“Paris is a place in which we can forget ourselves, reinvent, expunge the dead weight of our past.”
Michael Simkins, Detour de France: An Englishman in Search of a Continental Education
Ms. Edith St. Germain matter of factly pushed down one of the window blinds with a polished fingernail and peered out at the snowflakes falling ever so gently like little white parachutes each landing onto the quiet street below. She watched for a moment as the pavement almost magically pulled up its fluffy white blanket. They had called for snow, at least that’s what Ms. Edith had read in the Daily but only after reading her horoscope, which oddly had made no mention of inclement weather. She liked reading her horoscope almosts as much as she did reading about the weather as both gave her sense of purpose, of direction for the day ahead; besides, it was something she looked forward to. The street lights were coming on now, a flicker of light here and there, then finally their full light cast a wintery glow onto the street and beyond. It was an early December evening and the hustle and bustle of the rush hour had long died down leaving but a few evening stragglers walking by without so much as a glance at the storefront. Couples arm-in-arm with their holiday bundles, a young man she recognized from the next building was taking his dog for an early and hopeful evening walk, and an occasional businessman clutching his briefcase, head down hurrying to catch a late commuter train that would afford him safe passage away from the city to the comfort and safety of suburbia.
There had been no customer inquiries at the travel agency that day. In fact, there had been no customers at all that week with the exception of the mailman who brought the usual assortment of bills and endless holiday advertisements. Everyone it seemed was wrapped up in the frenzy of the Christmas season and far from anyones’ minds were thoughts about glamorous destinations around the world and of course Ms. Edith’s superior travel services. She was forgotten for now but she was resolute about one thing, all of that would change, “bien sure” how could it not? After a dreary winter, spring would make itself known and with that, surely there would be dreams of Paris in the springtime. Where else would reasonable people want to go? Ms. Edith thought that a cruise on the Danube or even visiting Florence, which could be lovely in the spring, were fine destinations indeed, but they never measured up to her passion for Paris, the City of Lights. Yes they would come. Ms. Edith stubbornly clung to that dream. They would come if for no other reason than to be in Paris in the springtime. It was just that simple.
The Travel Dreams Agency, owned and operated by one Ms. Edith St. Germain, formerly known as Ms. Edith Wyzgowski before adopting “St. Germain” as her “non de plume“ in honor of the Boulevard St. Germain in the 6e arrondissement. The travel agency was located on the north end of Wabash Avenue, one block from the intersection of Wabash and Belvedere and close to the elevated L which rattled past with regularity from early morning well into the night. Passersby could hardly miss the large travel posters scotch taped to her front window, posters urging you to visit one exciting part of the world after another. Crowding out frayed posters of Athens, Rome or Bora Bora was an over sized poster of a smiling Pan Am stewardess beckoning you to come aboard the clipper jet service with direct flights from New York’s La Guardia to Paris Orly.
When it came to travel planning generally, and Paris in particular, well Miss Edith knew her stuff alright. Some said, hands-down better than any other travel agent in town. Listening to Miss Edith go on as she did with only gentle encouragement, why you would think she and Edith Piaf, the iconic French songstress had at one time strolled, arm-in-arm, down the majestic avenues in Paris with such famous actors as John Paul Belmondo or perhaps even Carry Grant, likely trailing not far behind. Of course there would always be photo journalists following their every step. No autographs, please! The crowds grew in size with each story or at least so it seemed. It was carefully orchestrated to enchanted young lovers, newlyweds and couples alike who were contemplating a travel to the continent and many for the first time. The stories were magical and everyone wanted to believe each and every last one of them. Miss Edith represented Paris, she had lived there and knew her way around the alleys and boulevards of Paris. But truth is often what you want it to be and if truth be known, it was Edith’s mother who had been in Paris so many years ago and at that time several months pregnant with little Edith and so she was named after her mother’s best friend Edith Piaf. A little white lie here and there could be forgiven because, after all Paris was a city for lovers and all things were excused on that basis alone including a little embellishment when necessary to seal a round trip package to the City of Lights. Money was, after all, money in any currency.
As long as she could remember, Miss Edith had grown up with her mother’s stories about Paris and places with such mysterious names as “Clichy” “Chaillot” and “Montmartre” “Le Left Bank,” “Boulevard St. Germain,” “Le Moulin Rouge” and the “Crazy Horse Saloon.” It was intoxicating to Miss Edith she lived for her mother’s stories as much as her mother loved re-living them, maybe more. Together they had watched almost every movie they could lay their hands set in Paris in some fashion, from “An American in Paris” to the “Last Tango in Paris” and everything else in between. Both mother and daughter became part of the movies, they were there in Paris singing and dancing in cabarets, drinking champagne, at the races in Longchamp, round and around the Arc de Triomphe and to the Eiffel Tower and back, and of course being wooed by the finest of movie stars. Ms. Edith had long ago memorised the lines of her favorite actresses on the silver screen and would amuse her clientele much as she had delighted her mother, with nonchalant shrugs of her shoulders, holding a cigarette from her brightly red painted lips and singing a few notes from the Edith Piaf “non je ne regrette rien…” Fact and fiction were artfully blurred into a well rehearsed exotic mixture, a dream tailored to each of her clients; and Ms. Edith lived vicariously through each and every one. When reality chose not to intrude, she expected at any moment to see Charles Boyer or Jean Gabin perhaps Jean Kelly burst through the front door each declaring their everlasting love and “please Mademoiselle Edith come wiz me to Paree.” She clung stubbornly to that dream and the anticipation of one day being swooped away by her knight in shining armor who most likely wore a beret.
The snow had not let up all evening. The street was quiet. Deserted now. She opened a window and felt the rush of icy air hitting her face. Quickly closing the window and latching it shut, she turned on her record player and sat in a comfortable armchair and listened as her namesake slowly led her away to another place and time.
Allez, venez, Milord
Vous asseoir à ma table
Il fait si froid, dehors
Ici c’est confortable
Laissez-vous faire, Milord
Et prenez bien vos aises
Vos peines sur mon coeur
Et vos pieds sur une chaise
Je vous connais, Milord
Vous n’m’avez jamais vue
Je ne suis qu’une fille du port
Qu’une ombre de la rue…
Edith Piaf ’59
(& merci à George Moustaki)