The Little Trip That Grew

The tickets are here. Five of them. The best seats. Durufle’s Requiem. At the St-Denis basilica, where most of the French kings are buried. On the final night before we fly back to Ontario.

Five tickets?

Well, my partner was a bit disgruntled over the local photography course offerings. So find a course elsewhere, I said. Some weekend seminar or something, a Saturday workshop in a provincial park maybe.

In no time at all, my partner was examining a web site offering a six-day course  in Tuscany. Yes, the Italian one. Eventually, however, we figured out that we could both go if there was no tuition to pay. I don’t remember how we decided on France instead of Italy, but we did. A week to ten days in Paris sounded like a real treat.

A few days later I was chatting with my friend, the mother of the boy I babysit. I told her about the Paris plans. Certainly, my friend joked, Jack and I would love to go!

Now, Jack is our “almost son”; I’ve been caring for him for five years. He happens to be the best-behaved child in the universe, and we enjoy rewarding his goodness, for instance bringing him on a summer camping trip for the past two years. His mum is warm, funny, unflappable, and can speak French. I consulted with my partner. Sure, she said. We can all share an apartment together. That’d be fun.

My complete son is 25 and francophone, but he’s currently busy with full-time studies. There was one more person, though… I consulted with my partner. Sure, she said. That’d be fun.

I dialed the long-distance number. Hi, Mum, would you be interested in ten days in Paris?

Would she! She’s never been off North American soil.

The tickets are here. I saved my babysitting money and sent the money order myself. My mother and partner, both Pisceans, are each getting a ticket for their birthdays. My Aries friend is getting two.