Praying

I used to hear about people who spent their whole lives in one small community, on one tiny parcel of the earth, working and praying, praying, their days away in mostly silence.

And I thought, What good is that?

How on earth can you help this world if you are cloistered with like-minded people? How is that working for the common good to hide yourself and your talents away?

I'm a little wiser now, and though I do not at all believe this is the only way to serve the way of truth, hope, love and life, I now believe it is one excellent way.

I don't think for one moment that I am the only one who has underestimated the power of prayer. Of silence. Of contemplation. But because I am naturally a restless person who detests sitting for too long, perhaps I have been more prone to underestimate it. My prayer reminds me of my son Berto"s gesture when the priest asks us to lift up our hearts, and we pronounce at Mass, "We lift them up to the Lord," and we all raise our hands palm up. For a while it was like Berto was tossing God a football with how quickly he threw up his hands and then dropped them: "Here! Catch my heart, God!" It made me smile. So, too, my prayer. I toss God footballs several times a day, prayers for that homeless man or my sick relative or of my desperate need for some spiritual buttresses to be erected posthaste. And I believe with all my heart that God catches those erratic balls, because my words are fervent. Well, most of the time.

I cannot imagine, however, really getting down deep with God in prayer. For an hour or more, for hours each day in and out of Mass. And, yet, I think how marvelous would be the results of such efforts, because prayer is, as my parish priest said recently, our act of being in the presence of God. Even if we nod off while doing it, it is our endeavor to walk and sit in his presence, to hold his hand, and to accept some real nourishment. What might we learn about ourselves if we made that decision more often, if we were very still and knew that he was God?

So I no longer think shallowly about contemplative lives. If I am honest with you, I think a community of nuns or monks praying for this world is doing a great deal more for us than all the words of politicians could ever do. I even think now - and this is shocking to me - that a community in God's presence by the exertion of their own free will on a routine basis, asking for his grace and love and guidance to be poured out upon us, can move more mountains than many actions.

But then we see the connectivity, don't we? For some of us life in a small community praying is our service to mankind, and for some of us the work in this fractured world to be God's physical instruments of peace is ours. The two ignite each other in faith, and God weaves us together, helping us bear good fruit.

photo by Daniel Hylton

Today I said a rosary for France. It is a very Catholic thing to do, I know, but something I rarely do. I only meditate in this way when I am rocked by some great tragedy and realize that I need to really pray deeply, to do something more than usual to let my Heavenly Father know that I care and want to help and that we all need a heaping helping of faith, hope and love from His table.

I say rosaries when I am aching for others.

So I am praying. I know many of you are praying. And we know prayer is more than general good vibes. Prayer is standing in the presence of our loving Father with all our might.


"I want to be only a poor friar who prays...Pray, hope and don't worry. Worry is useless. God is merciful and will hear your prayer...Prayer is the best weapon we have; it is the key to God's heart. You must speak to Jesus not only with your lips, but with your heart. In fact on certain occasions you should only speak to Him with your heart." - Padre Pio

"Everyone of us needs half an hour of prayer each day, except when we are busy - then we need an hour." - St. Frances de Sales

"For me, prayer is an aspiration of the heart, it is a simple glance directed to heaven, it is a cry of gratitude and love in the midst of trial as well as joy..." - St. Therese of Lisieux


Then he told them a parable about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary. He said, There was a judge in a certain town who neither feared God nor respected any human being. And a widow in that town used to come to him and say, 'Render a just decision for me against my adversary.' For a long time the judge was unwilling, but eventually he thought, 'While it is true that I neither fear God nor respect any human being, because this widow keeps bothering me I shall deliver a just decision for her lest she finally come and strike me.' " The Lord said, "Pay attention to what the dishonest judge says. Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones who call out to him day and night? Will he be slow to answer them? I tell you, he will see that justice is done speedily. But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?" Luke 18:1-8

A Dress For One Day - In Paris (by Daniel Hylton)

Forty years ago last August, for reasons no one understands, a beautiful woman named Karen Asher agreed to marry me.  After my initial shock at her acceptance of my proposal wore off and I was capable of speech once again, we set a date, chose our invitations, and she went wedding dress shopping with her father.

