burn, save, rebuild, repeat.
Evan and I have been lucky enough to travel to Paris twice together—five years apart—and stay in the same apartment. It’s an apartment our friend care-takes that is across the Seine from Notre-Dame. I know. Magical.
It’s interesting to see what five years and a pandemic can do—to an apartment, to a relationship, to a city, to a cathedral. Last time we were here, Notre-Dame was our reference point for everything. She was there in all her glory, visible from our apartment. Now, she had her frontside (that pretty face), but her backside is all gone. A fire in 2019 left Notre-Dame in poor shape and now she is mostly just scaffolding.
The first trip, we ran around this city like idiots in love. And when you’re an idiot in love running around Paris and you realize that’s what it was built on—well, that and art and poetry wine and bread—you just can’t help but think, this is the fucking best.
But when you have a toddler, it’s different. Paris is different. I had such ideals about waltzing around Paris with Marcelline and going to boutiques and being like, “Oui, her name is Marcelline” and them ooh-ing and ahh-ing and giving us matching peter-pan collar dresses at a deep discount and then Marcie and I holding hand and skipping along down the Seine with the Eiffel Tower in the background. NOT THE CASE. Though there were so many sweet moments.
Every friend I talked to said, “Don’t take your kid to European cities. Countrysides are where it’s at.” And I thought, okay, we’ll spend the majority of our time in countryside goodness, but then I want to go to one of my favorite cities in the world with my baby. To stay in this same apartment and know this place as our team of three.
(as for Evan, lemme just say… we should’ve just ended our trip in Switzerland, because nothing will ever beat the experience of hiking in the Swiss Alps for Ev. especially not going shopping in Paris with his half-drunk wife and over-heating toddler. he was even underwhelmed by Lake Como!)
While I would ultimately give Paris with Kids a 2/10 rating, I HIGHLY recommend somehow having some of your best Seattle friends and their children stay mere blocks away from you. We only had one night and one full day with them, but it was… THE BEST.
Evan and our Seattle friend Brendan went out on an early walkabout of Paris, to catch up and be away from the children. When they got back from walking, Lisa C. and I were like, “See you later, suckers!” We left the apartment and I said, “Oh, I really want to stop by Shakespeare & Co.” but as we passed, the line was around the corner, so we opted out. Lisa C. told me to go right before closing—she had passed the shop the night before and there was no line.
My heart sank a bit. Shakespeare & Co. means so much to me. Firstly, it’s just really cool. Like Alan Ginsburg and Anaïs Nin used to just do readings there. My favorite author-signing photo of any writer ever is Zadie Smith at Shakespeare & Co.
But even cooler, my dear friend Lindsey Yankey (from Yosemite days) had illustrated all of the signage for the shop in 2011. I adore Lindsey and her work. I’ve commissioned a handful of pieces from her, including our wedding topper and a cake topper for Marcelline’s first birthday.
In 2018, when Evan and I visited Paris, I was gobsmacked to learn that Shakespeare & Co. was a block away from where we were staying. We waltzed in to the beautiful bookshop and looked around at all the books and the gorgeous illustrated signs by Lindsey that read “Fiction” “Science” “Children’s” etc. etc. We could only look and hold those memories, because Shakespeare & Co. has a strict “NO PHOTOS” policy, which I respected then and I half-respect now.
Today, Shakespeare & Co. has become quite the tourist attraction. So, another time. Later in the day, I thought.
With Lisa C. ready to go and Shakespeare & Co. being too touristy, I had another plan. I recently read this essay about shopping from David Sedaris, so I was dead-set on going to the vintage shops in Paris.
I got:
a vintage pink dress with a sparkly collar that I will only wear to niche music showcases,
a short-sleeved navy-with-red-polka-dots blouse with shoulder-pads,
a brown knit top with a black-beaded peter pan collar (suck on that, imaginary sales-people),
and a vintage Fila… swimming?…… suit? unclear. it goes below my knees, but also is a tank-top top and also has a two-way zip up the front? it was five Euro and I’m not sorry.
Success! I feel David would be proud. Lisa C. got nothing. She was fine with that. We then connected with our husbands and children (sigh, fine) at a boat dock, because the children insisted on seeing the Eiffel Tower. (confession: I fucking love the Eiffel Tower… but mostly AT NIGHT. August is too hot to be anywhere, but especially to be at one of the biggest tourist attractions in the entire world.)
Riding the boat,
Lisa C.: I read that they’re getting the Seine all cleaned up so that they can do the triathlon in it for the 2024 Olympics.
Me: Didn’t they just have the Olympics here in London?
Lisa C.: Rachel, we’re in Paris.
Me: Oh my god.
(no excuse, but also, gimme a break… I’m on a very privileged multi-stop sabbatical—it’s hard to remember where I am!)
The Eiffel Tower was a lot. The heat was too much and there were so many people, but I’m so glad we went.
Afterwards, we took the kids to Passy Park (highly recommend… there were misters there to keep us all cool) and ate a picnic of rosé, sparkling water, cheese, fruit, olives (ick, sorry!), dried meats, and baguette.
These few hours were some of the best on the whole trip. Our kids were running around, having the time of their life and we were just chilling in the shade being like, “WHOA, WE’RE IN PARIS TOGETHER IN PASSY PARK AND WE CAN SEE THE EIFFEL TOWER… WELL, JUST THE TIP… BUT IT COUNTS!”
