I see Paris, I see France

After hanging clothes all over the bedroom, pretend-packing and rethinking, culling and folding and packing for real, more clothes than Mr. North and I will need but barely enough juices, sauces and sprays were puzzled into two rollers and a carry-on. The duffle is at my feet, its bigger cousins in the belly of this winged cylinder leaving San Diego. Three hours from now in Chicago we will trade this 737 for a swankier ride (and hope our luggage does too) that will fly into the night that rushes toward us from Europe.

It will be a long, sleepy flight, 15 hours stretched to 24 by arbitrary vertical lines in space you can't feel when you cross them, unlike speed bumps on asphalt or stretched tape at a finish line. Electronic clocks click forward; my circadian rhythm lags behind. But whether I think it is the middle of the night or not, it will be 9:10 on a Sunday morning when we land, and Paris will be awake.

I've been there once before, a gift from my wonderful girl eleven years ago in November. I remember every street and bridge, the bright northern light of an overcast sky, every bite of duck and steak and pastry. The smell of bread on the sidewalk outside Poilâne. The roses in the lobby at the George V. Amy joking in French with the locals, me listening and nodding. I wonder if she knows how grateful I am, how perfect it was. I have always been at a loss for those words, trying, stumbling.

Mr. North is a France virgin, hasn't had a Paris imprint yet, so it's my turn to lead and show, point and say "See?"  We will be later be meeting friends and moving around outside the city, chugging down a canal on a barge. It will be sweet to see the beauty of it reflected in his eyes, fun to ride bikes next to the boat, to be Americans drinking vin rouge at La Rotisserie du Beaujolais, cheering ourselves for getting there.

Amy and Chris and Simone went to Paris last winter for Amy's 40th birthday present, Simone's first trip, and had a terrific week in the snow flurries and bistros. At lunch on their last day at La Varennes, Amy couldn't help crying. The impeccable food they had just finished, the tramp up the Eiffel stairs, Simone charming every waiter, Chris in his heaven with sole and the cheese plate at Chez Georges - her spilling eyes said that it was all perfect, every moment. While she sobbed and Simone tried to console her, Chris took their picture with his iPhone.

We may not have a moment quite like that, Mr. North and I, on this trip. But I'm remembering Paris from 2002, pinching myself that I'm going back and thinking how lucky I am to have these people to love in my life. I've gone through a stack of cocktail napkins in Seat 5F, wiping off tears. I just told my seatmate it must be the altitude.