A remembrance of prose and places past: here’s looking at you, Paris

Toujours les yeux.  Always look with the eyes.

That first night of our joint birthday trip (where else to usher in 30 but Paris?) Joan and I wandered into the little neighborhood spot down the street from my sister’s apartment in the 17th. I was proud of my sister for choosing to live solely on her student stipend during her year in Paris and was eager to see the city through her eyes (or at least budget) – the city that had eluded me on earlier trips when I was cushioned by expense accounts (corporate or parental). 

The bartender, an unsteady character from Marseilles, gave us instruction in how to toast.  Toujours les yeux, always look at the person you’re toasting.  We raised our glasses and gazed into each other’s eyes first seriously and then less so.  It was my first glass of celebratory Orangina of the trip, Joan’s first glass of something a bit more alcoholic, and his – well, his didn’t matter. I wasn’t much for making friends in bars stateside or abroad. 

But Joan was more social and eager to show off her Coffee Break French fluency and so here we were, taking etiquette lessons from an unsteady character – his quite substantial alcohol intake having little to do with my assessment of his character. In his defense, it’s quite possible I was projecting a sort of Maylesian characterization onto an otherwise upright citizen.  Quite possible, not certain. 

Regardless, he held our attention until the later hours of the night. No matter the time, February in Paris felt like it was on the edge of evening with its steely dank dreariness. But hour finally became late enough for me to relax into sleep drunken looseness long enough to show off my somewhat limited Latin dancing skills.  They were enough to get by in that little neighborhood spot, if nowhere else. 

Toujours les yeux.

It would become our mantra during that trip as we took our time getting through Paris.  Every small triumph over the city, its language, and its public transportation systems (the bus became our favorite way of getting through the hours between site seeing and dinner), became an occasion to find a glass to clink and a gaze to meet. 

There were occasions when I didn’t feel much like celebrating – like the afternoon in the sandwich shop where my years of French failed me in the most basic of exchanges – one where Joan and her Coffee Break French would once again prevail.  He’s not asking you if you want to take the sandwich to go…oh, don’t look away – remember, toujours les yeux. 

Right. Toujours les yeux.

My eyes in Paris were more adventurous and gladly took in the more local haunts that my sister took us to, including the restaurants serving up ostrich, kangaroo, and other less identifiable meats. I would ignore the fact of sitting so close to the kitchen in a Vietnamese restaurant that our backs were up against the refrigerator and I would stare studiously at the rugby matches in progress at the bar that felt more like an English pub as I tried to cheer like the rest of the patrons and Joan, all deep into ales, stouts, and other drinks that made my Orangina (glass #124, it would seem) pale in comparison. 

We would return from that trip, awash in affection for that city and images to remember it by. It’s February once again. I’m a bit beyond 30 this time around. But, as I raise my glass this month, I’m keeping my eyes wide open - who knows where my gaze will land next…

-Ara Tucker, 2013