Friday the 13th

A couple of months ago, a friend here was giving me a ride home.   Along the way, she pointed to a terraced apartment above us and said, “a family from our school used to live there, they left right after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, they were too afraid to stay.”   In that moment, I remember thinking two thoughts: “what a shame they decided to bail”, and “I so hope another incident like that doesn’t happen while we’re here.”

We weren’t even in Paris when all the madness occurred.  Katie was returning from a cross country meet in Zurich Friday night, and we were in Strasbourg with Allie. Strasbourg is this Christmas-like village in northern France, near the German border.  Some friends joined us as well.  We did a boat tour, our friends visited a very quirky hospital wine cellar (yes, you read that right), and then we all had dinner at a traditional Alsatian restaurant.    We had plans for some fun stuff the following day.

We’re at the hotel that night when we get a text from Katie telling us she is back in Paris, at the train station, which is somewhat near the 11^th arrondissement.   Her and her friend are deciding whether to take the metro or an Uber home.   Then we see the breaking news headlines about shootings in the 10^th and 11^th.    Katie is unreachable for the next hour or so as the news gets progressively worse.  Explosions, hostages, people killed.   The news says there is a bomb scare at the Chatelet metro station.  If she’s taken the metro, this is where she could change trains.  We’re starting to panic a little.

Finally, she calls us from home.   Her and her friend had opted to take a cab, and then she immediately took the dog out, as we had told her to do.   It’s worth noting that this is the first time we’ve left Katie here solo overnight.   The kid did good.

I like to run among the tourists by the Eiffel Tower on Sunday mornings.   I have my American music in my ears and iconic Parisian scenery in my sights.   I run off all of the nonsense that accumulates in my brain over the week, and breathe in all of the obvious wonderful.  It’s a great way to start a new week.  When I began my run this recent Sunday, my intention was to take a bunch of photos of normal street scenes and post them on Facebook, with a “life goes on” title, or something to that effect. 

And I did.  

Then I read a harrowing account by a 23 year-old woman, who had been at the Bataclan concert Friday night.    There was such a disconnect between what this woman had survived and my silly, trite post, that I was embarrassed.  So, I deleted it.   If I were that girl, and someone said to me, “life goes on”, it would sound so cavalier, so clueless.    Her life will go on, but not in the same way I suspect.

I’ve been awed by all the people that checked up on us.  Facebook posts, messages, phone calls, texts.  From people in our life now, and some I don’t often hear from.    Funnily (to me), the very first person to check in on me was a guy from high school who, to be honest, was kind of a jerk to me back then.  We reconnected at a reunion a few years ago and he’s actually a pretty good guy.    We couldn’t be farther apart politically, but that’s ok, and I was really touched that he reached out.   Vive la difference!

“Come home now!”  This is the panicked message I receive from my friend Debbie.  I know this is because she loves me and is worried.   However, to suggest that we are any safer in the United States is not completely true.  Not anymore.  We’ve only been gone about four months and I think there have been at least as many, if not more, campus shootings in that period of time.  

Still, I’d be lying if I said our kids weren’t a little shaken by this.   Allie, a little more so.   It’s only the first day back at school, and she’s already getting annoyed with people telling her to “live your normal life, don’t let fear win.”  She says to me today, “how can I live my normal life when I’m afraid someone’s going to shoot me?”   Not a question I’ve fielded before from my 14 year-old.  

All I can tell her is I’m sorry this has happened.  That her safety is the most important thing to us, and if we believed we were in real danger, we’d go home.  I also tell her that, yes, there is no doubt that the bubble we live in back home is very safe, but most people have a very different reality.   She’s smart.  She knows all this, but it’s my best answer.   The day after, I hear her humming the “It’s a Wonderful World” song to herself, so maybe she’s not totally jaded.  Yet.     

Just before all of this happened, both girls said that they would consider staying beyond our one year plan, if that were an option.  Katie is still saying this, which I guess is good.  I’m not sure if it’s her chutzpah or denial, or maybe a little of both.    

Sure, we could run.  But that feels so wrong to me.  Disrespectful in a way.  As if we only came here to experience all the good things in France, but we don’t care enough to stick around when times are tough?   We love it here.  We’re finally getting a little more comfortable with the language.  Jim manages to have conversations with the market vendors and they are starting to recognize him.   The girls are hitting their stride in school and seem happy here.   Even Charlie has adjusted!  She struts down the city streets like she owns the place.  No longer growls at other dogs.  Her French poodle ancestors would be so proud.

Ironically, the tragic events have had the opposite effect on me.  They make me want to stay even more and support the French people.   As they have supported us.  Jim was walking the dog yesterday, at a little park we frequent a lot.  For the first time, he happened to notice this plaque.   It reads:

In tribute to victims of the attack of September 11, 2001 and testimony of solidarity with the American people, this tree was planted by Pierre Christian Taittinger and the municipality of the 16th arrondissement.

My poised, ultra polite sister-in-law, whom I've never heard utter a curse word, wrote to me yesterday and signed off with, "fuck the terrorists".  Word.