Oh la, la

A last-minute trip to France, which involved me tagging along on a trip with my mother and her best friend since childhood, proved a much-needed restorative. France is like that, and so is family, for that matter. I had the chance to reconnect with my mother’s friend’s daughter, a girl I hadn’t seen in 14 years, but with whom I’d spent many summer holidays and even an ill-fated winter expedition to Quebec which resulted in ear infections. Within the space of just hours, we had the lucky fate of falling in like sisters, as if hardly a day had passed since our last visit. Despite husbands and kids and new cities, the things we think change us so much, we seemed quite familiar to one another, grown into the skins we were already wearing as kids. Young skin may look taut and fresh, but most of the time it has hidden wrinkles and pouches that need plumping with age.

Paris, and Versailles, where my new-old friend lives a literal stone’s throw from the Chateau, greeted us with customary gray, misty skies, which we gamely called “quite nice,” and “not too cold.” That’s to say, we weren’t going to let a little winter weather spoil our fun. Frantic to arrive with my Third World wardrobe clean at the very least, I’d washed all of my trousers the night before leaving Marrakech only to find that some midnight bandits had scaled our terrace and snitched them from the clothesline. Besides the comic image of a Moroccan teen wearing my low-cut Chip and Pepper jeans beneath his djellabah, I was peeved. But in the damp chill, my last pair of jeans, faded Converse sneakers and wool pea coat proved a winning outfit for our first foray into Paris. We took the RER from Versailles with my friend’s two kids in tow; her children possess rare patience and manners, and we put them to the test with miles of window shopping and sight-seeing. Armed with steaming nutella crepes and cafés au lait, and at my Mum’s insistence, we piled onto a bateau mouche and rode the choppy, gray waters of the Seine past the Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Notre Dame and a host of must-sees. It was touristy and fun and perfect with kids. From there we trotted from Les Invalides through the arrondisements of the Rive Gauche to St. Michel, popping in for a lunch of hearty lentils and sausage. Afterwards, we shopped for used paperbacks at a small English-language bookstore called San Francisco near the much-touted Comptoir restaurant; serendipitously, I’d made the chef’s chestnut-celery root soup from a recipe in Food & Wine magazine just a few days before coming to France.

The next day, Mum and I set out alone for a marathon tour of Paris, complete with nostalgic peeks at an apartment I’d once rented on the Rue Visconti and favorite haunts from the time I’d spent in the city during college and thereafter – the marche on the Rue de Seine, the Madeleine church and chic design stores of the St. Germains des Pres. Why is it that everything in Paris, whether a simple brioche in a pastry store window or a settee covered in Pierre Frey fabric, is so damn chic?

When lunchtime rolled around, I was incapable of making a decision about where to eat, examining the menu and ambience of a dozen bistros before we settled on what I hoped would be the perfect neighborhood spot. It was to be our only day together in Paris and for some reason, I felt that much was riding on our lunch venue. As if conversation would be wittier, more intimate and memorable if we were nestled into just the right banquette. Thankfully, the wee restaurant was perfect, and after a rich slice of rabbit terrine, chicken breast in a cream-mustard sauce and berry crumble, we were ready to hit the streets again. We took in Monet’s water lillies at the Orangerie, which has just reopened after a near-decade renovation. Displayed just four to a room, the massive canvases floated on the oval walls beneath an elegant skylight. Even for one who doesn’t love Monet, the effect was commanding – serene and energized at the same time. Downstairs, where the private collection of XX is hung, Mum spotted one of her favorite paintings, a Georges La Tour image of a girl holding a candle up to an old man’s face, the light from the candle spilling magically from between her fingers. The image sated and fortified us like the perfect pain au chocolat we’d consumed that morning for breakfast. We returned to Versailles with throbbing feet, but feeling quite alive.

Friday is market day in Versailles and I attacked the cheese vendors with terrifying zeal. One contingency of the trip was the promise of mounds of stinky, gooey unpasteurized cheese for Sam, who had to remain behind in Marrakech for work. “Just bring me some cheese, Cait, lots and lots of cheese,” he’d pleaded. Determined to induce glee, if perhaps a twinge of lactose intolerance, I had the poor cheese vendor sweating as she raced from one end of the stall to the other, her arms laden with my purchases. Five kilos (yes, that’s over 10 pounds!) later, I had two grocery bags stuffed with all manner of goat, sheep and cow goodness, including Camembert, Vieux Comte, Morbier, Bleu d’Auvergne, aged Gouda, Brillat-Savarin, and on and on. Arteries be damned!

Post market madness, we retired to the near-deserted gardens of Versailles, where the shrouded statues looked like eerie apparitions amidst the military precision of the evergreen shrubbery. My friend’s children skipped along the canals, visiting their favorite statues (the lions, of course!) like the old pros that they are. I’m sure Marie would have been pleased with the care they took to scratch the ears of her goats and throw bread to the ducks in the pond at the Hameau. I don’t care how many times you wander in the footsteps of Louis and Marie through these manicured gardens, the place is just spectacular and to be jaded would be to be dead.

At the risk of boring with the blow by blow of the trip, I’m leaving it at that. Suffice it to say that I could not have dreamed up a more satisfying voyage and visit for my first one outside of Morocco in eight months. Mum, Betsy, Jill, Shea and Finn, merci, merci, merci beaucoup!