Babot and I decided that we should get a culture upgrade at the Met. One more museum wouldn't hurt, she said. Think of all the impressionist paintings we'd get to see. Enough to last you your whole life.
The girl in the blue dress holding flowers would have made the wall in my apartment less lonely. I turn to look around, back to the museum I never got to see, the tourists arguing about where to go next, the red double-decker waiting for passengers at the bus stop.
My mother laughed and gamely posed. I framed her in my hands, the Eifel silently perched above her like a crown.
When we got to that part in Paris (le rue's name escapes me now), the line was unbelievably infinite -- from the ticket booth a hundred people from a hundred more races stood under the scorching June sun. We did travel thousands of miles from Manila, but I didn't think that standing in line for hours when you've only got two days in France to spend was worth it. Babot shrugged her shoulders and then put on her cheshire grin. Look, she said. There's a man doing miniatures.
I looked across the street. A frosty wind blew, even though it was summer. (It must have been a normal gale for locals but my asian skin was not used to temperatures dipping below 20 degrees.) It fluttered the fresh paintings that were clipped to a nearly invisible cord that ran an impressive length along the Seine.
Shall we go see? I asked.
Of course, she said. I took her hand and we crossed the busy street.
There were tiny little frames, snapshots of nooks in France we barely knew. There were watered cafes and dreamy cobble-stone streets. Some pictures had women with long thin cigaretteholders with smoke curling at the ends. There were men in suits, their eyes looking as if they had read too many books. Always the Eifel, tucked somewhere in the distant back in dark bronze strokes. Soft, soft afternoon light. There weren't any pictures of tourists with maps and backpacks, whitebread men in hats and khaki shorts and sandals. No chinky-eyed asians with digital cameras. No drunken poets. No beggars. Not even portraits of painters which this city spored every minute.
Want to buy one? It's a nice souvenir, Babot asked.
The girl in the blue dress holding flowers would have made the wall in my apartment less lonely. I turn to look around, back to the museum I never got to see, the tourists arguing about where to go next, the red double-decker waiting for passengers at the bus stop. Nah, I said.
Later that day at Champ de Mars I told her, This looks like a fine spot for posterity.
My mother laughed and gamely posed. I framed her in my hands, the Eifel silently perched above her like a crown.=========================
Happy Birthday, Ma. Love you!
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