She’s Broken

The night before, while at dinner with a friend, I realized I needed to fly home early to LA for work meetings. That meant I had only one more day to enjoy Paris (and repack my suitcase that had been prepared to stay three more weeks). I was relieved almost to be going home, even though for the past couple of years, Paris had lived in my mind as ‘the goal,’ — the refuge of sorts. When a job felt suffocating, when I was sad or when my thoughts turned dark, I’d dream a cliche dream that was still mine — and that was Paris.

I’d imagine slow mornings, books and coffee in hand. I’d picture myself wandering down streets with nothing to hurry back for.

There had been dark stretches when travel felt impossible, when I couldn’t even really imagine wanting to again anyways.

So when I arrived in Paris to my apartment for the week (I was doing an apartment swap with a girl who was staying at my place in LA), it was this bizarre mix of ‘wow, I am here, I made it.’ But also… now what?

On my last Saturday in Paris, I left the apartment wearing white linen and carrying my camera, my journal, five chapsticks, blush, and my eyelash curler — all neatly tucked in my black tote. I grabbed a taxi and went straight to Shakespeare and Co. Every other bookstore I’d visited sold only French books… and besides, I love Shakespeare and Co.

I remembered visiting first when I was eighteen, after graduating high school, staying for hours while my family waited patiently outside. They eventually gave up on me — she's happy, let’s let her be — and wandered off while I stayed upstairs reading with strangers, listening to someone playing piano in the next room. When I felt complete, I left a note for a stranger in the book I was reading. I wonder who found my note.

I arrived at the familiar intersection that day and made my way down the pathway to the store. The line wasn't too long, though one boyfriend was clearly trying to cut ahead of me. I watched as people filled up their water bottles at the fountain and took pictures under the awning. I put my phone in my bag and walked inside when it was my turn.

I found myself putting so much pressure on finding the ‘right book’ … to symbolize whatever this experience meant. I was trying too hard, and I knew that too.

I picked up a few — Mary Oliver’s Felicity and this other book called We Would Have Told Each Other Everything by Judith Hermann. I wasn’t so sure about either but I was thirsty. I put back the Goldfinch and Men Without Women — they were too heavy and to be honest, I had enough Hemingway — lmao.

I paid and put the books in my tote… I went to the café next door because 1. I needed water 2. I needed a sweet treat and coffee and 3. I knew there was a bathroom there.

I got my flat white and called mom and dad as I walked down by the river… past Notre Dame and past an old man playing the violin. There were few clouds in the sky — not too hot, not that crowded either.

I stopped at the bouquinistes for the first time ever, buying a Casablanca print for mom and a map of Cambodia for me. I found a cool nude photograph of a woman twirling under the leaves of a beautiful willow.

I pulled out my camera at the first bridge, photographing the river before wandering into a small park on my right side. It housed a beautiful willow tree, fresh lavender, and a gravel walk.

I photographed a couple on a bench by the water, his hand resting gently on her back. He smiled adoringly at whatever she was saying.

I continued to the next bridge, photographing the steady stream of people crossing, including an older couple holding hands and who never let go.

Across from them was a young couple stealing a kiss.

And a street performer taking a quick break.

There were two guys wearing shorts and high socks and berets.

Below, a boat drifted by carrying friends down the river, observed by strangers sipping wine and eating ice cream… Life as mutual theater, it would seem.

I found myself at a street corner that I somehow always find but never know the name of… I thought about stopping for some strawberry ice cream but kept walking — the line was too long.

From there, I didn’t have a destination in mind. I just continued walking — turning left when I felt like it and then right when I wanted. I walked down a sweet pedestrian street and into a gallery because I saw a painting with a bowl of oranges in the window.

“Do you have any lemons,” I asked the woman. Her sweet black schnauzer danced at the top of the steps, desperate to say hello but clearly under strict orders to stay put.

“He’s not allowed down the steps,” she explained.

I came up the stairs to meet him instead.

“And, yes,” she pointed to a massive painting of lemons on the wall.

I laughed because lemons were (and are) my sign. But these couldn't come home in my suitcase. Bye-bye, cute schnauzer.

I left the gallery and admired a cute grocer across the street.

I wandered into a store that sold Middle Eastern clothes — and then another that sold silk. I saw a beautiful red silk dress in the window. I wanted her but “she wasn’t done yet,” the tailor wouldn’t be back for another couple of hours.

I walked past a Swedish museum and peeked in. It had a sweet courtyard with beautiful flowers. I thought about going in, but I didn’t really want to.

I continued down that same street and stumbled upon an antique store with a charming red awning. I stepped inside and knew the drill: no bags in a place like this.

I peeled off my heavy tote and the white plastic bag holding my Cambodia map and prints for mom. The owner was grateful — and impressed — that he didn’t have to ask.

