We'll Always Have Paris
We'll Always Have Paris
For Marion and me, Paris was not a backdrop for selfies. It was the home where we wandered its streets getting lost, in order to find ourselves. Now she's ill, and I see ghosts around every corner.
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young [wo]man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” -Ernest Hemingway
“Welcome home,” chimed the blue text bubble on my phone last week, seconds after I’d alerted Marion to having landed at Charles de Gaulle. It was 6:30 am. She has metastatic cancer. But there she was, wide awake, eagerly awaiting our reunion.
Marion became my best friend in the fall of 1988, when I moved to Paris after graduating college, and we’ve remained close friends ever since. That’s thirty-six years of belly laughs and becoming. Of roundtrips between New York and Paris whenever flights were cheap or we’d saved up enough points. Of girls’ trips with our daughters and dozens of le goûter with my sons. Of making homemade pizzas for four generations of her family at their ancestral home in Brittany on long summer nights when the sun barely sets. Of crumbling in her arms at the Café Flore during my divorce, which happened to coincide with the terrorist attacks when my eldest was at Science Po. Of celebrating Marion’s then new job as an editor at Paris Match and then, decades later, of mourning its loss when the magazine industry imploded.
But mostly, whenever I picture Paris, I see the hours upon hours of walking aimlessly through the streets with Marion, studying the lines of our lives.
Marion’s nephew Robin—an infant when I left Paris, now a strapping young man awaiting his own first child—had just visited me in Brooklyn this past September with a friend, as each of his siblings and their friends had done in years prior. My kids and their friends, too, have made several pilgrimages to Marion’s place, conveniently located near the Gare du Nord, which means they hop off the RER straight from the airport and immediately feel chez eux. We’ve basically been running our own two-women foreign exchange program for the past three decades. “How’s she doing?” I asked Robin.
“Not great,” said Robin. “It’s good that you’re going soon.”
Marion’s breast cancer, which she’d long ago vanquished, had returned with a vengeance in the spring of 2023. I’d wanted to visit her this past summer, when she was having her very first photo exhibit—stunning images of Paris, mostly reflected in pools of water—but airline ticket prices, thanks to the Olympics, were bonkers. Instead, I’d booked a flight on points for the third week in October. Autumn happens to be my favorite season in Paris and in life anyway, and, as it would turn out, I’d land right after Marion’s second round of treatments would end. Maybe, I hoped, she’d feel healthy enough to go on a walk with me.
All of us who love Marion, in fact—and we are legions—were hopeful that this new round of chemo would keep the disease at bay, but now she was dealing with secondary issues from the treatment: collapsed veins, edema, exhaustion, fevers. With metastatic cancer, it’s always a game of whack-a-mole, but these were a lot of moles, all at once.
My previous visit to see her was ten months ago, in early December, 2023, when my partner Townsend and I flew to Paris after the first round of chemo stole Marion’s hair but not her spirit. The three of us walked for miles around the Seine that week, Marion and me having already repurposed the word flâneur in our own image back in ‘88: not a wealthy, French male wandering Paris without purpose, but two passionate-if-underpaid young female professionals of different backgrounds—she, a lapsed French Catholic of Flemish origin; me, a lapsed American Jew of Eastern European origin—purposely getting lost among the narrow streets of Paris in order to find ourselves.
Back in the late 80s, pre-google maps, you’d carry a bulky red book in your purse, called the Plan de Paris, to find your way through the city, but we knew its streets well enough to travel mapless. If we got lost, we were always able to find our way back to the Seine. Now we had a lapsed American Protestant of Mayflower mutt origins joining in our aimless meanderings, and seeing my past and my present crack each other up while crossing the Pont des Arts confirmed what I already knew: this man was both a miracle of lovingkindness and the perfect bridge to the next chapter of my life.
Six months prior, in fact, he’d awoken on his 60th birthday in Marion’s guest room, a few weeks after she’d received the news of her cancer’s recurrence. To know me well, I’d told him when we first met, you have to get to know Marion. It’s not only a condition for loving me, it’s who I am and will always be: Marion’s friend and fellow flâneur.
I first met Marion soon after arriving Paris, when I began lugging my heavy portfolio around the city on foot, hoping to find work as a photographer or at least to sell some of the work I’d already created in college. Marion was a photo editor at Figaro magazine at the time, and when she looked through my black and white photos of strippers, strip clubs, and the men who frequented them, she didn’t roll her eyes or chastise me for not having done my research. (Back then, Figaro published lush color images on topics palatable to French conservatives: churches, cheese, Chartres, Chirac, you get the picture. I didn’t.) Instead, she gave me suggestions of where I could (and did) sell the work as well as the names of editors who would (and did) hire me for assignments.
Then she did something unusual for a Parisian. She said, “My friend V.B. and I are going to see a movie tonight. Why don’t you join us?” So I joined them for a screening of Crocodile Dundee II. Not the greatest film of all time, but having seen it with the two of them, my life became permanently richer.
