PARIS
You will fall in love with Paris, but she will never love you the same way. And if are not careful, she will break your heart.
I think this is why Paris, the alluring femme fatale of Europe, has such a tragic history.
You can’t help feeling for all the lovers who came before you and had their moment of glory, before they were cast away: Henry XIV and Marie Antoinette; Napoleon and Josephine; Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Henry Miller, Anais Nin. The bridges and boulevards bear the names of her heartless conquests.
But there is a way of getting over this broken heart, and that is to love Paris unconditionally, as you love your children.
I was feeling unrequited love this rainy morning, our fifth in a 2-star hotel near the Gare de Lyon. I needed a hug.
So I said to my just-awakened daughter, pretending to sleep in her rumpled flannel pajamas patterned with baby hedgehogs, “Dada need hug.”
“Nug,” she grunted, bristling like a hedgehog.
“Please, Dada need hug,” I begged, mockingly.
“Nug.”
I turned to my sleepy-eyed son, snuggled in the next bed.
“I got up with you twice last night,” I said, stroking his tousled hair. ”Do you remember?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” I rubbed his smooth cheek, the scrawny shoulders where muscles are beginning to grow.
“I love you, sleepyhead,” I said, drawing him close.
He pulled away, buzzing like an angry bee. “Daddy, do you know why no one likes to hug you?”
“Why?” I braced myself.
“Because your beard is scratchy, and you’re bald, and you have hair on your back, and you have a fat tummy.”
Having enumerated my flaws, he burrowed his nose into my soft belly, nuzzling contentedly.
So much for being comforted by my children. You shine your unconditional love on them; they soak it up and grow like sunflowers. And then a cloud flies over, and you feel the chill of mortality. You need their warmth, and they push you away and complain about your bodily imperfections, which they find humorous.
I’m not hurt, not really, because Paris has taught me to love without asking back.
