A friend in New York sent me an e-mail recently confessing a petite melt-down she had recently. We had made tentative plans for her to visit in April and for all the typical reasons – money for airfare – the visit didn’t pan out. No big deal, we extended the plan for 2015. Hope springs eternal for improved financial status “next year.”

Her story told of an encounter with another mom the first day back at her son’s school after Spring Break. The mom had taken her children to Paris and did not hold back waxing poetic about the amazing time they had experienced in the City of Light. Indeed the weather had been springtastic! the week they visited. (There are precious few earthly gifts more intoxicating than spending a lazy afternoon in one of the jewel-box jardins de Paris when spring finally blows into town with all her poetic force.) So after smiling and nodding along to the enthusiastic re-cap of perfect Paris recounted by the mom, my friend walked away in a fog of mixed emotions.

First, that bit of shock at the news that someone else has stolen your perfect idea to visit Paris over Spring Break. Second, an overall aching envy for travel. Third, having to play delighted audience at every juicy detail of someone else’s adventure. When she arrived back home she surprised herself further by bursting into tears. Sometimes, we all revert to tender reactions when it comes to broken dreams or frustrated travel plans to Paris. As she wiped the tears from her face, she could almost smell the lingering perfume of exploding pink magnolia trees and warm sunshine basking down the wide boulevards and outdoor café corners.

That was April. Now it’s May (one month closer to summer) and it’s freezing outside and pouring down rain for the forth time today. Thirty minutes ago the sun was out. Fifteen minutes ago it was tornado grey and a biting wind was beating against the windowpane. Yesterday, I was returning from my weekly schlep to the sketchy Laundromat (sheets and towels being too cumbersome for the teeny French washing machines) and I got soaked from a spontaneous cloud burst, all my fluffy clean white towels instantly ruined. Sundays are days I like to grocery shop for the week, but I can’t because all the necessary food stores are closed on Sundays. National day of rest. Except not for your typical mom. Day of cleaning, organizing, food shopping. Hint: so the rest of the week doesn’t pile up on you. The good news was there was no Sunday afternoon manif taking over the streets with shouts, signs, and slogans. No national declaration “Day of Anger” to fight against when trying to get from point A to point B. There are small victories. I’ve just learned the grass may be greener in Perfect Paris, but it’s still “in repose” until the end of June so you can’t walk or play on it.
– Margot Nightingale