My
meeting of Philippe felt carefully arranged, although it wasn't. The
sun was setting at the end of a hot and muggy day. It was early July and
I was miles away from home. Earlier that morning I had pulled from my
suitcase a yellow scarf, and had taken great care in tying a perfect bow
about my neck. When packing I had placed every scarf I owned in my
traveling case. I had remembered someone once told me about the French
and their affinity with scarves. It was Paris, 2006.
I was seated alone in a park beneath the Eiffel Tower, eating my dinner of pain, fromage et l'eau
when I heard a soft voice from behind offer me "melon water". I turned
to see a tall man with sandy brown hair and pale brown eyes; he had a
gentle smile, and was leaning over with his arm outstretched. He was
beautiful. In his hand he was holding a slice of watermelon with which
he planned on coaxing me into joining him and his friends. It worked. He
told me that he and his friends had been watching me eat my dinner with
a great fascination; apparently my nibbling habits were quite humorous.
My
class that summer had asked the question "What is beauty?" Is it man
made? Was it an element of mystery that was never to be fully
understood? Could it be found in the symmetry of a face? A flower? My
class on Beauty had ended, and I was alone in the city for a few days. I
had accidentally overbooked my return flight after a class trip, and I
was tight on funds. My bread was a day old, and I had been refilling my
water bottle at local fountains.
During
the class I had often run from one place to another; hopped on and off
the metro trains, and had even gotten myself lost. I was now prepared to
slow down, to make the city something of my own.
Earlier
that day I had taken a train out to Giverny to visit Monet's garden. It
was among the color blocked peonies and the carefully placed wild roses
that I discovered impressionism for Monet was never as random as it
appeared. He had thought in color, and it showed. I remember thinking
that perhaps beauty was a carefully arranged impression. Later that
afternoon while on my way to a cafe, I had plucked a rose from alongside
one of Giverny's stone buildings, and gently tucked it behind my ear.
Over
the next few days Philippe and I did everything that a romantic
twenty-year-old dreams of doing while in Paris: we dined on sunny
terraces, held each other on the Pont des Arts, and ate glacé while
wandering the city's streets. We sat in the far backs of cafes,
speaking of things now long forgotten. When he learned that he was going
to miss my birthday (six weeks away), he threw me a birthday dinner,
complete with presents. Whatever beauty was, I in that moment was one
with it.
When
it came time for me to return home, I left Philippe every form of
contact information I had. He left me none. My ritual of checking all
methods of communication multiple times a day never offered any proof
that he had been real: the only evidence I had were my birthday
presents. Somewhere within his gifts of a pink belt, an Adidas glow
ball, and a silly drawstring bag covered in strawberries, I realized
that I had been given a bit more.
It's
true that I had hoped that he would call or write, but when he didn't I
understood. I had found a friend, but even more so I had rediscovered a
part of me that I had thought gone. My year prior to that summer had
been a difficult one, and had taken its toll. I often wondered if I
could survive another like it. Sometimes the beauty of life isn't
carried within us. Sometimes we have to cross an ocean to find it, and
when we do, we may find that it comes in the silliest of forms: such as
an Adidas glow ball.
I
never learned Philippe's last name. I didn't need to. He had been able
to give me a glimpse of what I longed to be: happy. What could be more
beautiful?
