Thirty years ago I had a dream. In the dream, some friends had sent me to Paris at Christmas time.
A slight frosting of snow iced the sidewalk like powdered sugar frosting on cake. I stretched upward, tip-toe, on the very edge of my pointed, leather boots. The chill in the air forced me to pull my winter coat more closely around me. Light snowflakes fell upon my nose and lips.
I peered into a shop window, comprised of small panes of glass. My face pressed up against the clear crystalline structures, framed by narrow white wooden squares. Inside the shop were row after row of small cubicles of items, directly lined up parallel to the window. I could see an entire array of small, inset, square alcoves, perched right inside the store windows.
In every little cubicle of the of the long, wide, high shelves, sat glass jars containing colored items. To this day I do not know if it was a candy shop or an apothecary store. But I stood and stared, trying to read all the French labels, through the frosty window. I felt like a little girl in a state of wonder.
My eyes strained. Although I have a passable French vocabulary, many words I do not know. I will never forget that dream. Someday I believe some friends really will send me to Paris at Christmas.
Perhaps it was an old-fashioned drugstore, unlike the many modern green-crossed drugstores currently sprawled across France's major city. The jars may have contained herbal remedies of many varied hues displayed in the cubicles of the shelves. Maybe they were medicinal spices known for their many healing potentials...like cinnamon for blood sugar levels, lavender for mending shattered nerves, as well as chamomile, and fox glove blossoms, (made by drug companies into digitalis), to regulate heart problems.
My first trip to Paris brought healing and encouragement into my life. It brought assurance that no matter what life changes occur, Paris, that ancient city, stretched its arms of welcome to me, and her people showed me love.
I fear that the next time I arrive, the city may have changed. You would think that Paris, an immovable, unchangeable feast Hemingway would prescribe for all ills, could never lose her luster or her life.
However, I fear that with the advent of "No go Zones", in other parts of France such as Lyon and Marseilles, that Paris too might be wounded. Her noble character I fear may be raped or wounded by those who wish her and her inhabitants harm.
Can one visit Paris even now without fear? I wanted so to attend classes at the Sorbonne. I desired to sunbathe on the beaches of Cannes, view the sailboats at Monte Carlo. I heard that Lyon is deliciously edible.
And chateaux country...what greater dream than to tour the mighty castles stretched across the Loire Valley, where French history unfolded upon the gentle background scenery. To bicycle along the roads of France, or saunter gently southward along the roads of France, have lain within my heart of hearts.
Will it be safe when I return? Will my love, France, be as stately and protected as she once was?
Or will she have fallen victim to roving bands of brigands that likewise ravish other European nations at this point in time?
I recently met a woman from Sweden who told me that blond women no longer venture onto the streets of that nation. I pray that France known for its joy of life will not be forced to cloister its women, for styles and clothing were once one of the nation's most exportable commodities. I pray that France will not be filched by false friends!
May Paris in her lovely crown of France safely await my return. Joyeux Noel, mes amies.
