Nicole

The other evening I met a fabulous French woman in a Brasserie near my apartment. I was still having trouble sleeping so I went out to the café for a little glass of kir before bedtime to relax. I sat alone under the awning of the smoke-filled street side café. A woman next to me also gazed out into the night, cigarette in hand and half-filled glass of wine. As I arrived I asked her if she was saving the place next to her for someone, and she replied no. I squeezed in between the crowded tables, bumping her boot once or twice. In this way our conversation began.

She was preparing to leave when she turned to me and asked why I was all alone and if I was waiting for somebody. I replied no, I was simply relaxing and enjoying the evening. She heard the little hint of an accent that still remains in my spoken french and asked where I was from. She then offered to sit with me for a while if I cared for the company. This is how I met Nicole.

I shared my love story for Paris as she beamed proudly at the mention of her beloved city. She shared her life and history- jewish, musician, loving mother of three, adopted and familiar with the catastrophes of life. Despite her troubled history of love and heartbreak, she seemed to me to be one of the strongest women I'd ever met. She'd grown up in this quartier and spoke of its rich history- Edith Piaf began her career a mere few blocks away, the cemetery Pere LaChaise with its lineup of star-studded graves... and through each of these she weaved her passion for Paris- a passion I understood and felt. Over this eternal love, we bonded.

She offered to dine with me- and so we ordered. I partook of the delightful poached pear in warm chocolate, and she of the cheese plate (which she kindly shared). Another kir for me, a glass of red wine for her. The evening lingered on. I enjoyed every moment of the conversation and food. Slowly, I chewed my sweet pear andlet the flavors sink into each tastebud. When she offered me some of her Camembert, I took a piece and contemplated the creaminess as long as I could before swallowing. She told me of "old Paris"- what she called "the real Paris". Belleville, Pigalle, Montmartre- she knew them all as they had been. I told her I wished I could see them as they were. She explained that Paris has changed so much. I agree with her. The youth of Paris, she explained, don't see it with the same eyes as the previous generation. The city is changing everyday. Even the Paris I knew eight years ago seems somewhat distant. Now MacDonalds, KFC and Starbucks are becomong as common as the lovely aged Brasseries lining the old streets. It makes me sad yet there is nothing I can do.

The conversation turns personal when Nicole asks if I have a boyfriend. I reply, sadly, no. Yet she encourages me not to be sad. Her life story of love, rejection and triumph through music make my heartbreaks feel petty and immature. She explains in such understandable terms that life brings both good and bad- a cliché message, yet somehow far more truthful when said in French. Walking out of the cafe after we finish and we exchange numbers. I never hear from her again, and when I call I receive a text message back that says I dialed the wrong number. Even so, when Nicole and I said our goodbyes and embraced, I felt as if I were saying farewell to a long-acquainted soul. In Nicole I see much of myself- a spirit that is constantly young and old in unison. I tell her how I am happy to be young and in Paris. This, she says, is what matters. I think people like Nicole will be young forever.