Marion would soon join my ragtag group of expats, about whom my friend John, our very own bestselling novelist at age 24, would later write so lovingly in the New York Times. We’d meet every Sunday at our friend Alex’s, then a chef at Taillevent, and he’d whip us up a gourmet meal using only two electric burners, a toaster, and some recipe he always made up on the fly in his head. One Thanksgiving, in my actual oven, he made a turkey with shaved truffles and god-knows-what-else under the bird’s crispy skin that I have never, to this day, forgotten.
Eventually, with the money I earned as a photographer—thanks in no small part to Marion’s introductions to French editors—I was able to move out of the one-bedroom I shared with three other Americans and into my own tiny studio across the street from Marion’s: a huge upgrade from sleeping on a single futon in a closet. The front door of my building at 53, rue St. Denis was literally ten-steps from the back door of her studio at 37 bd. de Sebastopol, with only a rue piétonne between us. I deliberately chose that apartment because of its proximity to Marion’s. 2000 French francs a month—around $345 back then—felt like an enormous sum to pay for rent, but being in close proximity to my best friend was worth it.
When I wasn’t off covering wars, we’d meet every morning at the Au Père Tranquille for a croissant, coffee, and catch-up. When I was off covering wars—by then Marion had become a photo editor at Gamma Presse Images, where I, too, had been hired as a staff photographer—she once even hopped on a plane to join me, landing in Bucharest right after the Romanian revolution, so we could celebrate her 25th birthday together. And when I was stabbed in the arm while working on a story about heroin addicts in Zurich, it was Marion I called first, even before reporting the crime to the Swiss police. And also Marion who took care of me and my arm when I got home to Paris. With home being the operative word.
Paris was where I lived, yes, but Marion made it my home. For years, I’ve been telling my kids that when I die, I want my ashes scattered in the Seine. But that was always with the assumption that Marion would be there to help toss them.
I literally cannot conceive of the city of Paris without Marion and me walking through it. But this trip, because of her treatments and need for rest, I wound up doing most of my walking alone. I’d spend an hour or two with Marion, either in her apartment or close to it in a nearby cafe, then, as she recovered at home from the effort, I’d aimlessly wander the entire city by myself, hoping to recapture the joy of our mapless meanderings.
My iPhone tells me I averaged 23,000 steps a day those four days, as I paced every corner of the city like an animal on a mission for what, I don’t know. Anticipatory grief is weird like that. It’s both propulsive and paralyzing in equal measure. Plus, I realized, as autumn leaves crunched underfoot, I was feeling pre-grief not just because Marion has a chronic illness but because we all, being human, are terminally ill. And those of us in the autumn of our lives are starting to feel it right now, acutely. This past August, while driving along a country road with my love and passing our favorite tree, I noticed that some of its leaves had already started turning yellow. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I convulsed into tears. “I want more time,” I cried.
And now, in Paris, whenever I happened upon a place where Marion and I had become ourselves, back in our twenties, meaning everywhere I looked—the passage between our former apartments; the random cafés where we sat for hours; the ice cream stand on the Île Saint-Louis where we always stopped on our way from right bank to left for a scoop of fraise des bois; the parks where we strolled; the lion statue near where Gamma once had its offices; the bridges where we laughed and cried and asked each other why why why—I found myself, quite frequently, choking back tears.
Paris was as beautiful as ever, her yellow leaves in their full splendor, and I was desperate for her to be the usual salve to my soul, but mostly all I saw were ghosts.
I left Paris in 1992 kicking and screaming when my now ex-husband wanted to go to film school back in the States. How would we, I wondered, procure health insurance as a freelancer and an older student? Here’s how: we wouldn’t. Instead, for the sake of having health insurance to birth my first two children—which would end up costing $9000 per infant anyway, out of pocket, even with supposedly “good” insurance—I would leave my freelance life and photojournalism behind and find a corporate job as a producer at ABC News. Then NBC News. Then, after the publication of my first book—in which both Marion and Paris play key roles—there were decades of pre-ACA patchwork solutions to the issue of having a “perk” the French rightly treat as a basic human right in order to keep producing my books, photos, and essays.
I did two stints in pharmaceutical marketing, one at a “magazine” that was really just pharmaceutical ad propaganda, another at a giant international PR/marketing firm. I took a job as writer at a content farm. I got hired at the World Science Festival. I found a job as a staff writer at an Alzheimer’s organization. I adapted my first book for NBC and worked in scripted TV, both of which gave me access to excellent WGA health insurance.
But now, as I walked around Paris without my ailing friend—who, like every French citizen, has never once had to worry about paying a doctor—my jury-rigged solution to the never-ending American problem of not going broke from getting sick had come back to haunt me. I’d turn a corner and run into some horror I helped foment, and I’d feel guilt, disgust, and despair in equal measure. Shakespeare and Co., where I used to spend hours in my twenties browsing books, drinking tea, and channeling Gertrude Stein, has been overrun by tourists waiting in long lines and filming TikToks. Both the Palais Royale and the Pyramide du Louvre, each considered eyesores by Parisians when they were unveiled in 1986 and 1989 respectively, now serve as backdrops for hundreds of young women shooting selfies in red berets, like cancer cells infecting their host.
