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My husband came up to me and said, "Take a deep breath."
I did, not knowing at all what might be coming. My husband follows his own, unpredictable path. This day as he was finishing the paper (he's much more thorough about it than I am, so it obviously takes him longer) he had found an ad for a relatively inexpensive airline package to Paris. After I took in my big breath, he asked, "How would you like to go to Paris?"
I can imagine the delight most women would feel at such a question. Squeals of joy, big hugs and kisses, all-round gratitude. My husband mentioned a few possible time periods that were available to us (he had already checked our calendar). I said, I think, "Well, that's an interesting idea. I'm going to need to think about it." But I gave him a hug anyway, even if I was undecided.
The idea percolated for a few hours. How would I like to weather the packing, the pre-boarding security restrictions, the line-ups. And then I would climb into a metal tube, scrunch myself into a tiny space, and spend six hours flying over the ocean. (You do know that airplanes are demonstrably heavier than air, don't you?)
Then we would land, jet-lagged, maneuver our bags and ourselves to the pre-chosen hotel that would be our home for the next week. We would unpack, uncomfortable with each other because we both respond badly to the business of traveling from one place to another.
I ponder all this. I imagine what we will do for our six days in Paris. Walk a lot. Eat at mediocre little restaurants (better than North American "mediocre," but not at all up to the standards of France's little restaurants of 50 years ago). And I noticed that I wasn't yet getting any more enthusiastic about the proposed trip. I really didn't want to rain on my husband's parade. Here he was presenting an opportunity for us to be alone together with no responsibilities other than figuring out how to navigate the Paris subway system. And large in my mind was the thought that other people would love the idea of going to Paris in the spring. What was wrong with me?
Then I imagined walking the streets of Paris. What shoes would I be wearing? They would have to be both comfortable and fashionable. What clothes would I be wearing? I remembered our three months in Menton, all those years ago. Whatever I wore seemed to invite hostile stares from every woman I passed. Was I ready to run the gauntlet of the French fashion police again?
Not everyone cares what others think of them in public. But if I have to go to another place, I want to wear protective camouflage. I want to fit in, to look as if I belong. I do not ever want to be seen as a tourist, even though that's what I am. But I also like the way I am, the way I dress. I don't want to be uncomfortable or to buy a new wardrobe. However would I dress to fit in on Paris streets?
Even that wasn't the clincher. The clincher was my hair. I don't know what older Frenchwomen do when their hair thins alarmingly, but I'll bet my bottom dollar that they don't just let it be what it is. They must invest in—and wear—expensive wigs, human-hair wigs. Or they go into hormone replacement therapy that may keep their hair thick and shiny, but at a cost to their health. The ultimate goal for a Frenchwoman of a certain age is to look beautiful and young.
I can't do it. I won't do whatever it takes to appear to be beautiful and young. But the thought of being stared at—with condescension or with pity or with hostility is too daunting.
The hair is the deciding factor. I make up my mind to admit that I just can't do it. We meet at the dining room table for lunch. Before I can say a word, he says, "You know, I don't really want to take that trip. I don't know what got into me."
I'm off the hook. I could, if I were mean-spirited, say, "Oh, what a shame. I was really looking forward to going to Paris." But I don't do that. I tell him instead of my own fears—and of my relief at the withdrawn invitation.
Then we began to discuss the attraction of the trip in the first place: he had seen it as a chance to get away together, away from our busy, work-filled, computer-dominated lives.
Over the years I had built up some air-mile points and never used them. The airline had just issued me a "use 'em or lose 'em" warning.
So we have set up a four-night stay at a downtown Toronto hotel. We will eat out every day. We will walk through some of Toronto's famous ravines, which we never seem to have time for, and go to a museum or two. We will arrive at the hotel with a list of restaurants we've been wanting to hit, a list of things we've never (or seldom) done or seen. It will be just the two of us together; no computers allowed. Five days and four nights of wandering our favourite city-with no passports, airplanes, or dress codes. It's a win-win solution.
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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