delicately across my face,  Most of the Parisians saunter through their day, taking in the ease of life.  They seem to gently experience the day - shopping, whispering, eating, sipping.  An ugly green-eyed monster emerges from my neck.  It reminds me of Venom when he approaches the criminal in the convenience store and devours its prey.

Bonjour!  The sound of hello startles me back for a moment as if there is a general concern from the smile spreading across my face.

My gaze stops at the sound of my melodies roommate singing more familiar tunes than the country she belted last night. “I’ve Got Sunshiiiiiine…On a Clouuuuu-dy Day…” I sing along as loudly as possible with Junie B. Jones, the Photographer, and me, the one they call The VOICE, while the navigator chirps, “This way to the cafe!”

“Yes!” I reply loudly, “Let’s take a selfie!”

We crouch on the corner of Cafe Progres and OMG that car isn’t stopping, to snap the photo.  There go my knees, I wince to myself.

Left, right.

Left, right.

Utter excitement and joy seem to surround us - french cadence whispers, the sugary aroma of delicate fruit and cheese, a warm wave of freshly baked baguettes, the click-clack of high heels, and the miles of “the war within” thoughts float away.

Normally there would be that inescapable creeping of doubt and failure.  My shoulders would slouch and crouch over my fake breast - do they notice?  It’s a new day here though; a new experience; a new breath of air; a new feeling of pride and joy.  I arrived.  At this moment, I dream of Nanny and Papa Joe - expression of gratitude; the smile of angels as they look upon my return to Europe.

Left, right

Left, right

Left, right

While pools of safety sweat trickle down the top to the small of my back, vibrations of small, electric cars with different names, growling noises of delivery trucks, and obnoxious honking of horns disrupt my brain chemistry allowing for the quick snap to reality.

Aiming to quiet the doubting chorus in my head, my focus turns to the unique signs scattered in the city - Cafe Cintron, Coco de Mairais, Natrualie, Pharmacia, and POP! - the cafe where the pen is mightier than the sword appears - fire engine red, white calligraphy - Le Progres.  I am certain my appearance reflects through…JERSEY!... a proud, confident voice bellows from my lips - too loud for Paris.  I am me.  There is no one like me.  GOD created me perhaps to jolt others awake or more alive than before.

Left, right.

Left, right,

Left, right.

No one in Paris looks up.  They don’t see the rows of iron-clad windows - intricate green and multi-colored leaves and flowers peeking out of vintage baskets.  Beauty is unmatched back home.  Something calls me here - Is it the whistle of street workers collectively altering ancient construction?  Is it the monstrous yet delicately carved doors strategically placed throughout the city?  Is it the pulse of the Resistance making my heart pump?  Is it the history steeped into every building constructed before America was conceived in liberty? Is it the steps I make that once housed the great writers - Simone de Beauvoir - and Ernest Hemingway?  Is it the group I am honored to know and further admire each moment?  Is it the absolute peace I feel?  Is it the crisp crunch of the euros swishing and clanking in my new canvas tote?  Is it the thought of desire for a calm and peaceful life?  Is it the quiet reflection of this journey?  Is it the sip and taste of each delectable morsel I have consumed?  Is it the gentle and slow cadence as we snap a selfie before entering our “class” on the 2nd floor of Cafe Le Progres?  Is it the notion of living carpe diem?  Is it the heavy anticipation of viewing La Tour Eiffel?  Is it the overwhelming excitement of music permeating the Navigator’s heart?

Left, right

Left, right

Left, right

Wandering out from Le Progres, the Fabulous Four of us spotted a live art exhibit, which reminded me of one of the episodes of Sex and The City when Charlotte and Carrie go to see a woman sitting alone as an exhibit.

We perched at Le Croco du Marais and wrote and chatted together as friends. Conversations are not always cheerful but friends bond regardless of the topics. Our writing seemed to open a can in all of us we were ready to receive.

We knew our scheduled dinner was in a different area of the city and prepared to walk there.

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The Navigator, Junie B., The Photographer, and Jersey arrived at Chez LouLou Bistro, a North African bistro decorated in gold labeled font and black tablecloths, transporting you to an African dream.

Tagine is their dish of all dishes and we dove head first into the experience with hot pots steaming on the table and paired red wine, good friends, and laughter.

Shortly afterward, we strolled to Duc des Lombards anxiously peering into the dark jazz club while thin French women in low whisper tones giggle with their partners and horns blare just as in any city in the world.

We snapped selfies and pictures with the fancy dresses we love but paled in comparison to some of the most fashionable women in the world - French women. As we stepped into the club, I noticed the dark and yet neon lights that seemed to pulse with energy. Our party was seated directly in front and the night carried us to help with the scat notes and a chance to meet the band! Before this night, I was considered too loud and the French would be intimidated by me. It turns out they loved me! We laughed, sang, and stayed for more than one set!

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Collage de Fotos Vertical Día de la Madre con Marcos Polaroid Beige y Azul Gris (3)

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Heather and I decided to spend the early morning writing a little before attending the class. La Cafe Creme, a pink and heart-filled decorated cafe brimming with love and even heart-shaped chairs inspired a poem about my grandmother's paella.

Filled with the excitement of purchasing tickets to tour the Eiffel Tower later in the day, the group including General Gretchen and Kind One, Tim plus the four of us, departed from our apartment at 5 Place de La Republique towards Le Croco du Marais for our writing seminar.

Patricia began by taking our coffee order and my typical cappuccino arrived shortly after with a small baguette, croissant, and marmalade. Every bite of food in Paris is carefully crafted from thoughtful ingredients unfettered by chemicals, like in the States. I am quite certain if I had the money and fortitude, I would never leave.

