By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
The city's monuments shimmer against the deep plum sky like my first trip here three years ago. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. Notre Dame. But, only a week after this terrorist attack on the Western world the energy feels different. I dump my belongings in my room and meet my friends, Max and Wes, for dinner near the Place de la République. Arriving at the subway station, I race up the stairs and pause, astounded. The enormous bronze and ivory statue of France's famous woman looms over the plaza besieged by teddy bears, dozens of roses, dried candle wax and paintings of the French flag. Illuminated by the tungsten glow of candlelight, neighbors linger in the stillness paying their respects for their recently murdered comrades. Warm embraces between Max, Wes and me become modest greetings. Max, the American-turned-Parisian-local, hurries us along through the plaza onto the cobblestone streets of his neighborhood heading to his favorite French restaurant, Auberge Pyrénées Cévennes. We saunter through the notorious intersection from the front pages of the recent news stories trying not to look too stunned. Newly installed windows at Le Carilon attempt to disguise the previous week's horror, but blood soaked sawdust and shattered glass remain ubiquitous on the ground. Just ahead, Max holds the door and shuttles Wes and I inside. The owner's sighs with relief as she confirms her neighbor, Max's, safety. She escorts us to a table in the back corner by the kitchen to settle in. The décor transports us to a rustic cottage on the French countryside as the rooster lamp glows peacefully in the corner and sausages hang delicately from the ceiling. The red-checkered tablecloth salutes our bubbling aperitifs as we join glasses for a toast. Oversized white platters soon overtake our petite table and the owner watches closely to see the delight on our faces as we dig in for the first bites of the seasonal jackrabbit and hearty veal chop. The robust cream sauce and dainty roasted potatoes embrace these meats in a romantic symphony. We mop the sauce from our plates with a fresh baguette as the owner waits patiently to serve us dessert. The lemon meringue curd emerges from the kitchen to silence any remaining chatter part from the clanking of spoons on our plates. As we savor our last remaining bites, the owner smiles in our direction, nodding blissfully and with gratitude for this ordinary Saturday evening.