“Please, place it here,” he said and pointed at a nearby chair.

With my camera around my neck, I walked slowly about the store. It was a small store — only one large room and then a smaller study. It wasn’t overwhelming — if anything it was a quite sparse — and so I took my time studying all of his pieces, knowing that each one was very special.

I asked him if this was his store and he said, “yes.”

I asked him if it was okay if I took photos, and he said, “yes, of course.”

I asked him if he had any boxes.

He said, “yes, look here,” and he pointed to a glass cabinet in the corner by the entrance.

I pointed to a brass box and asked if I could see it.

“Yes, but she’s broken,” he said.

She’s broken.

“She’s beautiful,” I said.

“What about her?” I asked him pointing to a small wooden box with what looked like birds engraved on it.

“Oh yes, this is a jewelry box — for your necklace or for your watch or for whatever you want. She’s a little broken too,” he replied.

“I love boxes,” I told him.

“Well did you see this?” He turned around to point to an 18th century Chinese cabinet.

“See look,” he said as he opened the cabinet doors to reveal over two dozen drawers, “lots of boxes,” he grinned.

He was giddy — and so was I.

How fun that he got to share with me what he loves — and that I loved it in return.

He was very sweet and made me happy and so I bought the wooden jewelry box.

“One day, when I move here, I will buy more,” I told him.

He was packing up my box in a red envelope that had “Arthur” engraved on it.

“Is your name Arthur?” I asked.

“No, Aldo,” he replied.

He worked diligently behind his Mac desktop from probably 2005. He was just doing what he loved and sharing that with other people. He made my day.

I asked him where I should eat lunch, and he told me that the pizza place next door was very good, but that he loved the cafe down the street — “it is rouge,” he said.

He led me out and thanked me for stopping by and that he hoped he’d see me again. I took a photo of him at the door — I am going to print it and mail it to him.

Walking toward the cafe, I passed two women carrying a bouquet of flowers.

I found the rouge cafe and claimed a table outside. They weren’t serving food (classic) and so I ordered a sparkling water and a glass of Chablis. I pulled out my Rhubarb coffee cake that I’d bought earlier at Shakespeare & Co.

I reached for Felicity in my bag — it was short and I’d never really read Mary Oliver before despite being a fan. I opened it to the first page and was flabbergasted.

I grinned — but, of course.

The first page read, “Do not worry. Things take the time they take…”

I send this quote to my friends literally anytime they are going through something. Clearly I needed this reminder today, too: things take the time they take — don’t worry.

I could never have picked the “wrong book” — because I just so happened to pick the perfect one without trying.

I wrote and read and sipped my wine. I saw a dad cradling his newborn baby in one hand. I saw teenagers walking by laughing and holding hands and… wanting to hold hands.

After finishing my book, my feet were absolutely killing me but I wanted to be near the water for my last sunset.

So I set off in what I hoped was the direction of the water, zigzagging through streets based on instinct. I kept seeing lemons. To me that meant, keep going — you will know when to stop.

I passed by a cute children’s store and bought Annie a french rabbit. She was a week old!

I continued and saw another lemon. Within the last five minutes, I’d seen two in a window and one on a man’s shirt. Hilarious.

I could now see the water, and I opted for the first restaurant on the corner. Families were dressed nicely and eating in the dining room. It seemed like a special occasion spot, and I wanted to treat myself tonight.

I ran to the restroom upstairs, curled my eyelashes, put on some blush and fresh lipstick, combed my hair and made my way to the hostess, who showed me to my table outside.

I sat down and placed my bags under the table. I ordered a glass of champagne and pulled out my other book, We Would’ve Told Each Other Everything.

It was absolutely gorgeous out — I ordered escargots and chateaubriand.

I paid and even though my feet were (still) hurting, I wanted to walk across the bridge and stare at the water in the afterglow of the sunset.

Watching people watch the sunset is one of my favorite things — maybe one of the most human rituals there is actually. A few minutes each day when everyone has permission to simply stop and admire something beautiful.

I stopped to take a picture of two British couples on holiday. They thanked me, and I kept walking only to start laughing.

I was at the same bridge, SAME INTERSECTION, as the one I’d walked across six hours earlier. I’d led myself back to the same spot without a map.

Sometimes the universe makes you smile… sometimes you just have to rest in this absolute knowing that yes, we are being guided by something greater — but we are being guided by ourselves too.

My instincts — that’s God and that’s me.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I retraced my steps back over the bridges and into a cab. I settled in for the ride home. Shortly thereafter someone cut us off in traffic.

My driver laid angrily on the horn and shouted something along the lines of,

'These damn drivers. Nobody has any clue where they're going!'

I smiled wider. I was starting to.