Je aime Paris et je suis Charlie

Paris in the rain (2013)

Je aime Paris et je suis Charlie.

I am an American, a bit of a writer, and a thoroughly smitten Francophile. Oh, how I do love Paris, a place I discovered late in life. I had not traveled much until I approached 50 and met the man who was to become my husband. Al took me to Paris for the first time. We became engaged on that first trip a little over eight years ago and now it is hard to stay away.  I couldn't believe that the city was real. It was as if every block, every tree, every window was filled with some kind of special magic. I couldn't believe that I was really there and no matter how often I go I still feel that way.

A year or so ago I took this picture from the back seat of a taxi as Al and I were driven from Charles de Gaulle airport to our apartment in Paris. Although it was pouring rain I couldn't stop snapping pictures. I was so excited to be back. What is it about a place that touches your heart?  if you are lucky in your life you will find your place.  For one person it is a town surrounded by snow capped mountains, for another it is the ocean, for yet another it is that ocean or that village. Different places hold that magic for different people.

For Al and me it is Paris. There is nothing like that first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower and the Seine. And, the bridges. And, the rooftops. And, the people, the texture and feel of the language. The long-awaited taste of real chocolate mousse. The city resonates for us - with memories, with beauty-inspired awe, with flavors, with history, with culture. We both could talk without end about facets of Paris that captivate us. Every time we go we discover new things, old things, ancient things. Within days of returning home we long to go back.

The shootings at Charlie Hebdo were mere yards away from where we once strolled along Promenade Plante (an elevated park that inspired New York's High Line) with my stepchildren Summer and Jordan. That day spattered rain here and there. The flowers along the promenade were bursting with color and intrigue. The beautiful memory of a daughter now gone, of a son now in college, of flowers now dormant, makes the horrors of the massacre in Paris too real and too close. Just as I once couldn't believe Paris really existed, two days ago I also believed something this horrible couldn't really exist. No, that's not what I mean. I was in Sarajevo right after the war. I work on behalf of children in Syrian refugee camps in Lebanon and beyond. This is just so close to my heart's home and it rips apart my dream. It is all the more raw and terrifying for existing where I go to find my magic.  Leave my city and its people alone.

The insanity of the past 50 or 60 hours reveals yet again that for too many on this planet nothing that is good about life is sacred. Truth is not sacred, nor is beauty, love nor life itself. The horrific face of this version of war is ripped, shredded and dripping with blood. All because someone dares poke fun at that which is sacred to those who will tolerate no other views but their own.

Last night we ate a a local French bistro that is simply and truly French. The rooms were filled with signs of "Je suis Charlie". It was Al's birthday and I gave him this picture, enlarged and framed. It is the picture of more than a dream. It is our hearts' home and our hearts ache for her today.

Al with his birthday gift at Anis in Atlanta.