Ah, France

Foot meets uneven paving stone....falling forward, arms flailing, reaching for something to cling to, meeting thin air instead.  Stumbling--slow-motion.  Time stops. The sidewalk beckons...getting closer to my face, with each step.  Maybe I won't fall?  But, the forward momentum is too great.  I'm unable to slow down and certainly not able to stop! Hand and knee smack the pavement with a nauseating jolt.  I'm stunned.  What happened? Strong hands reach down to lift me up.  I try not to cry from the pain and the shock, but I know that my face must be red from the effort and my knee must be a bloody mess.  I accept, with a tremulous smile, the help offered.  Such a handsome young man and his very attractive father.  At any other time, I might make conversation, but a shaky "Merci", is all I can manage.

"Ca va, madame?  Est-ce que vous pouvez marcher?" (Are you okay, madam?  Can you walk?)  "Oui, merci beaucoup."


I struggle to walk normally as I bite back the tears.  Images of my fall, as witnessed by the two very attractive men who had been walking behind me, flash through my mind.  How clumsy it was; how embarrassed I am.  A French woman would have done it gracefully. She would have seemed to glide, to float. I need to sit down.  Disoriented. Falling in Paris was not on my list of things to do. Where is the restaurant the lady at the consulate had suggested? Limping down the street on shaky legs, desperately needing a place to check out my injury and to sit, I see the sign at last. I have an hour to kill-if it doesn't kill me first-before my important interview with the Canadian Consulate representative at two o'clock.


A cleaner points me toward the WC where I inspect my knee.  Surprisingly, there's no blood.  Wetting some paper towels with cold water, I hold it against the wounded joint for several minutes.  That done, I find the cafeteria where a waitress leads me to a free table. I sit down heavily and try to stop shaking.  A glass of wine...that'll help! Wine and something to eat.  I order.  The maitre d' brings me a small carafe of vin de table, pours a glass and leaves me to wait for my lunch. I pick up the glass, smell the wine and take a sip.  It sits on the back of my tongue as it warms to body temperature.  Feeling a bit better, I finally look around the room and notice that I'm surrounded by pilots and stewards.  I am after all, in the restaurant at Air France on Rue d'Invalides...an appropriate name considering what has just happened! The ripe, smoky wine starts to do its work. It slides seductively down my throat and goes STRAIGHT to my head!  Are all the men in Paris this handsome?  Um, good wine!  I smile at all of the nice men and drink more.  I hadn't noticed how silky the wine was the last time I swallowed!  If I were standing, I'd be weak in the knee, for sure.  Weak in the knee, that's a good one! As I give thought to the injured body part, it throbs painfully.  More wine! Much better!  Hello Paris!  Oh, how I love you and all of your handsome pilots. Paris, wine, handsome men. What more can one ask?


A plate of food has magically manifested and is sitting on the table in front of me.  When did it get there?  It seems I must have died and gone to heaven.  How else can the aroma that rises up to tickle my nose, be explained?  All at once, I'm ravenous.  I grab my knife and fork and attack the food!  The taste of chicken breast cooked to a juicy crispness and bathed in the creamy sweetness of Marsala wine and heavy cream is heightened by my mild state of intoxication.  It's to die for!  The baby carrots sauteed lightly in butter, garlic and parsley harmonize exquisitely with the chicken.  I am dimly aware of the babble of French around me.  I'm in France!  How fortunate I am.  A heady feeling.  The plate beckons me again.  What's this?  The plate is clean!  How can that be?  But, I'm still hungry. The maitre d' arrives as if on cue, with the salad.  Ah, the crisp greens, delicately coated in a tangy dijon vinagrette send my taste buds soaring!  It's almost too much for one day.  But wait. There's still the dessert.  Creme brulee. A thin caramelized crust hides the rich, silky custard. Sweet and slightly tart at the same time, the scent of lemon and cardamon.  The sweet dessert wine that the lovely maitre d' brings me, takes me to new heights and at the same time blurs my senses even more.  


What's this?  One of my nice, sweet pilots is putting on his attractive pilot's hat.  He's smiling at all the other nice pilots...oh, they're all putting on their adorable pilot hats. They're leaving. Goodbye, sweet ones!  Goodbye...goodbye!  I waggle my fingers coyly and smile as they head for the door.  My fingers are a bit numb, but I GOOD SO FEEL! Sheems itsh time for the interview!