Today is my late mother’s birthday. She would have
turned 98 today, but did live to 96. As birthdays are times to bring up happy
memories, I will share the connection that was Paris and my mother.
As a matter of
background, she was born and spent her first 20 or so years in Paris, in the
Marais, aside from a few years during the war in southern France. She
immigrated to the United States in the early 1950s but made frequent visits to
Paris to see her friends and family once she married and was financially able
to do so. In fact, later in their lives, for many years, my parents owned an
apartment in Paris, also in the Marais, where they spent a month or so
twice a year. Thus, she and my father were regular visitors to Paris and felt
at home there.
One of my mother’s “pilgrimages” in Paris was a champagne
and caviar snack at the bar at one of the department stores (whose name I have
forgotten). She truly relished both champagne and caviar. However, I believe
that the greatest joy she experienced on these visits was the thrill of being
able to afford it after growing up in a neighborhood and family that enjoyed an
abundance of love but was rather limited in available funds. It was an “I did
it” moment.
On a more familial note, she used to stop by the
delicatessen of a dear friend for a good Jewish lunch. Her childhood friend ran
an old-fashioned Jewish delicatessen. I myself spent much time there. You could
get poppy pastries, not too sweet, tasty rye bread, delicious corn beef and tongue,
and, of course, some schnapps. There were barrels of salted herring and other
fish. It was a feast for the eyes, nose and tongue. During all the years it was
open, my parents would stop by to say hello to Robert but also to her past with
its rich memories. It was time travel of the best kind.
The connection between past and present expressed
itself best in my mother’s feelings arriving and leaving Paris after a month.
Upon arrival, she relished checking on the neighborhood, buying food and drinks
for the apartment and catching up with her “bande”, those friends and family
that had survived the war, as well as newer friends that happened to be in Paris
at the time. My parents never went to bed before 1 or 2 in the morning in
Paris, going out every night. During the day, they would listen to Bach at a
church or see a museum, occasionally taking a train to somewhere outside of
Paris if they wanted a break from the hustle and bustle of the city. However, towards the
end of the visit, my mother, having drunk from her fountain of youth, was ready
to leave the gray clouds and noise of Paris to return to the sun, sports
(tennis and golf) and peacefulness of Los Angeles. My mother was as happy to
leave as she was to arrive, knowing that she would be back in some six months
to begin the cycle again. For my mother, Paris was who she was, but only a part
of it.
In short, my mother and Paris never parted even if she
did leave the city. Happy birthday, Gaby, from le fils de Gaby.
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