going extremely fast. Some people always look at the speedometer to see how fast the car is going. I am not usually one of those people. But I looked.
The speedometer said we were going 145. Which made me very anxious.
Then I remembered: That was not 145 miles per hour. We were going fast, but not that fast. That was kilometers per hour. Okay, how many miles is 145 kilometers? I couldn’t remember.
I now know the answer, because I looked it up. We were going 89.5 miles an hour. Which in that tiny little car seemed awfully fast. Especially zooming in and out around the other slowpoke cars that were only going, say, 85 miles an hour.
I was about to ask the driver to slow down. But all of a sudden the traffic got quite awful, and we went from flying to crawling just like that.
After an hour, the traffic was making me even more nervous than the speeding had done. First because I kept imagining that big 24 digital clock pounding away at me. Second because I really needed to pee.
Fortunately, right about then traffic started to move. And all of a sudden I could see.
I was in Paris.
For all I know, we had probably been in Paris for quite some time. But now it looked the way somebody who has never been to Paris expects it to look.
The driver turned left, onto a pretty old bridge across a river that even I knew must be the Seine. On an island in the middle of the river, up soared a huge ancient cathedral with wings that seemed to fly everywhere, and two enormous towers, and even I knew that was Notre Dame. I recognized it from the Walt Disney movie, which I watch with my cousin Paris sometimes when I babysit. Every time we see that movie, I tell her that someday I will take her there, and then she will be Paris in Paris. Which she finds extremely amusing. Of course, every time I ever said that, it was just silly talk. Only now it wasn’t so silly. Because there was the real Notre Dame—and here I was.
And do you know? Even though I was tired and stiff, and desperately needed to pee . . . even with all that, being in Paris felt pretty good.
Who am I kidding? I was in Paris, France. It was amazing.
Remember, I grew up in Kirland, Indiana. And growing up in Kirland does not give you the very broadest horizons. So I never really believed I would find myself in Paris. Although the thought had occurred to me—probably starting six years ago, when my cousin Mary named her daughter Paris. Which she picked on account of her and Nick planning to go to Paris, France, someday. Which never happened. The whole tragic aspect of it—that Nick and Mary would never get there—made it seem like Paris must be this perfect place where everything worked out. Romantically, anyway. And if things worked out for you romantically, everything else just fell into place, right?
I was only nineteen years old when I got that notion about Paris. Everything about life and love seemed very straightforward to me then. Whereas now I am a jaded twenty-five-year-old cynic. Only perhaps I am not totally jaded. Because suddenly I was in Paris, France. And just being there made me feel like I was glowing. Even better, I had Grandma’s dress with me. Grandma’s dress, which came from Paris all those years ago, had come back—and it was bringing me along on a wild and wonderful ride. At that moment, I felt like absolutely anything and everything was possible.
The car turned right, onto a big street that paralleled the river. It was a bright sunny afternoon, just the way you would want your first day in Paris to be. There were hundreds of people out walking. Maybe thousands. All just strolling along the Seine, holding hands, laughing, smiling. Not one of them looked like they had a care in the world.
I thought, I could be one of those people. I could be anyone I felt like being. I could eat, and drink, and shop. I could find romance. Real romance, too, nothing like Jimmy Krasna fumbling at me with his clammy cold hands in the back seat of his mom’s
The speedometer said we were going 145. Which made me very anxious.
Then I remembered: That was not 145 miles per hour. We were going fast, but not that fast. That was kilometers per hour. Okay, how many miles is 145 kilometers? I couldn’t remember.
I now know the answer, because I looked it up. We were going 89.5 miles an hour. Which in that tiny little car seemed awfully fast. Especially zooming in and out around the other slowpoke cars that were only going, say, 85 miles an hour.
I was about to ask the driver to slow down. But all of a sudden the traffic got quite awful, and we went from flying to crawling just like that.
After an hour, the traffic was making me even more nervous than the speeding had done. First because I kept imagining that big 24 digital clock pounding away at me. Second because I really needed to pee.
Fortunately, right about then traffic started to move. And all of a sudden I could see.
I was in Paris.
For all I know, we had probably been in Paris for quite some time. But now it looked the way somebody who has never been to Paris expects it to look.
The driver turned left, onto a pretty old bridge across a river that even I knew must be the Seine. On an island in the middle of the river, up soared a huge ancient cathedral with wings that seemed to fly everywhere, and two enormous towers, and even I knew that was Notre Dame. I recognized it from the Walt Disney movie, which I watch with my cousin Paris sometimes when I babysit. Every time we see that movie, I tell her that someday I will take her there, and then she will be Paris in Paris. Which she finds extremely amusing. Of course, every time I ever said that, it was just silly talk. Only now it wasn’t so silly. Because there was the real Notre Dame—and here I was.
And do you know? Even though I was tired and stiff, and desperately needed to pee . . . even with all that, being in Paris felt pretty good.
Who am I kidding? I was in Paris, France. It was amazing.
Remember, I grew up in Kirland, Indiana. And growing up in Kirland does not give you the very broadest horizons. So I never really believed I would find myself in Paris. Although the thought had occurred to me—probably starting six years ago, when my cousin Mary named her daughter Paris. Which she picked on account of her and Nick planning to go to Paris, France, someday. Which never happened. The whole tragic aspect of it—that Nick and Mary would never get there—made it seem like Paris must be this perfect place where everything worked out. Romantically, anyway. And if things worked out for you romantically, everything else just fell into place, right?
I was only nineteen years old when I got that notion about Paris. Everything about life and love seemed very straightforward to me then. Whereas now I am a jaded twenty-five-year-old cynic. Only perhaps I am not totally jaded. Because suddenly I was in Paris, France. And just being there made me feel like I was glowing. Even better, I had Grandma’s dress with me. Grandma’s dress, which came from Paris all those years ago, had come back—and it was bringing me along on a wild and wonderful ride. At that moment, I felt like absolutely anything and everything was possible.
The car turned right, onto a big street that paralleled the river. It was a bright sunny afternoon, just the way you would want your first day in Paris to be. There were hundreds of people out walking. Maybe thousands. All just strolling along the Seine, holding hands, laughing, smiling. Not one of them looked like they had a care in the world.
I thought, I could be one of those people. I could be anyone I felt like being. I could eat, and drink, and shop. I could find romance. Real romance, too, nothing like Jimmy Krasna fumbling at me with his clammy cold hands in the back seat of his mom’s
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