She didn't have many options.  You see, we lived in a part of the country known in the vernacular as a "backwater".  The largest town around was forty-five miles away and was small by the standards of almost any other state in the union.

They found a tiny wedding shop and looked through the meager offerings on display.  And, lo and behold, miracle of miracles, she found the perfect dress.

I've heard it described several times through the years: it was very traditional, Spanish in style, with tight-fitting, long sleeves that came to a point at her wrists, and it was small at the waist with layered scallops of lace dropping down the bustled back to a cathedral train.  It fit her willowy frame perfectly.

Wait, you say.  You've heard it described?  Didn't you see it on the wedding day?

No; sadly, I did not see that dress.  Ever.

Lacking the proper means of storing the dress, they decided to pay the shopkeeper to keep it safe until the big day two months later.  The week of the wedding, Karen and her father went to retrieve the dress.  And it was gone.  At first, the shopkeeper tried to pass off another dress as the one they'd chosen.  When pressed, she finally broke down and admitted that another bride who'd considered that same dress had decided to purchase it.  The shopkeeper sold it, intending to replace it before Karen and her father returned.  But the dress could not be re-supplied.  Karen was devastated.  Her lovely dress was gone.

The owner of the shop offered them any dress she had at the price they'd already paid, even if it was her most expensive.  Karen, of course, did not take advantage.  Still, even with every dress in the shop at her disposal, there were difficulties.  The problem was that she was a very slim young woman and few dresses fit her properly.  Eventually, she settled for a dress that was two sizes too big for her, but looked nice.  It was beautiful, but of course it was not her dress.

Now, I've lived long enough to know what some soon-to-be brides would do in that situation.  After an enormous hissy fit was thrown (and justifiably so), the wedding would be postponed until the dress could be properly replaced.

Amazingly, astonishingly, Karen decided that marrying me at the appointed time was more important than wearing her perfect dress on that one day that comes but once in a lifetime.

Through the years, she has never told me this tale, or sought commiseration from me.  I've only heard it on those occasions when I've eavesdropped on her conversations with her daughters or her friends when the subject turns, as it so often does between women, to weddings and dresses.

Not being able to wear her chosen dress on her wedding day is but one of the many disappointments my elegant, lovely wife has graciously endured through forty years of marriage to me.  Through times both thick and thin, she has been my loving and relentlessly optimistic companion.  And the times have been "thin" far more often that they have been "thick".

This year, 2013, was our fortieth wedding anniversary.  We decided three years ago that we would save up the money to go to Paris.  We scrimped, we saved, we diligently planned.  What she didn't know was that I had a separate account into which I slipped a hundred dollars here and a hundred dollars there - every time I found a hundred dollars that wasn't absolutely needed elsewhere.  On my birthday this last Spring she gave me five hundred dollars to buy new golf clubs; a new driver perhaps, or new irons.

She drew her own conclusions from the expression of joy that came over my face.

A couple weeks after my birthday, she asked to see my new clubs.  "I'm holding onto the money," I told her, "until I see the new Callaways that are coming out in July."  She frowned but then nodded.  "Okay," she agreed, "just be sure you get those clubs."

By May, our plane tickets for Europe were purchased, our hotel reserved, and our expense money on hand in Euros.

One day in June, I emptied my secret account.  "Let's go out for lunch," I suggested.  Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot at Glamour Bridal in San Antonio.  She looked at me with raised, questioning eyebrows.  "I can't replace that dress you lost all those years ago," I told her.  "That dress is gone."  I pulled the money from my wallet.  "But I can buy you a new one."

