Reverie

I'm going to Paris in November to spend 10 days with my daughter who is living there this semester. The last time I was in Paris, I was 17, on a high school trip - let's just say it was a while ago.

A pensionne, narrow, gently winding stairs up several flights, my best friend and I share a room, big bed, massive armoire, breakfast delivered to us in bed each morning. He pours the hot milk, the coffee, from two pitchers simultaneously into bowls. We flirt with him. The croissants are always perfect, strawberry preserves in a silver dish, white cloth napkins. Then wandering through Montmartre I buy a painting and a record album, Francoise Hardy. We sewed all the clothes we took on this French club trip. Remarkably, we were taken for French girls. Later that day, an outdoor cafe with glasses of citron presse, basking in that compliment, the April sun, being 17.