Tag Archives: Travel

The Men of Paris

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Digging through my desk recently I came across a long-forgotten folder of sketches I’d written when Alan and I were living in Paris in the mid 1980’s.  Here’s one of them.

Contented marriage to a handsome American man hasn’t keep me from observing the beauty of Parisian men.

I started observing my first day in Paris, one of those rare bright February days when everyone strolls the boulevards to get reacquainted with the sun.  The Champs-Elysees  was packed.  Our taxi was stuck in traffic.  He jogged up to the corner from Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, hesitated a bit, then thread his way in front of us, through the honking jam of buses, cars and taxis.   Light brown hair blown back from his face, except for the comma that fell over his forehead.  Strong square jaw, high cheek bones and heavy-lidded eyes.  He must be a movie star or at least a male model, I thought then.  Now I know he was probably an architect, bank clerk or accountant.  Handsome men aren’t that uncommon in Paris.  I see at least one a day.

Here we are, stuck in traffic. Can you pick out the man I spotted?

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Another French Take on Exercise

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One sunny morning in Paris, as my ex-husband Alan waited on the landing outside our apartment for the elevator, our neighbor, Mariele, joined him.  He was dressed in a t-shirt, running shorts and running shoes, so she said the obvious.  “You’re going running, aren’t you?”

He said, “Yes.”  That was that.

A week later, they shared the elevator as he headed upstairs after his run, all
sweaty and stinky.

“You run a lot, don’t you?” she said.

“Almost every day,” he answered.

This was in the late 1980’s and we were spending 4 years living in the French
capitol, thanks to Alan’s employer.

The next week, out on the landing, she said, “My husband Gérard runs, too.  Almost daily.”

The following week she said, “You and Gérard should run together.  He doesn’t get as sweaty as you do.  Maybe you could get him to work harder.”

Alan running the streets of our quartier of Paris.

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The Birth of the Vixen Divorcee

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My first vacation as a divorced woman.  A woman, I’ll put this kindly, of mature middle age.  A woman, mind you, of reserve and discretion, the furthest from a vixen you could imagine, whose dear friends invited her to join them on their annual winter trek to Zihuatenejo, Mexico.  A little sun, good cheap drinks and food, beach and ocean time, laughs and fun.  Tonic for a grieving heart.

My legs are long and my hair is blonde. Is this me?

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