She cried pretty much all the way through the appointment I'd made with the shop earlier in the week. In the end, we found a dress that really made her cry.  With happiness.  I even had enough money left to buy her a jeweled hairpiece.

As we left the shop later that day with her beautiful new dress, a form-fitting Maggie Sottero, she wiped her eyes and looked over at me.  "What are we going to do with this dress?"

"You're going to wear it," I replied.  "In Paris.  We'll go to a church and take pictures.  We'll take a cab to the Eiffel Tower and take pictures.  Then we'll go to Le Procope (the oldest restaurant in continuous business anywhere in the world) and get the waiter to take more pictures.  Basically, we're going to take thousands of pictures of you - in that dress."

And we did.  First, though, I surprised her with a bouquet from the florist near our hotel.  (That was another thing that required "setting right".  Someone forgot to give her her bouquet forty years ago, so she walked down the aisle without it.)

First, we took pictures at the church of St. Germain des Pres:

Then, of course, at the Eiffel:

And finally, at dinner at Le Procope:

And here is my lovely bride in her "dress for one day".

As we walked the streets of Paris, young women asked again and again to have their photo taken with my lovely bride, assuming that we were newlyweds.  I didn't correct them; I felt like we were, too.

Once, as I was standing to the side while yet another group of young women were having their photo taken with Karen for good luck, an older gentlemen nudged me in the ribs and said, "You have you a young, very pretty one there, don't you?"

As usual, folks assumed that I was a man of means who'd landed a "trophy wife".  They couldn't know that this beautiful woman had done without many things for many years just to be with me and raise my children.

She's not a trophy; she's a treasure.  My treasure.

Go to Paris...

I am very excited to inform my readers that today Dad's romantic and smashing post on Paris is featured at A lady in France. She read it and fell in love with it, and you will, too. Even if you have read it before, pop over to Lady Jennie's blog and read it again; it's worth it. Then look over all the excellent posts by Jennie herself. She's funny and down to earth and makes living in France sound like it's something any of us could obtain (if we happened to marry a French man/woman, found a company to work for that was willing to transfer us to their Paris office, or became a famous ex-pat writer like Hemingway). I have read A lady in France for a long time, and I promise that you will find lots to love, including French recipes that make it all look so attainable, even for cooks like myself.

So travel now to Paris, and then explore more of the sights and sounds of France through Lady Jennie's eyes. Plan on a pleasant journey - enjoy!

She Went to Paris, part deux

When Dad told me what happened on the Paris trip right before he and Mom had to catch their plane...well, I knew I wanted this story for my blog. Happily, he complied by writing it. I enjoyed reading this second part even more than the first, and I'm sure you will, too. To read the first installment of the story click She Went to Paris...and I Went, too.

There are those who say that the Eiffel Tower is no big deal. Those people are idiots. Or, they have never seen it in person and are insanely envious of those who have. Then there are those who have seen it and say that the experience is ruined by the hordes of tourists thronging about. You may safely ignore such cretinous assertions.

Of course, people come from all over the world to see the Tour Eiffel. It is a construct of magnificence. Gustave Eiffel was a genius and his tower is unquestionably a wonder of the modern world. I would advise people to go see the Eiffel Tower from wherever they are in Europe. Visiting London? Get on a plane, go see the Eiffel. Vacationing in Berlin or Rome? Go to Paris, see the tower.

Massively impressive in scope, and yet constructed with such beautiful and eloquently sensuous lines, it is a masterpiece of design and execution. In truth, it is not in and of itself what makes Paris the marvelous place that it is, yet the tower is the perfect emblem for the city – beauty for beauty's sake.

Rome may be the seat of ancient power, Athens the seat of Western philosophy, New York, London, Berlin, Tokyo, and Shanghai the forums of modern commerce – Paris is for those who love beauty; indeed, Paris, as the old saying goes, is for lovers. The Eiffel Tower embodies the truth of it. Take the one you love, and go there, if you can.

