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paris in pink LIVING WELL IS INDEED THE BEST REVENGE. 
| excerpt | Travelers' Tales Guides: PARIS
+ + + + + + + + BY KATYA MACKLOVICH It wasn't supposed to be this way. Me sitting alone at Les Deux Magots trying to make glass after glass of vin ordinaire fill the expanse of a hot September afternoon. I was supposed to be in Paris with Tim, the man I had been living with for the last two years, the man who had hinted for months that he was going to ask me to marry him somewhere in this city of romance. We had planned this trip together for nearly a year. We had made lists of all the places we would see. For months I had practiced accepting his proposal while dreaming of the moment I would be transported forever out of the dungeon of single supplements and spinsterhood. Instead, one night three weeks before we were to leave for Paris, Tim told me that he didn't love me anymore, wanted me to move out as soon as possible, and I could have the tickets to Paris, he had other plans. His other plans were SooZan, the former wife of his best friend: a woman as pretentious and phony as the spelling of her name. She called. Tim ran to her. I got booted. I have very little memory of the next three weeks. I truly don't know how I managed to pack, to get on the airplane or even how I got to the Hôtel du Quai Voltaire, the small, antique-filled hotel we had chosen because it had sounded so romantic: all its rooms had French windows opening onto the Seine, with the Louvre as backdrop. All I remember is my friend Debbie telling me that if I wanted to regain my confidence with men, I needed to parade myself down the boulevards of Paris, tout de suite, and let the men follow after me like poodles in heat. "If you stay home and wallow in self-pity, you'll find that by the time you're ready to get back out there, you'll have become ITM," she warned me. ITM was Debbie-talk for "Invisible to Men," a state of perennial spinsterhood and a purgatory of the worst kind. So I went to Paris alone, a sad, frowzy 35-year-old. I dragged myself down the Champs Elysées, the rue de Rivoli, and the other boulevards. I scanned the city from the rooftop café at La Samaritaine, paraded myself through the corridors of the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay and L'Orangerie, and took bus tours to the Eiffel Tower, Napoleon's tomb and Sacré-Coeur. Not a sniff. Not even a leer, or a wink. Nothing. I had indeed become ITM, a truly unpleasant state in a city that was certainly God's prototype for Noah's Ark. For five nights I lay awake weeping. I left the windows wide open to let in the breeze off the river. But the open windows also let in the light and noise of the bateaux mouches, the boats that plowed up and down the river until well past midnight, playing music, displaying silhouettes of lovers embracing along their rails, and periodically shining spotlights onto couples kissing, and more, along the river's walks. I was being smacked hard with reminders of what I had lost. I had never been to Paris before and now the city would be so associated with these lonely memories that I didn't think I could bear to ever come back. I had been sitting at this prime sidewalk table for hours, determined to get drunk. Instead all that I was developing was a ripping great migraine from the lethal combination of strangling heat, the rivers of vin rouge I had been consuming, and the incessant chords of an accordion player on the corner, who swayed rhythmically while producing noises like frogs being passed through a sieve, in three-quarter time. Meanwhile, my waiter was trying to mentally levitate me away from this famous café and across the boulevard St-Germain to some other establishment at which he collected no tips. I started crying. My face got red and wet, my nose ran. "Madame, Madame," my waiter said, shaking his head sympathetically at me. "Thees man you cry for ees not worth it." And then he handed me a napkin to blow my nose in. I nodded, thanked him, paid my bill and went back to my hotel room. How did he know? How embarrassing! I decided to leave Paris, to take a train somewhere else for a few days. I found the number my British friend Michael had given me for his old school chum who lived in the Hague and worked for NATO. The Netherlands, perfect. Perhaps he was someone with whom I could have a drink or share a meal. I dialed the number and a voice, rich and burnished by years in an English public school, confirmed that he was indeed Neville Darnay. I told him that I was a friend of Michael's, currently in Paris but thinking of traveling up to the Hague. Could we get together for a drink, perhaps? In a voice as smooth and creamy as caramel, he told me that he was going to be in Paris the next day for a meeting. If it finished early enough, perhaps we could have that drink in Paris? He took my hotel number and promised to call either way. No trip to the Hague for me. The next morning I felt better for some reason. Perhaps getting drunk really did help. Perhaps it was the prospect of sitting and talking in English with a native speaker, even if it was only for a few hours. I decided that I would pamper myself, treat myself to some new clothes from Le Bon Marche. I bought three clinging summer dresses, all in different shades of pink. "Je déteste rouge," I had protested to the saleswoman. "Oh but pink, eet ees Madame's color, and eet shows off Madame's figure so well," I had been assured. I was talked into a pair of pale pink sandals as well. I wore one of the dresses out of the store. It was cooler and lighter than any clothes I had brought with me. As I walked back towards the hotel, a man on the street smiled at me. "Ça va?" he said. I smiled back. Then an old man doffed his cap at me and smiled a toothless grin. I smiled. "What was going on here? Was it the dress? Was that all it took, a skimpy, thin, pink dress?" I wondered. But it did seem as simple as that. Suddenly, men of all ages were nodding, and smiling, and acknowledging my presence as I swished past. I decided to go completely mad, and spent the afternoon having the gray in my hair replaced by the reddish highlights I had had as a child, a shorter haircut, a manicure, a pedicure, a massage. By