Ice Flows on the Seine

There are places in life, in the world that I didn’t expect to find. The first time I flew over the North Pole, I almost missed it. At thirty-five thousand feet, flying above the edge of a hemisphere, time becomes distorted. It’s marked by colors and contrasts rather than clocks and constructed impositions.

Looking out my window, the outline of the planet faded into pink. Below us the sky was clear, falling silently on endless miles of ice. As we continued, the ice gave way. What had seemed hard and formidable began to show cracks where frigid water pooled and continued the process of change. I pressed against the wall of the plane soaking in the penetrating cold of distance and quiet.

“You don’t forget to love. It’s here forever.” He pushed his first two fingers to his chest when he spoke. Holding my eyes, he removed his glove and pressed the same two fingers into the same spot just above my heart.

The river was full, dancing at the edge of its stone banks. I turned toward him, leaning on the ancient balustrade, leaning on my elbow. Eric’s hand was shaking in the cold air of Paris. My right hand took hold of his fingers and helped them back into the warmth of his glove. He moved toward the river and leaned forward.

I glanced behind us at Orsay. I pictured the other side of the iron clock, its glass façade keeping vigil over Paris. For a moment, I pictured what it has seen as its hands continued their circular dance. I imagined the thousands of travelers that had left one another within its walls, the thousands who had found one another. Always, there was change even in a city that seems to be so present in its past.

“Easy to say in a city like Paris.” I inhaled the January cold. “I miss this.” My eyes remained on the vendors that line the bank. Slowly, their bins were opening in preparation of mid-day when joggers would give way to tourists and pedestrians.

“Paris?” Eric was leaning over the edge, monitoring the goings on of a tourist boat below.

“The quiet," I turned around matching his stance, “Time.” I nudged him with my elbow. “Sometimes, I even miss my thoughts.” In my periphery, I saw his smile. A small cloud of frosted air escaped from the warmth within him.

I leaned forward onto my chest, resting my chin on my closed fists. “You don’t think you can forget what it was like to love someone?”

“No.” He didn’t hesitate. “Impossible.”

“I don’t know...” Someone in charge had stepped onto the deck of the boat below. His commands to the man on the deck were animated. The smaller man responded in French that didn’t need translation. The Captain stood still for seconds before releasing a boisterous laugh and gesturing dismissively. He climbed back into the boat, the steamed windows shielding him from view.

Eric chuckled. I smiled and continued. “Do you still love Michael?”

“Oui.” He leaned to his right, turning to face me. “It is different, but I don’t stop the feeling because he’s different. I’m different now also. Love is not changed.”

I looked farther to my left. Just above the buildings, the Eifel Tower loomed. It seemed deceptively close. I stepped back from the railing. “I don’t think that’s how it is for me.”

Eric followed and we began to slowly walk along the sidewalk. “How is it for you?”

I thought about the question for a moment. “I don’t really know, I guess.” I shrugged, “but it seems different than what you just described.”

“Where does the love go?”

“Isn’t that a song?” I smiled broadly. “Jesse & Trina?” I hummed some R&B and watched his perplexed reaction.

“Who are Jesse and Trina?”

I chuckled unguardedly. With Eric, the evasions were different, but always entertaining. “Never mind.” I bumped at him playfully with my shoulder. He bumped back.

We walked several blocks in silence. We passed the American Church, its neo-gothic steps lined with Sunday worshipers escaping the rigor of a morning liturgy. A thirtyish mother knelt down to retrieve a mitten that had fallen from the bouncing hand of a four or five-year old girl. “Elizabeth!” She called after the girl who was merrily dancing along the stone path. “Ecoute moi!” The woman finally got little Elizabeth’s attention and she pivoted on one foot to face her mother.

“You did not answer.” Eric spoke, continuing our pace toward nothing in particular.

“My name’s not Elizabeth.” I opened my mouth in a wide-eyed smile, gesturing with my thumb toward the young girl and her mother while turning toward Eric.

I was grateful for his smile. Always, I was grateful for his smile. He spoke with a serious inflection, “Where does the love go for you?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, “I don’t know, Eric. It just goes somewhere far, far away.”

His response was quick and assured, “It does not.” He is a Parisian who lives in London. This allowed him to avoid sounding impudent while being assertive. Barely. “Love goes nowhere.” He stopped. A couple of steps later, I stopped as well. We were several feet apart when he continued, “You go.” His arms motioned in circles, his black coat raising, “You go, go, go, go, go. Love stays,” he pointed at me, “and you go.”

I allowed his words to settle back into the Sunday morning quiet. His arms slowly rested at his sides, his nose red from the cold and his eyes watery from the wind along the Seine. Several seconds passed before I laughed. It was irreverent and it caught Eric unaware. His expression softened and slowly, he began to laugh with me.

I stepped back to face him and pressed a fist to his chest. “How about we skip the philosophy this morning and go find a crepe stand?”

Eric put a fist to my chest, matching my stance. “Oui.”

We resumed our course into the winding streets of Paris. It was a cold, dreary morning that radiated warmth from the company of a close friend and carefree conversation. It was a morning for deep breaths and hopefulness.

Thousands of miles away, above, or beside us the world shifts. The frozen parts that stretch across the expanses of our vision are no longer as solid as they once seemed. Ice meets sun-colored horizons that are changed from our experiences. The same is life. Contrasts and currents move us in ways that we don’t always want or notice. And maybe Eric is right. Maybe love never leaves. Maybe it remains within us, a silent, powerful undercurrent waiting to thaw and carry us to the next warm place.