Traveling home
The day was long, and everyone was exhausted.
In a past life, many years ago, I was a ballerina. My instructor was a lean, muscular, cigarette-toting Russian man. He was fabulous. He used to call me “cool one” because I showed up in sunglasses to each rehearsal. Though he wasn’t French, to me he seemed markedly Parisian. The dream began. I would land one day in France.
Two days ago, I arrived in Paris with tan, oval-shaped sunglasses perched on the tip of my nose. My ballet instructor’s thick accent permeated my skull once again. “Cool one,” he said. I had arrived in Paris, the dream realized.
A few days later, the 15 of us cruised down the Seine River. As we floated along the banks, Édith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose” began to play, or maybe I just heard it in my head. Nonetheless, the romantic, magical feeling of Paris intoxicated me as I gazed at the city from its life source.
During the river tour, a virtual guide spoke over an intercom in 14 different languages. Paris is one of the largest metropolitan cities in the world. The plethora of diverse languages was another reminder of the millions of tourists the city hosts each year. I was one of several million in awe of the city of love. In English, the words the tour guide spoke will stay with me forever: “Enjoy — An eternal Paris, a romantic Paris.”
Far in the distance, you could see Montmartre, a village situated atop the largest hill in Paris. I had walked through Montmartre barely 24 hours prior. The streets in Montmartre are cobblestone and charming. The vineyards are barren for the winter, but flowers grow along the outskirts of the gardens. A young couple stood on the steps of the Basilica on Montmarte. They embraced and kissed. He spoke to her in a language I could not understand. But I understood somehow. It’s the kind of thing that makes you believe.
I gazed at Montmartre from the Seine. It was high above me. That moment will always be high above me. For now, I try to clutch the memory tight to my chest, imprinting it upon my chest.
On our right, we passed the Musée d’Orsay, a museum famous for its collection of impressionist paintings. It is home to the largest collection in the world of Monet, Manet, Pissaro, and Renoir paintings. As I looked at the museum situated along the Seine, I pictured Monet standing on its banks centuries before. The eternal Paris, the romantic Paris — its artists have been immortalized, too.
The first time I saw Monet’s “The Artists Garden at Giverny,” I was the ballerina. I thought of her, of the Parisian dream. I looked at the Musée d’Orsay. I wanted to cry. Not for sadness, not for happiness, but for gratitude in being alive. That feeling is something deeper than emotion. It is a deep pit that registers first in your heart, moves slowly toward your brain, and precipitates down your cheeks. You can’t fight it. Bring your handkerchief to the Seine.
Just before the tears fell, I swung open the door to stand on the boat’s lower deck. The air was cool, and a sweeping wind broke the curl pattern in my hair. You can’t fight that either. Bring your scarf to the Seine.
I leaned over the deck and looked at the banks of the river. Beautiful willow trees hung along the banks. Parisians sat huddled together on benches. Some kissed, some played with their perfectly groomed dogs, some enjoyed a quaint picnic. The windchill fights the Parisians tooth and nail, but they fight back with chic coats and chiffon scarves. The Seine draws them together on its banks, no matter the weather.
I looked at the beautiful buildings, the iron spire balconies where the locals hang their laundry and arrange their flower pots. The craftsmanship of the monuments and the apartment buildings is alluring, dreamlike. They are relics of centuries past, testaments to the longevity of a city so vast and passionately maintained. The charm of the cobblestone streets, the Parisians along the banks of the Seine under the willow trees, and “La Vie en Rose” are imprinted in my memory for a lifetime.
I have fallen in love with the city. “An eternal Paris, a romantic Paris.” Next time I come, I will see the ballet.
Students stop at a market during the In the Footsteps of Ernie Pyle trip.
IU student Audrey Vonderahe stands in front of the Eiffel Tower lit up at night.
Several locks line the bridges overlooking the Seine River.
Cobblestone roads line several streets of Paris.
Interior of the Basilica of Sacré Coeur de Montmartre.