As Karen and I walked westward along the Right Bank of the Seine, the tower rose on our left – our destination for the afternoon. First, though, we came to the most beautiful bridge in the world, the Pont Alexandre III. Built in honor of Tsar Alexander the Third of Russia, who signed the armistice ending the Franco-Prussian War, it astonishes the eye. Constructed of one single, incredibly long, low arch, it seems to hover magically above the water. Gilded statues guard its four corners, two on the Right Bank and two on the Left, marking France's “four eras”. There is an enormous lion on the northeast corner and, with my testosterone raised by about 50% by my surroundings, I had to pose.

This is Paris' heart, and perhaps its most beautiful sector. Declaring such a thing however, is a bit like insisting that a fine bottle of wine's second glass is somehow better than the third – or the first or the fourth. Every building, whether it be a bank, a municipal office, a row of residences or luxury apartments above shops and restaurants, is of an older, finer world, and is a marvel of architecture. Only one word works here. Stunning.

We reached the Eiffel and crossed over the Seine to stand beneath it and gaze upward in awe. The lines to go up were formidable, the hour was late and we'd grown tired, so we sat and enjoyed the spectacular view, and then Karen bought souvenirs. And, of course, we kissed – for the camera, and, actually, not so much for the camera. We men are generally not fervent kissers, I know, but I promise you; take a beautiful woman to Paris and you will do a fair amount of it. I did, and more.

While there, I was treated to the novel experience of having a young French couple from out of town ask me for directions to the Champs Elysees. I knew where it was (just across the river and four or five blocks further on) and my French had improved to the point that I could send them in the right direction.

Once again, we went away from the crowd. After a brief discussion we decided to leave the Champs Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe for the morrow. The sun was declining toward evening and anyway the headquarters of Napoleon's Grand Armee (which I've always wanted to see) was at the other end of the mall by the Metro station that would take us home. There was also a grand long view of the tower from there – so, more pictures.

That evening was a reprise of our first – wine, cheese, pastries, and fresh fruit, enjoyed with an amazing view of the city as the evening faded to twilight. At one point, Karen turned to me and declared that the day just ending was, “the best day of my life thus far.” She got no argument from me. Besides, she looked lovely in the last fading glow of the sunset, and there was a bedroom just up the stairs.....

Karen loves to shop, but due to our circumstances, shopping is something she gets to enjoy very little and very seldom. On our last morning, consequently, I suggested that we save the Arc de Triomphe for our next trip (God willing, there will be one) and that she go shopping at the various markets in the neighborhood. 

 “What will you do?” She asked. “Go from cafe to cafe,” was my answer. She agreed gladly. “But what about money?” I pulled the two hundred euros that our son had given me for emergencies out of my pocket. “I'll pay Nate back somehow,” I said.

 I sat on benches or in cafes, enjoying what turned out to be a perfect day weather-wise, intending to let her shop for the three hours or so until time to go to the airport.

And then I made my big mistake. Oh, boy.

Having found a sidewalk cafe with the perfect mixture of sun and shade and wine and coffee, I decided to stay put while she shopped up and down the street. Sometime later, she came back and asked if she could just cross over one street a block or so down Rue de Pyranees and go to a shop she

could see a bit further on.

Perhaps it was the wine. I agreed to let her go.

Now, before all you feminists get your knickers in a knot, let me explain two things about the woman I love.

First, she means much more to me than my own life. Secondly, despite her intelligence and many talents (she is provably one of the foremost diamond salespersons in the United States) she has two shortcomings that can become dangerous in unknown places. She possesses very little in the way of a sense of direction – she gets turned around quite easily – and she has no concept of the passage of time. Over the years I have come to believe that she is convinced that if she's not looking at her watch, it doesn't move. So, fifteen minutes, or an hour and fifteen minutes; it's all the same to her.