late afternoon I was poorer, but pink and perfumed. At the hotel, Neville had left a message to meet him in the bar at the George V Hotel at five o'clock. I decided to take my time and walk slowly across the river, through the Jardin des Tuileries, and along the Champs Elysées. This time I saw men's eyes follow me, undress me. I walked slower, exaggerated the swing of my hips. An old man with brown teeth offered to buy me dinner. I declined politely. By the time I got to the hotel bar, I was feeling as sexy as I had ever felt, and then I saw what had to be him: a handsome man in a pale blue shirt, pale linen suit and large brown briefcase. He looked crisp and English. He had shaggy, graying hair and a moustache. I froze for a moment. He was almost too good-looking! "Neville?" I inquired. "Katya?" he replied. I smiled, and he stood up, held out his hand and escorted me to a chair. We ordered some wine and talked. First about Michael, then about nearly everything else: our work, the theater, movies, books, politics. I saw nothing in that room but him. After more than two hours I asked him when he had to leave. He asked me if I was hungry. I nodded. He made a telephone call and then we took a cab to the restaurant, Campagne et Provence, along the Quai de la Tournelle. The food had the full-bodied flavor of the south of France. His voice had the rich romantic tones of the actor Ronald Colman. We drank champagne. I smiled a lot. I was light-headed and falling in love. I have no recollection of the decor, or the other diners. I only saw him across from me. Dessert was a tarte tatin served with a dollop of lavender ice cream, fragrant with the scent of the pale purple flowers. He scooped some ice cream onto a spoon and beckoned me to lean forward and open my mouth. He fed me. He fed me some more, and then he leaned across the table and kissed me hard, his tongue sharing the taste of apples and flowers with me. I felt the tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise. My heart beat so wildly I was certain he could see it through the thin fabric of my dress. "Let's go," he whispered. I was powerless to refuse. I didn't want to refuse. We walked along the river. The sky above the twin towers of Notre Dame was lapis blue streaked with deep pink. A full moon was rising. He took my hand, then he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me to him. I had the chills, I was shaking. We stopped. He pulled me closer and we kissed, at first slowly, just lips, then our mouths began devouring each other. His hands teased the small of my back, while my hands found their way under his shirt. My temperature rose wildly and I felt my nipples harden, my crotch pulse. A bateau mouche slipped past us on the river, and suddenly we were bathed in bright pink light. From the boat came whistles and applause. "Oh my God!" I shouted. "We're making love in public." "Hmmm," he said while nibbling the cradle of my neck. And then the boat moved on, the light was gone, and he held me against him. His heart was beating as fast as mine. I was melting into him. We climbed back up to the street. At the foot of the boulevard St-Michel, a young man was playing a tarantella on the accordion. People were strolling about. It was a warm, calm night. Neville let go of me and I momentarily thought I would crumple. He dropped some coins into the man's hat, whispered something; the man nodded. With a flourish, the man started playing "La Vie en Rose," a song made famous by Edith Piaf, a song I had always thought downright sappy. "Do you know this song?" he asked me. I nodded. It was the story of a woman telling how, when her lover held her close in his arms, all of the troubles of life disappeared from view, and for that moment life was beautiful, pink and rosy: la vie en rose. "I asked him to play it for you," he said. Then he kissed me gently. I trembled. I listened to the music as Neville pressed me to him. He stood behind me and encircled me with his arms. I had been wrong. It was a lovely song. The accordion was a lovely instrument. Everything was lovely. Then the song ended and I was back in reality. "Don't you have to leave?" I asked. "I don't have to be back until Monday," he answered. "But, aren't you married?" He nodded. "She's decided to stay in the Algarve another few weeks." I didn't need to know anything else. We went back to my room and made love by the pale pink light of the moon. Then we ran the bath and slept in each other's arms in the cooling water. We spent the next three days together: eating, making love, sitting in cafés staring into each other's eyes, holding hands. We wandered about the bookstores of the Left Bank, and bought each other tiny gifts from the bouquinistes along the river. At night, I would put on a new pink dress and we would dine elegantly, drink fine wine and champagne. Then, Neville would take me in his arms as we sat someplace with a view; the steps of Sacré-Coeur, the top of the Eiffel Tower, the tip of the Ile St-Louis. We synchronized our breathing. We found secret places to make love while Paris winked her glowing pink lights knowingly in our direction. And then we'd go back to the hotel and make love again. It was the best three days of my life. Early Monday morning I rode in the taxi with Neville to the Gare du Nord. We stood on the platform entangled in each other until the train started to leave. He ran on board, and then poked his head out a window and blew me a kiss. I stood on the platform watching his train disappear. His scent lingered about me, and I could still feel his last kiss. I was too happy to cry. I have been back to Paris many, many times since. I always wear pink. And I always stop and secretly smile whenever I hear the accordion.
Katya Macklovich was stolen by gypsies when she was a little girl. Although she was ultimately recovered by her grandfather, that brief experience gave her a taste for adventure and travel that shall last the length of her life. She is an artist and poet living in San Francisco, at least for now. + + + + + + + + + + + + Copyright © 1997 Travelers' Tales, Inc. and Katya Macklovich. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of the publisher and Katya Macklovich.
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