Reading "Tender To The Bone," and a critique by Phil Vettel, a food critic analyzes by writing phrases that secretly keep the reader thinking of what the object is, interjecting humor, and using simplistic words to capture the essence. To address this in our writing, we were given an object from France to craft metaphorical phrases for people to guess the object. Alana and I worked together on the Seine River. This is what we came up with that day:

pulsating breath

incessant importer

cultural conduit

suffocating and separating source

timeless transport

Sweltering heat simmers as we depart to a destination unknown to Patricia. It turns out she surprised us with lunch at her apartment; a gorgeous beige and ironclad building older than most of the buildings back home in Jersey. Trembling knees due to the intense walking seem to be a constant while we climb three flights on a spiral wooden staircase that doesn't seem to bother any of the Parisians. Patricia and Joe guided us through a taste adventure of raw and pasteurized Brie Cheese and baguettes from Popelini, a brasserie founded in 1540. As we did in the morning, a tasting exercise was done by being blindfolded to describe the food using metaphorical phrases. I could not contain my facial expression and gained a "Cheese Face" name.

Still sweating from the walk, we continued our journey to the Eiffel Tower. When I first laid eyes on the iconic structure known as the symbol of France, an awed look appeared on me. When faced with such history and beauty, attempting to breathe becomes difficult. Despite shortness of breath, I managed to take pictures as a gentleman climbed the outside waving a French flag. But that was 27 years ago and my goal was to meet the Pope for World Youth Day 1997. As we sauntered up towards the structure, awe overcame my body and the shortness of breath arrived first class mail. Our Tour Guide spoke French and English, giving us historical tidbits including the proper way to address Her Majesty; La Tour Eiffel, a fairly conceited move by Eiffel to build an apartment at the top, and the truth behind the symbol of the Olympics in Paris - the red hat worn by those that ran the French Revolution.

Constant pain in my knees and calves forced me to slow down a great deal climbing to the first level. The rest of the crew climbed to the second level and Heather to the top. Staring out at the wonderous and expansively vast city of Paris is a moment captured in time and one I won't soon forget. I took the time to shop for my family and called my mother briefly as I was beginning to feel a tug at my heartstrings. I had never experienced homesickness before. All the arguments seemed pointless and silly.

I missed everyone terribly.

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Collage de Fotos Vertical Día de la Madre con Marcos Polaroid Beige y Azul Gris (2)

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A young girl attempting to rise in the morning surrounded by a room full of aristocrats giggles uncomfortably. Striving to impress her new servants and royal family, seeking to dress in her opulent threads, and endeavoring to wake up, Marie Antionette's Lady in Waiting rookies to her giggles with "This is Versailles, Your Majesty."

The scene from the 1990s movie replays over in my mind. Why is it we imagine the lives of others as better than ours?

The Paris Crew embarked on the Tour de Versailles by stopping at the bike shop first. I have not ridden a bike in 6 years, since Minnesota with Vanessa, my travel roommate for the NEA RAs for the past 8 years. Her energy and penchant for fun and excitement fuel travel plans, and turned me into a traveler myself. Come to think of it, it's because of her that I love to travel and orchestrate tourist ideas.

An Australian well-built, tan twenty-something tour guide instructs us on our path to the market, what we could purchase to carry in our bike baskets, and what to expect as we ride through the streets of Paris.

"Leeeft! Riiiight! Single Fiiiile! Group Huuuuudle!" I became "The Voice" that day and I could not be more proud. Sara is a young blonde precocious 5th-grade girl from South Carolina. She recognizes, as does most of the 25 people in our tour that I am a teacher and a good one at that.

After 10 minutes, a market appears before us filled with every type of food available in four city blocks. We race to obtain Prosecco, Prosciutto, Brie, Hot Honey and baguettes.

Dave only gave us a 20-minute window and The Navigator, Photographer, Junie B, and The Voice did not waste any second. Perched back on our bikes in more than enough time, we departed towards the opulent palace I aimed to visit on the last trip here. Spread in front of us, draped in 18-karat gold, the house of kings and queens, thousands of servants, and countless acts of violence and sex.

This experience held my heart in my hand, flooding me with memories and inspiration to write, talk about, and smile about for years to come.

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Mentor Texts

If Bureaucrats Wrote Ads

Toujours Provence

Little Bee

The Son

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Last Day of Writing Seminar

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Memoir.From Paris to Haledon_ Lessons in Life and Learning

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Cream Simple Minimalist Photo Film Photo Collage

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Sauntering through the modern hospital-white Paris airport, I spot an open row of blue-grey leather seats. Ahhh quiet.

Meandering, anxious thoughts dance in my head before drifting off to sleep.

Upon waking, an exquisitely dressed woman sits one seat away.

"These creaming kids are driving me a little batty," the forceful voice escaping my lip states.

Dressed in an all-cream loose linen two-piece pants and short sleeve top, her hair hidden under a cream silk head wrap, an exquisite woman all of 50 years old voice like the soft tamber of a European woman replies, "Isn't he with an adult?" I am instantly drawn into her, capturing every word slowly fumbling from her mouth. She speaks to me in perfect English but to her husband and daughter-Arabic. The gentle and maternal Mona opens a door to a world of gold-adorned palaces, and stacked apartment buildings grey and beige with age and beauty as we speak of the class system in Europe.

"I'm headed to the States," the words seem to dance now that Magnificent Mona sits leaning over towards me gently and elegantly. Her chocolate brown eyes sparkled as she delightfully drawled, informing me she was American as well. "We live in Florida," she announces while the perfectly white teeth flash into a smile that shines and bounces from the light above.