After an hour or so of enjoying my wine and suffering my own lapse in the area of the concept of time's passage, it dawned upon me that she had been gone too long. I very quickly settled my bill and went in search of her. She was nowhere along the street, in none of the shops between my cafe and the Metro station at the plaza. Concern setting in quickly and rather deeply, I repeated the search in the opposite direction. No Karen. Concern became panic.

Paris – so I had read in one magazine in preparation for this trip – is a city where attractive women tend to disappear, though mostly at the airport, and mostly young college women, but from other parts of the city as well – their destination being the ports of the ongoing slave trade. Damn that magazine! Reason told me that she had spied another shop down some side street and had gone there on impulse. But reason failed utterly in the presence of panic. More time passed, I searched along the street, I couldn't find her. Stupidly, I had turned off both cell phones and stored them in the luggage. There was no means of contact. There I stood, wide-eyed with terror in a strange city, the light of my life nowhere in sight.

Then, there she was, blithely and happily clicking along the street toward me in her high heels, looking every bit at home – the elegant Parisien woman. She had indeed crossed the avenue to a shop on the other side. I had searched that side, too, but at that moment she had evidently been in the back, trying something on. Thanking God profusely, I gripped her hand tightly, ignored her raised and questioning eyebrows, and headed for the Metro.

The train going out through the northern suburbs toward CDG Airport was overcrowded. After a few stops, I claimed a seat for Karen, but I continued to stand in the crush of people going home from work.

At one particularly busy stop, I heard a woman ask in English with a French accent, “Does this belong to someone?” I looked out onto the platform and felt for my belt at the same time, finding an empty place where my camera had been. She was holding it! Like an idiot I had left it clipped to my belt and it had gotten knocked off in the melee.

Behind her, a group of young men lounged on the platform. One of them, taller than the rest, reached over her, snatched the camera and headed off down the track. And the train was about to leave.

Now, if it had been just the camera, I might have kissed the $150 goodbye. But stupidly, I had failed to change the memory card – all of our memories of Paris were in that camera. I went after him. He tried to get away but the crowded conditions hindered him and aided me. I caught him and spun him around and grabbed the camera. “Mine,” I said. Now, he was younger than me, a bit taller, probably stronger. But when our eyes locked, he must have seen what I was willing to do to regain our precious memories. After a moment, he let go, shrugged, and walked away with a pretty decent swagger. I dashed back to the train. The others held the door for me.

I had the chance to thank the young woman, who'd gotten on the train. If she hadn't picked it up, I wouldn't have missed it until too late. “Merci, mademoiselle, merci!” I repeated until she blushed. God bless her!

A little while later, our plane hove northward and Paris slipped over the horizon. My one thought? We will return.

Au revoir, fair city.



Click on the link at left to read excerpts from Kelven's Riddle, an excellent epic fantasy series authored by my dad, Daniel Hylton.

She Went to Paris...and I Went, too (guest post by Dad)

I had a phone conversation with Dad earlier this week. While we were talking I began to have insane cravings for European dark chocolate, stuffed croissants, cheese, fruit and good wine. Why? Because Dad was telling me about his and Mama's time together in Paris. Today, knowing I would be publishing his piece about those magical three days, I went to the one bakery in town I know of where the pastry chef was actually trained in Paris and can make an excellent croissant. The bakery, Essence Cafe, was closed. I shook my fist at its dark and empty interior as we drove away. My perfect chance to celebrate my dad's Paris post was denied me.

Still, here it is - perfect for Sunday daydreaming. I hope that Dad's posts will become a regular thing here, but at the present time he is working on his fourth book, and that is more important.

Enjoy! (But if you find you start craving pastries, don't blame me.)



My beautiful wife Karen on the Pont Neuf

You've read it, or heard it – Paris is filled with Frenchmen who hate Americans, Parisiens, in general, are rude, Paris stinks, Paris is full of pickpockets, Paris is expensive, Paris is not as wonderful as you've been told, on and on and on and on – some truth, yes, but mostly nonsense.

