Leaving Cancer in Paris

by Nancy King

author Nancy King in Paris. @Suzan Hall.The voice on the other end of the phone was exultant. “I’ve found a house exchange on Craig’s list. I’m going to Paris for two weeks. I leave in ten days.”

Envy, like a mass of kudzu, took up every bit of space inside me. It was all I could do to congratulate her. I wanted to go to Paris. I wanted to eat croissants and drink wine, see great art, walk along the Seine. Instead, I was waiting to learn the results of the bone marrow biopsy, pretty sure I was facing a third bout of leukemia, having a port put into my chest, chemotherapy . . .

“Want to come with me?” she asked.

I wanted to say yes. Yes. Yes.Yes. Instead, I felt like a five-year old. “I can’t tell you. I have an appointment with Dr. L. tomorrow. He’ll give me the test results. Could I call you after I talk with him?”

“Sure. Good luck tomorrow.” I hung up feeling depressed, deprived, and despondent.

He didn’t waste any time. “There are hairy cells (cancer cells) in your bone marrow and peripheral blood. I think we should start treatment right away. I’ll give you the number to schedule the port implantation, and when the incision is healed, we’ll start chemo. Any questions?”

“Yes. A friend invited me to go to Paris for two weeks. Do you think I’m well enough to go with her?”

“If it were me? I’d go in a heartbeat.”

Feelings of exultation almost overwhelmed me but I managed to say. “Treatment postponed. I’m going to Paris.” We hugged. I skipped out of the Cancer Center, too joyful to take one step at a time. In the car, I called my friend. “Yes. Yes. Yes! I’m coming.”

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Secrets Of A Paris 'Plus' Shopper

by Dorty Nowak

I skipped dessert today, which is not easy to do in Paris, where patisseries flaunt their delicacies on almost every street corner.  I was on my way to my favorite bistro when I passed a store whose name caught my eye, “Plus Madame.” Since I’ve never seen anything “plus” relating to women’s clothes advertised in Paris, I stopped to look. A sign in the window informed me that the store specialized in sizes 42.  42! That’s a size 8 in the U.S. and a size 10 in the U.K., but in France, it’s a “plus.”  Suddenly, so was I. 

I shouldn’t have been surprised after several years of trying to squeeze myself into French fashion. “Oh, what a pretty outfit. Did you buy it in Paris?” my American friends ask. Well, no, I didn’t. Never mind that with the weak dollar there are no bargains here. The truth is, I don’t fit into most of the clothes I try on.

For one thing, French women have no hips. This is particularly apparent now that skinny jeans – which look like they are painted on – are very a la mode. Not that I, who actually has hips and a waist, have ever dared to try on a pair. Forget blouses too. The sleeves are cut for toothpicks. Even lingerie isn’t an option. Beautiful as it is to look at, on me it leaves far too little to the imagination. Dresses are a possibility, as long as I don’t mind the waists being near my armpits, and the lengths just shy of indecent.  

Still, I long to look like the svelte Parisian women I see every day, so I keep shopping. Too often I find myself in a dressing room, with an outfit that looked so perfect on the rack but on me, isn’t. Staring into the mirror, I feel like Alice after drinking the Mad Hatter’s potion – very, very big in clothes that are much too small.

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Becoming A Fan

by Dorty Nowak

Hot and frustrated, I stared at the pieces of the supposedly easy-to-assemble electric fan that came with nine parts instead of the required ten. My apartment, like most buildings in Paris, has no air conditioning and, after several days of unremitting heat, I was desperate. I picked up the instruction sheet, ignoring the number for the help center that was probably located in China, and folded it into a fan. My makeshift fan worked surprisingly well, reminding me of a museum that I had been meaning to visit ever since I read several years ago that it might have to close.

Le Musée de l’Éventail, the fan museum, if mentioned at all in guidebooks, usually merits only a brief reference.  All I knew was that it was a museum about the history of fans. Not electric fans but, rather, the hand held kind that was an essential accessory throughout most of human history, including, for me, today.

Conveniently located near the center of Paris, the museum is housed in a typical Parisian building that looks like the others around it except for a large stone bas-relief of a fan on its façade.  Pulling open the heavy wooden door, I knew that this was not a typical museum. Steep steps led to a dimly-lit door beside which a sign announced mysteriously, “Mme. Hoguet.“ Wondering if I was in the wrong place, I rang the doorbell and waited.  After a long pause, an elderly woman opened the door, and I entered another world. 

Fans were mounted on every inch of the walls of a long corridor – ancient fans from Egypt, China, Greece.  I picked up a flyer titled simply “History” and read that fans can be traced to man’s earliest days. Originally the accoutrements of royalty, by the 5^th century B.C. fans had become a widespread fashion accessory. These early fans were rigid but, in the 7^th century A.D., a Japanese artisan created the folding fan after observing the wings of a bat.

Turning a corner, I entered a sunlit boutique where a riot of color greeted me.  Beautiful fans of all sizes and shapes were offered for sale, from very expensive to modest in price.

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Now Playing in Paris

by Dorty Nowak

Several years ago my husband and I moved to Paris.  Although I was an avid student of French culture and cuisine, my knowledge of the French language was minimal.  Freshman year in college I dropped out of French 101 because partying was much more fun than memorizing vocabulary, a decision I’ve regretted ever since.  Over the years I had accumulated several “French for Travelers” texts, some Berlitz tapes, and enough rudimentary vocabulary to get by on my occasional vacations in France. 

photo via Flickr.com by Luca OrsiConsequently, I arrived in Paris with the linguistic skills of an eight year old.  During the next two years, I attended classes at the prestigious Alliance Française de Paris.  Although a diligent student this time around, I was at least thirty years older than most of the students in the class, and proof positive that older brains are slower to learn new languages. I filled a bookshelf with grammar and vocabulary workbooks in my quest for fluency, and another with novels in French aimed at the pre-teen market.  I also acquired a very active inner critic.

My critic was right there with me every time I spoke.  I felt his grim presence from the time I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night.

“No, no, you idiot,” he would shout in my ear. “You should have used the passé compose, not the present!  Why can’t you remember the word for ‘idiot’?   How many times do I have to tell you to use “vous” instead of “tu” when you answer me?” 

As a consequence of this constant barrage, I became almost tongue-tied.  There were long painful pauses between my words as I frantically ran their “rightness” by my critic.

According to one of my teachers, to become fluent I needed to develop a “French brain.” 

“How will I know when I have one?”  I asked. To which she responded, “When you dream in French.”

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