The trip to Paris was over. And so nearly her Two Week Wait as well. It was getting to that time. To POAS or not to POAS? She decided to delay the moment of truth and relive that week, that week in what some say is the most romantic city in the world...
She had finally seen the Sacre Coeur.
And the Notre Dame Cathedral (no hunchback though)...
She had lost herself in an exhibition at the Institut du Monde Arabe.
An installation about forgotten refugees and lost childhoods that moved her.
You see inside each balloon was a photo. A photo of a child. A refugee. A stolen childhood.
It was a moment to reflect on things bigger than herself. Bigger and deeper than her woes.
She had perused the shelves of the Shakespeare & Co bookstore.
She read a few pages in a dusty armchair. And wondered about Hemingway, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ezra Pound who had all been there before her.
She devoured a wild strawberry ice-cream from the Maison Berthillon.
It tasted just like the strawberries she used to find in her grandmother's garden.
She soaked in the Parisian evenings. Walking down wisteria lined cobble-stoned avenues.
It had been a wonderful week. Full of culture, beauty and fabulous food. But now. She returned to reality. Back to IF reality. The moment of truth is approaching. I look at my husband. Whatever the outcome. We'll always have Paris.