Our Seattle friends had to leave to catch a train to their next destination, so Evan, Marcelline, and I took the boat back to our temporary home. I used my limited American Sign Language to talk to three men on the boat whilst Marcelline slept on my chest. Evan used his phone to communicate with them. We traded photo ops. It was really special. One of them thanked me for talking to them and said that everyone else they had encountered had just sat quietly and ignored them. I love being something to the outsider. Admittedly, I hate being the outsider… it’s part of the gig… but I love the outsider, because I know that I am a born not-so-secret-outsider who will never completely gain access to whatever’s inside. When Marcelline woke up and started crying, I stepped away from our new Deaf friends before I was like, “Wait, y’all don’t care!” They laughed, I stood closer. My daughter was screaming, but they couldn’t hear.
When we landed home in the hot heat of our apartment, Evan and Marcelline immediately paired down to the only clothes necessary. I told Evan that I wanted to go to Shakespeare & Co. real quick, before it closed. I wandered over and there was no line. I was looking for two things: Lindsey Yankey signs and “Lost On Me” by Veronica Raimo. It was recently a Summer Staff Pick on Shakespeare & Co.’s site and I was excited to read it.
This beautiful haven had changed, though. Everything felt a little hostile. There were brash announcements of closing in “FIVE MINUTES” even though it was ten to eight. I watched tourists take unabashed photos and was jealous and pissed. I don’t remember it being like this. All of the category signs were in a black san-serif font, printed on a white background: Fiction, Non-Fiction, Essay, etc. etc. But then, there it was: Children’s. It was Lindsey’s! My heart jumped—I was so excited to see these two illustrated elephants celebrating the Children’s section of this beautiful bookstore. I wanted to take a photo, but NOT ALLOWED. I thought about trying to get a book for Marcelline, but NO TIME.
The employees of the store were milling about saying, “Does anyone need help with anyth— SIR! We’ve told you you’re not allowed to take photos and you keep taking them. Please stop. Does anyone need help with anything? We’re about to close.”
After scouring the “R”s and not finding “Lost on Me”, I approached a seemingly willing-to-help young woman who worked at Shakespeare & Co. “Hi. Thank you. Could you help me? I’m looking for ‘Lost On Me’? By Veronica Raimo?” (because apparently everything is a question when I feel like I’m bothering someone and/or I’ve spent significant time in London.)
The young woman said, “Hmmmm… We might be sold out of that one. Let me check.” She went to the check-out counter and leaned over close—like a dear friend wanting to share some gossip—to another young woman in front of a computer. I thought quickly how amazing it would be to be in your early 20s, working in Paris at a bookshop with friends. The young woman typed for a bit and then I heard her say, quietly, “We have one copy left in store.” She was whispering, but I could hear.
I welled up with excitement of meant-to-be-ness while the young woman helping me took a beat, took a breath in, then turned on her heel and said to me, “I’m sorry. We’re all sold out.”
I just kind of froze. She had lied to me. I went back to the shelves to see if I could find it again, before the same young woman helping me before said, “Ma’am, we’re closing.” I walked out into the streets of Paris, at 7:59pm, and stared at the bare bones of Notre-Dame—defeated and sad.
Was everything good gone? It felt like all the special things I once loved have been burned down and have died at the hand of consumers and tourists. And all I’ve contributed is an old book of matches—vintage and frail and pretty, yes, but flammable all the same.
Later that night, it wasn’t until I was chatting with my best friend Lisa B. (see now why I had to clarify?) about what happened in the bookstore that I started crying. I was sad.
I didn’t realize how much I wanted things to be different in that book shop right then. But it wasn’t just about the book. In the past five years, I have been burnt down inside over and over: a miscarriage, a layoff, a new baby, deep depression, a reckoning with my drinking habit, and on and on. The embers stayed hot and orange and I kept trying to build upon them, knowing the scaffolding was surely doomed. But I have rebuilt.
When the fire at Notre-Dame happened in 2019, a year after our first visit, I texted our friend who lived in Paris about my sadness. He told me:
“We have rebuilt before. We will rebuild again.”
The morning after my humiliation and little cry, I was out and about on coffee and pastry duty, out in the relieving rain by myself. I decided to go back to Shakespeare & Co. right as they were opening. I don’t know why. It was just an impulse—maybe I like going back to where I was humiliated? (see: all my writing.) I got in immediately and walked around. I fully explored and breathed in the place I have loved and I do love. A place full of so many beautiful books and dreams of writers. I found another surviving sign of Lindsey’s—Poetry. It was right across from the Essay section, where I bought Zadie Smith’s “Changing My Mind” and Harriet Gibsone’s “Is This Okay.” (I’m obsessed with this book already.) I didn’t buy the sweatshirt I had previously considered. I didn’t necessarily want to represent this place on my chest anymore—the same chest that an employee of theirs had punctured just 14 hours earlier. But going back felt redemptive.
While the blazes of the 2019 Notre-Dame fire started to rage, firefighters, historians, and even priests suited up and went in to the cathedral to save what they could: grabbing almost all of the statues and scrolls and artworks—the things that we’re irreplaceable.
I will keep burning down inside—over and over—but I’m going to try and stay strong enough to run in and grab what’s valuable before it all collapses. Because the goodness will be saved, while the rest burns in a blaze. And you can bet your ass that we will rebuild again.
xxo,
Rachel.
So freaking good!!!