Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [7]
Yes, I thought, I really am in Paris.
I left the café and walked along the rue Bonaparte, scanning the numbers above the doors. When I came to Number 36, I stopped. The sign outside said: HÔTEL SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS. It was the small hotel where Janet Flanner lived in her early days in Paris, and I had come to pay my respects to her. Of course, she was no longer around—she died in 1978—but it’s my belief that you can remain as close in feeling to the dead as you can to the living. Sometimes even closer.
I entered the lobby, an elegant, refined space that in all probability bore no resemblance to the modest surroundings in which Flanner lived in the 1920s. At that time it was a hotel where young American expatriates with talent but little money rented rooms. Still, it was from this hotel that Flanner began filing her fortnightly articles, signed with her nom de correspondance, Genêt.
“May I help you, madame?” asked the receptionist.
“No, I am here to meet a friend,” I said, walking the few steps to the breakfast room at the rear of the lobby. Breakfast was over and the room was empty. It seemed as good a place as any to deliver my respects to Madame Flanner:
Well, I finally made it here to thank you, my thinking voice said. So thanks for sharing with me your fifty years in Paris. I couldn’t have asked for a better guide.
After leaving the hotel I walked along the tiny rue Jacob, a charming street that seems to surface suddenly at a little garden near the rue de Seine and then, several blocks later, disappear into the rue de l’Université. Now this is more like it, I thought happily, as I popped in and out of the bookshops and antiques galleries along the street. It was at this point that, high on a combination of strong coffee, excitement, and jet lag, I found myself actually skipping.
Later, of course, when the first exhilaration lost its edge, another question would present itself: how does one structure a life that has no responsibilities or set routines? Such an existence, I came to see, had the potential to deteriorate into idle wandering.
But on this particular day I was open to wandering, to idleness, to losing myself in the glorious ether of Paris. I wandered through the narrow streets, my mind spinning, going over all the things I wanted from this trip.
A list began forming itself in my head: I wanted to take chances. To have adventures. To learn the art of talking less and listening more. To see if I could still hack it on my own, away from the security of work, friends, and an established identity.
Of course, I also wanted to lose ten pounds, find the perfect haircut, pick up an Armani suit at 70 percent off, and meet Yves Montand’s twin, who would fall deeply, madly, in love with me.
My first chance to get my self-improvement plan rolling presented itself in the form of a cosmetics shop I passed on the rue de Beaune. I stepped inside. It was an elegant shop, staffed by beautiful young Parisiennes with perfect skin, perfect hair, and perfect bodies. Dressed like doctors in crisp white jackets with name tags, they moved like models through the aisles of glass shelves piled high with eye balm, corrective facial masques, and salmon mousse hair balm. I was approached by Françoise, who, in addition to her lab coat, wore a Hermès scarf and Chanel earrings.
Françoise asked if I would like an analysis of my skin. It struck me as a wonderful idea. “What are your problem areas, madame?” Françoise asked, her concerned voice suggesting there might be many of them.
Within minutes I was like an analysand on the couch, blurting out my long list of problems to Françoise. She listened, jotting down notes on a white pad with a Mont Blanc pen. Undaunted by the challenge I presented, she proceeded to fill a white wicker basket with items from various parts of the shop. She then explained the purpose of each product and the miracles that would result from using it. Always, she ended with “I myself