Paris When It Sizzles

"We are all angels with just one wing," Michele said. "It is only with our true love that we can fly." Over my frog legs and escargot, I simultaneously thought: Where am I? Who is this man? And...I'm so happy.

Even after a few glasses of amazing red wine, the first answer was fairly easy: The City of Lights. The City of Love. Paris. 

As for the second, I wondered what my mother would think. And we all know that is never a good thing. In a relatively unknown city, one of my two travel buddies decided we must go to dinner with someone she met many years ago. Before I knew it, I was crammed in the back of a mini cooper, weaving in and out of traffic at the mercy of an older Parisian man.

Eiffel Tower (Summer Storm), 1927, Andre Kertesz --- seemed an appropriate illustration for my feelings at the time.       Mom, stop worrying. I'm home safe.

I, of course, trusted Anne (and her wile ways), and in the end, it was well worth it. The truth of the matter was: Michele was absolutely lovely. With a beautiful French accent and idyllic stories—the night was made of the stuff you read in novels.

It was more than a year ago now, but a few things still stand in my mind. The setting was poetic. Nothing of note from the outside, but when we opened the door, it was like stepping onto a movie set. Bustling waiters. Wafting cuisine. Pure Parisian French swirling in the air. White tablecloths and quaint decor.

Inevitably, they knew our companion, so we were quickly ushered to our table. Michele, still a relatively unknown entity, says he will order for each of us (if we don't mind, of course). "This ought to be good," I thought. And to this day, I still don't know how a man I just met found such a perfect meal for me (that's right...number 2).  

After ordering, the very French chef ran from the kitchen and straight out the door. The girls and I looked at each other quizzically, but just as quickly as he left, he was back. This time carrying a small "package" under is arm. "Lovely!" Michele declared, waving the chef over for the Americans to see. I kid you not: wrapped in a crisp white napkin was the pigeon soon to be cooked for the table next to ours' dinner. And they wanted us to pet it!  Talk about fresh food. Only in Paris.

And so it went with wine and stories and more wine.

The rest of the night has slipped into the hazy corners of my mind, but I'm certain that no matter how much I lose to my fleeting memory, the feeling will last.  I will remain forever charmed by our night of foreign adventures.