Paris is like any other very large city, anywhere in the world, in essentials; it has its rough neighborhoods, raucous traffic, graffiti, squalor, etc. It is, however, completely unlike any other city in essence. In essence, it is something quite special and wonderfully rare. At its heart is an ancient environment, a living monument to a glorious and beautiful past, where every building seems to have been constructed with an eye to form rather than function. I have recently come to understand that my wife, the lovely and gentle Lady Karen, belongs there, in that city, more than she belongs anywhere. You see, I'm the man – the astoundingly fortunate man – that accompanied her on her first trip to that marvelous place in June of 2011. At the first, I admit, during our passage on the RER from CDG airport into the city, I was as cynically critical as any imperialistic American. It took but one evening to soften my attitude and but one day further to transform it utterly...

Our son, Nate, and our daughter-in-law, Natalie, live in Bournemouth, in southern England; consequently we see them rarely. You see, my wife and I are not people of means, so we seldom travel. This fact is due mainly to my desire to be a writer of books rather than an earner of wages – a litany of failure that is best left unlisted. We married when we were very young and very poor. From the beginning, there was a wolf at our door, and he is still there. A bit longer (and duller) in the tooth, perhaps, yet he persists in his attempts at entry. Many times, he has nearly succeeded in breaking in and consuming us. He is there, even now, as I write this.

Knowing our continuing pecuniary circumstances, my son and his wife decided to bring us to Europe to visit them. As an added surprise, they insisted on sending us to Paris for three days, in honor of their Mum's birthday. Mum (my gentle wife) was astonished and overjoyed. For my part, I accepted as graciously as possible, muttering to myself that no one needed to spend that kind of money just to put a fish such as myself so abominably far out of water.

Everything went fine at the airport, but the train ride into the city seemed to confirm my belief that Paris was nothing special. The train runs down from CDG through the northern parts of the city – dozens of blocks of squalid ghettos that would easily be at home in L.A. or Baltimore. It was unseasonably hot as well that afternoon. I remember remarking to Karen that, “I don't see anything special about this town.”

We got off at the Gare du Nord station, one of the roughest parts of Paris. Had I done my homework properly, we would have caught the Metro (a magnificent means of getting about town) and gone on to Gambetta station, near our B&B. Instead, I led my high-heeled wife by the hand through several very seamy streets until we came to a main thoroughfare and caught a cab. And there, the transformation started.

Joseph, our cabby on that day, is a native Parisien. He spoke only broken English, but knew exactly where we needed to go, took us there directly for very little money, and along the way educated us in kindly tones as to the basics for enjoying his hometown. At 36 Rue de Boyer (pronounced Vwa-yay), we met Anna, a Corsican woman that grew up in Paris and spoke very good English. After she got us settled, she offered to point us toward any one of several good restaurants in the area for supper. I told her that I preferred to get some wine and cheese and settle in for the night. Surprised, but approving of this decision, she gave us directions to the establishments where she often shopped for these things. We went out and up the Avenue de Menilmontant to Rue de Pyranees where we found Nickolas Wine shop and purchased a very fine Medoc. Coming back toward Anna's, we entered the fromagerie, bought a cheese called comte, then found a patisserie, where I went a little bit nuts – they put dark chocolate in many of their pastries – then on to a fresh-fruit shop where we acquired a small container of cherries.

We were not in “tourist” Paris, but in a real Parisien neighborhood, so in none of these shops was English spoken easily. I speak very little French, but Karen and I are both disposed to be polite, believing that people are essentially the same everywhere on the globe and, in general, will respond to a respectful and friendly attitude. Such is the case in Paris, France. Almost everyone was kind and helpful; other customers, some of whom spoke more English than the shop-owners, aided us in acquiring what we sought. And I have to say that, though fairly reasonable in cost, the quality of our purchases would have commanded outrageous prices anywhere in America – and would have been worth every penny.

