the very last minute, making me wobble precariously on my two wheels. They even dive-bombed me. Parisian pigeons, I was finding, were the most reckless and infuriating in the world.
There were scores of them now, sending skeevy shivers down my back as I paced below the arrivals board. I wanted to clap and scatter them in the open-air train station, but the thought of all those dirty wings fluttering around my head kept my childish impulses in check. Instead, I mentally reviewed the itinerary for the four days ahead, keeping one eager eye on the big clock and one wary eye on the flying rats.
And then in the sea of smart-looking Europeans deboarding a Eurostar train, I saw them. Mom, a sliver of a thing, appeared even smaller bobbing along in her long cardigan, draped scarf, and oversized shoulder bag. Next to her, Bob, who could play Kris Kringleâs brother with his jolly belly, silver-gray beard, and blue eyes, dwarfed her and most of the people around them. Ordinarily, I would have been embarrassed by their excessive waving, giggling, and other displays of Americanism, but as they rushed down the platform, my mom hopping up and down like a six-year-old, it just made me happy. I actually found myself swallowing a lump in my throat.
They had never even been overseas before. Their typical vacations, which were few and far between, usually entailed driving eight hours from their home in western New York to see me in Manhattan or other family in Connecticut. And being devotees of Fox News, I knew leaving U.S. soil (especially for France, zut alors! ) made them more than a little anxious. That they had flown thousands of miles into foreign territory, changed planes, dealt with security, and gone through customs was nothing short of epic. And not only had they done all that, but after visiting Chris in London, they had just âchunnelledâ to Paris by themselves. I was so proud of them.
âOh, honey,â my mom cried, galloping over to wrap me in a hug. Even though I had five inches and twenty pounds on her, there was no one whose arms made me feel more secure.
âHi, Aim!â Bob, sporting a bright red Izod under his tracksuit jacket, joined the hug. Ah, home! Comfort! Love! At the Gare du Nord in Paris. It was fantastically surreal.
As relieved as I was that they had successfully navigated the international travels, that wasnât the end of my anxiety. Iâd be lying if I said I wasnât nervous about exploring Paris with them. Back home, they drive half a mile to pick up a carton of milk, and having a lunch date is considered a major outing. Would they collapse after an hour of walking? Would they need to rest every five minutes? I saw they had their spiffy new sneakers on; were they alsoâhorror of horrorsâpacking fanny packs?
It was more than the physical stuff, though. I felt as if I had a lot to prove on this trip. Having them here made me hyperaware of my attachment to Paris. I felt this weird ownership, as though I was personally responsible for everything from the dour weather to the magic of the Seine at sunset. A cocktail of pride and angst mixed inside of me: I felt giddy and protective. I yearned to share everything with these two virgin travelers but also felt the compulsion to claim it as my own. This beautiful place was a mystery to them, but it was my whole world now.
I wanted to show them, especially my mom, that I belonged in Paris. Despite her chin-up Yankee resignation that her only daughter had moved overseas at an age when she should have been bearing grandchildren, I knew it pained her. She would never say anything to make me feel guilty. In fact, Mom never uttered a word that wasnât supportive of me and my choices. She was my biggest cheerleader. Still, I knew she loved my brotherâs kids, my adorable niece and nephew, to pieces and wanted more grandchildren. She wanted me to have kids so I could have that whole pregnancy and parenthood experience and