Stumbling toward memory. It was a sort of homecoming, but this time with my son, 33 years after my first trip to Paris. Little did I know back then that life would bring me back to France almost every year. Now, at 53, my son Niko was joining me.
The pressure was immense. I wanted so badly for him to see this city as I did at age 20. I laid out a plan of attack: I’d buy him a carnet for the Métro and set him loose. “You can go anywhere in this city on this train…just remember which direction it’s heading.” But what would he think of the French? He’d definitely know France as the place where his dad works and plays. Just like the bicycle, it’s his dad’s work. I was so excited for the flight from California and then the jetlag in France—Niko’s first experience with the fatigue of travel and lack of regular sleep.
I recently reconnected with a professor with whom I spent a month in Paris in 1992. We discussed where we lived and where classes were held. Glimpses of my memory include the Virgin Megastore on the Champs-Elysées where I purchased “Diamonds and Pearls,” a newly released Prince album, a cassette that I’d listen to on my Sony Walkman for an entire summer when I was racing bikes in Pau. We stayed near the 13th Arrondissement (Port d’Italie Métro stop) in a hostel. I contemplated dragging Niko back there, but a better use of our time was visiting the Jacques Anquetil Velodrome, where I spent hours doing workouts with the Paris Cycliste Olympique club. They offered me a cabin and a locker, in which I could store my road bike and not have to drag it across the city. From the velodrome, I could do most of the team rides and workouts in the Bois de Vincennes.
You either travel to be a tourist or a pilgrim; there is a difference in how you see, experience, eat and listen to what is all around you. I prefer to be a pilgrim. On this trip, I had been more of a tourist.
Some people have to leave their home to find their home. It wasn’t until I went to France for the first time that I truly felt the gravitational pull of this country. Maybe it was being an only child to parents who worked a lot and my never fitting into a certain group that gave me space and independent thought. Traveling to a foreign country that was culturally different seemed like the perfect spot to reinvent myself. The language came naturally but I never embraced the Jean-Paul Sartre way of existentialism, that humans defined their purpose through their actions and choices. That’s not the American way in which at any point in your life, you can change course or cultivate success through different avenues.
Trying to remember each trip to France and the details is like trying to scratch an itch that is impossible to satisfy. I’ve tried to find old photos and documents—such as a letter from a team director with handwritten details of bonuses and payments for winning races, housing and equipment support. Almost all of it has disappeared over the years after moving homes, divorce and decluttering. But I can remember the flavor of the mint tea I drank at a Tunisian pastry shop; the many baguette sandwiches I ate; sitting outside cathedrals and drawing Gothic churches and their arches; and standing outside the Palais Omnisport de Paris-Bercy Stadium when U2 was having a concert and then going to an Irish pub not far from Les Halles.
Much of my preliminary discovery in France was in museums, where I’d spend hours looking at famous works of art in a state of reflection. Today, our phones distract us and train our minds to limit attention. My son had been to museums before but never spent the whole day at one. One day, we went to the Bourse de Commerce for an exhibit featuring minimalism that met the challenge of the day. The moment came that all parents welcome: Niko uttered the words I once thought but no longer imagined, “I can make that.”
THE FULL PARIS STORY IN PRINT