That was an extraordinarily pleasant evening. We sat on our fifth-floor balcony, gazing out over the city, and enjoyed our marvelous repast as the sun went down over Sacre-Coeur and left its last fading glint on the heights of the Eiffel. Already, Paris was seducing me. Karen, more clever than I, needed no such seduction. She knew the city's worth instinctively (well, in her distant ancestry, she is, after all, French). [Although, in my most distant ancestry, I am Roman, and as I like to remind her, my people conquered her people – but that has no place here.]

We are no longer young, but on that night we felt like newlyweds. She was lovely as always, we were unconstrained by any inhibiting factors and, well, I must not continue in this vain; there is a risk of imparting too much unnecessary information...

Ah, Wednesday, a whole day to spend in Paris. We breakfasted with Anna, with the Eiffel tower a mile or so away outside her window, then went to Gambetta station to catch the Metro into town. We went to Notre Dame first. And there we found our first rude Frenchmen. You see, Notre Dame is surrounded by places of business where actual Parisiens work. Think about it; if you had to walk to work (and lunch) everyday through mobs of mostly young, uncouth, too-rich, overweight Americans, and hordes of kung-fu cameramen from China and Japan, you, too, might very well sour on the whole idea of tourism as a source of national income.

We decided to ditch the crowds. Before leaving, we got our obligatory photos of Notre Dame, with Karen in the foreground, of course. Well, without her in it, for me it's just a photo of a very impressive church. You see, she came to see Paris – I came to see her in Paris.

We strolled along the Seine westward until we came to the Pont Neuf. There have been so many movies made with handsome men kissing beautiful women on the Pont Neuf; so I wanted to kiss her there. And I did; yes, I did. I may not be handsome, but she is beautiful, so we had at least half the formula down pat.

In the island, in the middle of the Pont Neuf, I spied a doorway, just wide enough for one person to negotiate, beyond which there was the interior of a small cafe. We slipped inside. A few people were seated at the tables clustered along one wall, and none of them were speaking English. It's a family-run cafe, and a very small affair. Because of its situation among residences and places of business, and the distance from all the well-known landmarks, tourists have not found this place.

Between my inadequate French and the waiter's slightly better command of English, we managed to order. Beside the fact that my meal (an open-faced sandwich with ham and broiled goat cheese) contained the word “aveyronndaise” in it, I can say only that it is the tastiest thing I have ever eaten. Really, it's true, the French can cook. Everything that I consumed in Paris was remarkably good; and the wine, fantastic.

About one o'clock, the cafe filled with young professional people on their lunch. Sitting next to us were two men, one of whom, on hearing us speak, addressed us in very good English. He asked us how we found the place (by accident, I told him); and he went on to point out a photo of Georges Simenon on the wall. The great French writer (creator of the Paris police Detective Maigret, one of my favorites) evidently had loved this little cafe and ate there every noonday during the last decade of his life. We ordered more wine, and then coffee. What a pleasant two hours we spent there!

Then it was off to the Eiffel Tower. It was a beautiful day, so we turned away from the Metro station and decided to walk the mile or so along the Seine. Yes, we were scammed by the woman who pretended to find a gold ring on the sidewalk, then asked us, “Is this yours?”, before saying that we might as well have it, but it's good luck to give some money in return. After meeting up with others of her “sisters” further along, we were glad to have the fake gold ring, so that we could just show it to each of them as they appeared to play their little game and then simply move on.

And yes, I foolishly bought two works of art that later turned out to be prints, brazenly signed by the fakers, but Hey!, they came from the banks of the Seine, so they will always mean something to us even if they have no real value.

As we strolled westward through Napoleon's magnificent city, the Eiffel began to rise up impressively on our left. By now, I was completely under the spell of Paris.

Of course, there was still the afternoon and evening to go, and one day more. I hadn't yet endured the Hour of Panic, nor had we met the mugger.....




Continued...She Went to Paris, Part Deux



If you enjoyed this story, click on the link at left to read excerpts from the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series, another great story by my dad, Daniel Hylton.