How We Talk About Paris

Every now and then Jody and I talk about moving to Paris, at least for a few months at a time, and, perish the thought, perhaps permanently. The latter is only occasionally a daunting thought. Does it mean we sell what we can and give family heirlooms (e.g., the baby grand I inherited from my mother) to our siblings and children, a sort of pre-death bequeath? 

What about the quaint 1890‘s Victorian house we have lived in and assiduously remodeled for over a decade? It has become such an expression of who we are that giving it up raises existential issues. Would a move to Paris mean a renunciation of our lives or merely be an acquiescence of the fact that our lives have evolved?

We are living comfortably right now even in these times of economic duress. Not that we are unaware of the need to retrench and pare down, donate to the less fortunate, recycle, and be socially and politically involved with our community. But the gnawing notion about moving to a city we love, geographically disconnected from grandchildren, relatives and friends is insidious: it sublimates to the surface of our conversations at the oddest times.

After a Roseanne Rosannadanna moment (e.g., a dead washing machine costing an inordinate amount of money to replace) the conversation usually begins like this.

“Why shouldn't we live in Paris?”, Jody muses looking out at the yard she has worked so hard to make nature perfect.

I know exactly what she is thinking. Another Spring.

I let my mind wander. Could I really do it? First of all, actually retire from a three-day-a-week pediatric practice I love. I made the move with a partner three years ago. She works the two days I do not. Months after the change, one of my patients asked me when I was going to retire.

I said, ”No idea. I can do this for a long time.”

“Oh,” she replied. “So pediatrics has become your hobby.”

I was not sure how to take that since dictionary.com defines a hobby as “an activity or interest pursued for pleasure or relaxation and not as a main occupation”. I decided that in the context of a life of which medicine was a part, that it was a compliment.

As my mind continued to fantasize I considered the joys of making any one of a myriad of neighborhood cafes my own, and having a lighter-than-air croissant in patisseries on every corner, visiting esoteric church concerts and daily open air markets, having Wifi available everywhere, and enjoying the simple pleasure of becoming a true flanuer (apologies to Edmund Wilson).

Coming back to our intermittently evanescent conversation, we allowed that one way to figure out if we could live the rest of our lives as Francophiles in the city of our dreams would be to try a gradual move. No big changes or commitments, just a trial month or two.

The discussion remains in the background of our lives until something culls it forth.

Yesterday I want to a friend’s funeral. Tony was an actor and local luminary. An imposing physical presence with a distinctively booming voice and a vast community of friends.

He had had lung cancer and wrote his own obituary as well as orchestrated his funeral.

The Episcopal church was brimming with celebrants and mourners. After the one and one half hour service, the recessional left the church with his ashes to the strains of, “I’ll Be Seeing You”, a 1925 wistful ballad popularized by Billie Holiday, sung by one of Tony’s actress/friends. 

The body of the song includes the lines:

I'll be seeing you
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day through.
In that small cafe
The park across the way.....

And I thought of Paris and said to myself, “Why not?”