I’d loved the Pyramide du Louvre ever since the morning in 1988 I climbed the steps of the Tuilleries metro station with all of my worldly possessions shoved into a small suitcase, a backpack, and a camera bag, and—having never once previously visited a single city in Europe before deciding to make Paris my home—spotted the Jardin des Tuilleries on my left, the covered arcades of the rue de Rivoli on my right, the Louvre just behind me, and said, out loud, “Holy shit, I live here now?” Many mornings thereafter, on my way to French classes at the Alliance Française, I’d deliberately choose a route that passed by the Louvre, just to check on the pyramid’s progress.
Now, if I were 22 again, moving to Paris, and taking French classes across the river, I’d probably choose a path to avoid it.
No, wait. Scratch that. If I were 22 and starting my life today, I couldn’t afford to live in Paris unless I were an influencer with dozens of brand contracts or a kid with a trust fund. Marion’s nephew and nieces, all of them gainfully employed in white collar jobs, live elsewhere these days in more affordable cities such as Marseille, Nantes, Bordeaux, and even Oslo, Norway. Her daughter Raphaelle—Lulue to those of us who know and love her—moved back home with her parents after studying European Union law in Brussels. Renting a place on her own, as both her mother and I had done at her age, is now totally out of reach to young Parisians.
All of the neighborhoods in which I once lived—the Tuilleries, the Marais, Les Halles, Sentier—used to each house at least one decent boulangerie, one small épicerie, a tabac, a boucherie, a fromagerie, a laverie, and an affordable café. Now they are all, without exception, overrun by luxury stores selling overpriced goods no one needs to get by day to day. And everywhere I looked, tourists walked around the city, scrolling through TikTok and Instagram, instead of staring up at the endless beauty around them. Meanwhile, on the rare occasion I did check my phone, it was blinking and buzzing with algorithm-driven content, telling me where I could find the “coolest” cafe or the “most luxurious” brands or the “best kept secret” in Paris nobody, except the influencer’s three million followers, now knew.
Paris, I wanted to yell into my screen, isn’t about that! It is, as Marion so beautifully taught me, walking wherever your feet take you. It’s sitting at whichever café appears around the corner when you find yourself thirsty or hungry or in need of a quick rest. It’s reading a book in a green metal chair with your feet propped up on the ledge of a fountain. It’s taking your time to eat each meal and relishing the company of a good friend and picking up whatever fresh ingredients you need for dinner on your way home from work. It’s sitting down with your extended family every Sunday afternoon—or, in my case, Marion’s family—and cooking a nice gigot with some pommes de terres and a simple salad with freshly cut chives. It’s a tarte aux pommes and a pain aux raisins and a steak au poivre served saignant. It’s falling in love, having your heart broken— rinse, repeat—and being grateful for both in equal measure. It’s creating and nourishing a group of friends in a tiny apartment that will always somehow expand to fit however many people show up. It’s healthcare for all and a financial safety net when you fall and a decent pension when it’s time to slow down. It’s a face without makeup, hair without dye, comfortable shoes, and a sturdy trench coat. It’s not worrying about how you’ll pay for your multiple cancer treatments when you get sick with a chronic illness but rather how to live well and with purpose with the time you have left. It’s bidets to clean your butt and public art to clean your soul and cheese sitting out on a wooden board until it’s gooey. It’s understanding that life is precious and beautiful, that beauty is free and abundant, that having one or two good sweaters is more than enough, and that love, friendship, honesty, good food, good books, being kind, and showing up are the only things in life that really matter. It’s being present, right here, right now, and looking up now and then to marvel at the glory of this arch or that spire. And it is—for me, at least—Marion, Marion, and Marion again.
On my last morning in Paris, Marion woke up early again to bid me farewell. I wasn’t worried about leaving her alone. Her husband Luton has been a stalwart and loving caregiver who has accompanied her to every doctor appointment, treatment, and scan, and now that their daughter Lulue is home from law school Brussels, she can help out, too. But I was worried about when—and if—I’d see Marion again. We shared our usual croissant and espresso at the café near her apartment, then a long hug, then she accompanied me to the RER and said goodbye.
I’d remained stoic all four of the days we were together, trying to live in the moment and not in our uncertain future. In the few hours she could manage, I told jokes. Reminisced. Made her laugh at our twenty-something antics. But the next morning, back in Brooklyn, my body rebelled at the end of a yoga class, soaking my mat with its tears.
Paris, I know, I can always revist, whether in my head or on a plane. But what is Paris—and who am I—without Marion?
I don’t know. I don’t ever want to know.
Beautiful…❤️🩹
I am weeping.