Dear Tante and Uncle Kip,
Luc saw me into a taxi at the Gare du Nord, and he had to run to catch his own train to Provence. The bustle at the station was unbelievable. The porters shouting, the noise, the sooty smell, the honking of the cabs lined up at the curb. Everyone speaking French fast and loud. I could only catch a few sentences, phrases here and there. I didn’t realize my French was so poor. I hope it will come back. After all, it was my first language—surely it will come back? I handed the driver the card with the name of the pension Aunt Kitty recommended, and we arrived safely.
Love,
Niki
Aunt Kitty had given Niki a small leather-bound notebook of blank pages, telling her, “You must keep a journal. Put down your impressions, a few words even, so when you get home, you can read it over and relive all those marvelous moments.”
Niki had thanked her but had not thought she would use it very much. Aunt Kitty was a writer, so she always thought in terms of words.
Niki was usually too busy living whatever she was doing rather than writing about it. However, much to her surprise, when she got to France she found herself so filled with an emotional response to all she was seeing, things she knew she would want to remember, that she began to carry the little book with her, jotting down impressions on the spot. It also became a place where at the end of the day she wrote honestly about things she would never put in a letter home. Although she tried to write home at least once a week, there were many things she was thinking and feeling that might hurt Cara. She was beginning to be aware of the sense of being French, and her desire to seek some information about her parents had increased.
In her journal she wrote,
I am in Paris. After writing those words, I can hardly believe it! A dream come true, a hope realized. I walk the streets wondering how my real mother felt. Am I seeing what she saw, feeling what she felt? Did she fall in love here? Will I?
For Niki everything was stimulating about Paris. She felt free, enormously happy here—as if she belonged. Even as she explored the streets, the byways, the little shops and the sidewalk cafes, all had a familiarity, as if she knew them from somewhere—in her bones, in her blood. Everything was here for her to discover; there was no veil over the past, nothing mysterious or hidden.
She tried to capture the essence of her experience in her letters and journal entries:
Ma chere Tante (I’m practicing writing in French!),
My room is very nice—up steep steps, almost to the top of the house. I am sitting at a table looking out my window at the roofs and chimneys. From here I can see a small strip of gray that must be the Seine in the very far distance. I must explore everything. Today I am going to the Louvre. Au revoir—for now. More later.
Always,
Niki
I awake early, the gray, pink dawn rising over the city. I feel like I’m awakening not from a dream but into one. I am really here. The place of my birth and all those early unremembered years. I must go out and find myself.
I must celebrate, treat myself to something special. A Parisian bonnet, of course. Everyone must have a hat from Paris! I saw one that I admired in a milliner’s shop the other day; now I think I must have it. It is hardly more than a scrap of feathers and a tiny nose veil. It is “enchante,” the salesperson declares. And I agree. I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous-looking. I’ll probably give it to Scotty Cameron when I get home. She would love it and love to brag about having a hat from Paris to her snooty friends at boarding school, n’est ce pas? Meanwhile I shall wear it and enjoy my new image. Perhaps I’ll wear it to attend High Mass at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, or something equally formal and appropriate.
Ma chere Tante,
What a wonderful surprise I had early yesterday morning. Luc showed up at the pension with Paul Duval! I hadn’t seen him, of course, since the winter he spent with us at Montclair. He is much more handsome, sophisticated, than he was then. Maybe Frenchmen mature sooner than Americans. Anyway, Madame Genvieve, the concierge here, gave both of these tanned, good-looking “vagabonds” a severe look when they asked for me (Luc imitated her suspicious frown for me later), and when I came running downstairs, flung myself into Luc’s arms, she almost fainted. I laughingly explained, “C’est mon frere” several times before she beamed a big smile and bustled about to serve them fresh coffee and croissants.
We had a marvelous day, the three of us. At noon in Paris everything stops. Shop doors post signs declaring they will be back in two hours, shutters are closed, bookstalls fold up. All along the riverbank Parisians relax, taking a leisurely lunch hour. We decided to join them. We bought loaves of the delicious bread they make here every day (I shall find it hard to eat ordinary bread ever again!), chunks of cheese, luscious peaches, and grapes for a picnic, and Paul bought a bottle of wine. Now, don’t worry, Tante, I did not drink any. But for Paul, a Frenchman, it is the accepted thing. He says French children are weaned on it. Of course, I don’t believe that for a minute. Or much of any of the other things Paul declared as fact when I asked him for some suggestions as to becoming more acclimated. I’m afraid half of what he tells me will get me into difficulties. He is a terrible tease—but also terribly charming. Luc looks on all this banter between us with indulgent good humor. Their plan is to go on to Holland, where they hope to find jobs as waiters and continue their bicycle trip through the Netherlands. It sounds so exciting. I wish I could go along. I hinted at the possibility but both of them ignored me. It is irritating to still be treated sometimes as an annoying little sister. Inside I feel very grown-up.
I still have Paris to discover, and although I hated for our day together to end, I saw them off the next day without feeling too bad. I will see them both at the end of the summer. In the meantime, today I am going back to the Louvre. Does anyone ever get enough ofthat?