Valentines, Homesickness and the City of Love

I'm not a hopeless Valentine's Day romantic. In this house saying, "Happy Valentine's Day," followed by the response, "Et toi," is all well and good. I'm fine with that.

But mention Paris, or suggest we watch French Kiss or the remake of Sabrina, and I go all weak in les genoux.

My present jello state is my own fault. Last weekend I pampered myself with a midnight showing, tout seulment, of Sabrina. By the end of the movie, I was having my own Millie Vanillie moment with the french script. Then a few nights ago I suggested we watch French Kiss. And despite the vast differences in weight and overall appearance, I was Kate, wearing that baby blue dress and then realizing that Luc et le vin were the only things pour moi. Amore.

A lifetime ago, I had the chance to live in France, and I took la rue more traveled. Knowing full well, I made the right decision, I still look back to that junction and wonder. Where would I be? Would I have morphed into that high style Parisian, or just been une autre mere displaced by un ocean.

I've been to Paris trois times. I've sat in cafes drinking coffee, walked along the Seine, and I've even written nonsense in a journal, long before these experiences were shared avec Sabrine. Still, not a day goes by where I'm not looking forward to my next chance to fly over the great big ocean, and I do hate to fly, for real.

Alone with my husband, I envision us walking les rues, de concert, with no plan but to be in a city that feels like no home I've ever known. Amore.