the runaway bride

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Question: how many people does it take to stuff a voluminous wedding dress into a modest carry-on suitcase?

Answer: two, if one is unsentimental and can bear the agony of rolling, folding, and crushing the garment into a form one-quarter of its original size while the other watches in horror.

The non-sentimental character in this scenario is my mom. She knows how to get things done. The one shrieking, “are you sure that won’t damage it?!” is me.

As much as it made me cringe, it had to be done. It was the end of August, and I finally had a plane ticket. My suitcases were already packed, stuffed to the gills.

Much of the room was taken up by my wedding dress and by the two Barbies I’d chosen for the little girls that would soon become my nieces (!). In addition, I’d packed the contents of my closet, my favorite kitchen tools, my personal cookbook, and a stuffed duck with a woeful expression Victor had bought me in Memphis.

We joked that I was running away with a wedding dress and a stuffed animal. It was gleefully ridiculous.

Slowly, the day of my departure approached. I had such a busy week ahead of me that I chose to block it out by obsessing that my “personal item” wouldn’t fit under the seat in front of me and that my carry-on, bulky from the dress, wouldn’t slide into the overhead bin.

My parents and I said goodbye at the airport. They left me with a lovely, dainty gold necklace that says mrs. I proceeded through security, crying a bit in a mess of emotions, hormones, and nerves.

Once on the plane, enjoying Kansas City International’s first direct transatlantic flight (to Iceland, where I’d change planes), I started to feel just plain excited. The pressure of the upcoming events was nothing compared to getting to see Victor for the first time in months.

My flight passed in a febrile haze, as it always does. At Reykjavik, it was four in the morning. Bleary-eyed, I stood in line for a banana smoothie at a joint staffed by frowning, tattooed twenty-somethings. Dance music throbbed from the speakers while groups of people, mainly explorer types with huge backpacks, slept on the floor. Others nursed beers and sad-looking sandwiches. Large signs with laughing beautiful people urged us to stock up on luxury perfumes. The familiar, dreaded purgatory of the airport.

I stayed out of the stores, lest my sleep-deprived judgment lead me to tote around a fairisle sweater, stuffed puffin, or bucket of skyr in the early hours of the morning.

Hours later, I was in Paris. And there was Victor! I saw him through the glass as I waited for my mountain of luggage to come scuttling around on the conveyer belt. From my glimpse, he was tall and handsome as ever. Same mustache. Disarmingly-bright pants (it can’t be helped; he’s European).

After a joyful reunion, we shared a rain-spattered taxi ride into Paris.

to be continued, because this story isn’t short. 

shoebox in paris

Thoreau said, “I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.”  

It’s a fair sentiment, though with my budget, I’m more likely to be crowded on a pumpkin.

Using AirBnb, the glorious startup that connects travelers with private homeowners in the perfect meeting of supply and demand, I’ve had the comfort of a cozy, well-priced place to sleep in Strasbourg, Lyon, and the Riviera.

I’ve also found a few pumpkins: simple, private, and deathly uncomfortable.

The most memorable is a studio apartment in Paris.

“Apartment” is generous, “broom closet” somewhere closer to the truth. I think the ad, actually, described the place as A Shoebox in Paris. I respect “Olivier” for the honesty. While poetic, he did not use “shoebox” as a charming diminutive, but as a realistic description of the room’s actual dimensions.

The room was the size of a spacious American bathroom.

But it was Christmastime, and the idea of it all was irresistible. Despite arriving via a seven hour OUI bus from Strasbourg, it felt impossibly glamorous to be spending the week in the City of Lights. Given my history of misadventures, I should have known better, but once again I was starry-eyed. I pictured museums with no lines (and I’d get in free with my carte d’éducation). I dreamt of flawless French classics: buttery steak and perfect crème brûlée. There would be a light snowfall around the Eiffel Tower. 

It was so close: the perfect winter vacation, great escape from Montluçon. But first we had to lug our bags up six flights of stairs.

The task accomplished, the first problem we encountered was where to put our two suitcases. To give an idea of the available space, the bed was such that, should you share it, one person was effectively sleeping in the “kitchen” (a hot plate, a sink), while the other lucky traveler had an excellent view of the bathroom, sleeping nearly inside it as they were.

You had to step on the bed (and over a sleeping roommate), to access the bathroom, actually, which “closed” via a sad little accordion door and which contained a crusty bar of soap and an emphatic note in a rough English translation explaining how exactly to flush the cantankerous toilet.

There was one spot of glamour in the room, a small coffee table that accumulated over the course of our trip articles that advertised an entirely different sort of vacation, the kind that doesn’t involve freezing showers, the kind that might allow a bath towel in place of a washcloth.

The table held bright new novels from the Shakespeare & Co English bookstore, a bottle of pale pink Chanel Mademoiselle, and the creamy pastel boxes and bags from our visits to Ladurée for macarons that, temporarily, made me feel like a queen at Versailles instead of a mouse in a shoebox.

This wobbly balance between glamour and grunge became a theme for the week (and truly, for my whole life in France).

Christmas Eve, we wandered around looking for that perfect little brasserie. An hour and a walk through Montmartre and Pigalle later, we admitted defeat and had Christmas Eve dinner in a Chinese traiteur. We sat in our skirts and tights and heels and ate egg rolls and orange chicken, eight euros a person. The restaurant was empty, save for the family that owned it: the little girl playing by herself, the father watching a ninja movie in the corner. But we ate on fine, pretty plates and drank wine out of heavy glasses, leaving lipstick on the rim.

Then we went to Christmas service at the Notre Dame. Candles, the Christmas story in French. The organ music thundered through the cathedral and I felt stunningly small faced with all this grandeur, all that history, all those people.

Christmas Day we spent at the Pompidou, the quietest I’ve ever seen that place. My Christmas tree this year was a modern art piece: colorful bulbs that lit up suddenly every few minutes.

For Christmas dinner, wanting to avoid Orange Chicken Part II, we googled best Christmas dinners in Paris and booked one, a splurge. We ate at a beautiful place in Montmartre, feasting on oysters and foie gras and a fruit salad with lychees and the recommended wine pairing. The restaurant was full of non-Parisiens. The locals, we assumed, were home with their families.

The trip, like our AirBnb, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It was exhausting. Paris was cold, rainy, and gray, and there were more tourists than ever.

One day we went out of our way to go to a Christmas market near Nation. A far cry from the Christmas market we’d enjoyed in Strasbourg, this one was dripping and pitiful, on its last day. Most booths were closed, and still we got conned into buying expensive cheese. A lady yelled at me about gingerbread. We talked with a chef selling Portuguese custard tarts who disclosed his love for Merle Haggard and started singing “Okie from Muskogee” (definitely the best part of that day).

Overall we spent too much time in the dystopian underworld that is the metro, and we ran out of money and had to eat lentils for a month afterwards.

In pictures it is lovely, all pale sunsets and gold lights, but really it was cold and cramped and a little lonely in the way that Christmas without your family can be.

I know this, remember this, and still I am nostalgic. How was it that not so long ago I rented a terrible, memorable little shoebox in Paris with my best friend? Where are the croissant crumbs and freezing fingers, or, on fortunate nights, the oysters and champagne? Where are the endless espressos and afternoons free to wander?

Christmas in Paris was like the room’s promoted “Eiffel Tower view”: both sound a little more glamorous in the telling.

But we did have our shoebox view. It was there, if we stood on the bed to see out the high window. If it wasn’t obscured by the January clouds.

The trip, the view: awkward and uncomfortable and lovely still. There it was, if we were lucky: the top of the tower, sparkling brilliantly into the night.