We'll Always Have Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

the same size,” my father said, removing his newsboy cap and John Lennon specs.
    “Sir, I cannot loan you my security jacket.”
    “Fifteen minutes, man?” he asked. “You’ve got your tie on. Tell your boss you got hot with the jacket.”
    The security guard’s silence encouraged my father. “My daughter and her friend really want to see the observation deck. Do you have kids?”
    “Two,” he said.
    “You know how it is, man. Come on, help a brother out.”
    “Fifteen minutes,” the guard implored, removing his jacket.
    “We’ll check out the view and come right down,” my father promised.
    After two elevator trips that were as exciting as any ride at Coney Island, we reached the top. Rachel and I buzzed to each corner of the outside deck and looked down at Manhattan. “Look at Central Park, Daddy!” I shouted as we spotted the sprawling green rectangle. We ran to another spot.
    “Check out the Statue of Liberty!” Rachel said. Noticing my father was not following us, we looked around for him. He was stationed by the entryway with his arms crossed, looking official and informing people where the restrooms were.
    ***
    I looked to the right and saw the Eiffel Tower in the distance. We couldn’t get lost if I simply followed the Tower. How far could it be?
    As it turned out, it was quite a hike, albeit a lovely one filled with cobblestone streets dotted with cafés and bakeries. Katie said she was hungry, so we stopped at a restaurant to grab a bite. “Look at all the dogs!” she piped with delight. Four dogs rested at their owners’ feet like old slippers. I checked to see if these men were wearing dark shades and holding red-tipped white canes, but not a one was blind. Nor did the dogs wear service bibs. No one seemed at all bothered that pets were joining us for lunch, yet when a young couple walked in with their baby, the restaurant patrons let out a collective groan. I did not hear the exchange between the parents and the waiter, but it ended with the young mother and father deciding to eat elsewhere. One of the dog owners smiled victoriously and offered a piece of his meat to his shaggy friend.
    When I saw the waiter approaching our table with Katie’s hamburger, I knew this would be a defining moment in our travels. The burger did not look like anything we had ever seen from our grill at home or In-N-Out Burger. Atop the meat patty rested a sunny-side-up egg peeking at her, as if to say, Didn’t expect me to look like this, did you, mademoiselle? Katie raised her eyebrows. As I opened my mouth to tell her she could order something else, Katie shrugged and said, “I guess in Paris you get breakfast with your lunch.”
    With this, I knew Katie would be fine on our trip. She was blessed with an easygoing nature and I, as her mother, was the incredulous, grateful beneficiary. As an eight-year-old, I might have scowled at it for a few minutes before disdainfully removing the egg. And then I would have refused to eat any of it. When I tell my mother I don’t deserve a child like Katie, she always agrees. “I was looking forward to watching your daughter put you through hell,” my mother teases. Once my Aunt Bernice told me that if God only gives us what we can handle, he must not have much confidence in my parenting skills.
    By the time Katie and I made it to the Eiffel Tower, its pinnacle was partially obscured in fog, and rain was falling lightly. We decided to return on a clear day and hopped across the bridge to the Museum of Modern Art.
    I was amazed by the contrast of the exterior and interior of the modern art museum. The outside was vandalized with uninspired graffiti and smelled like urine. Sullen, pimple-faced boys in hoodies rode their skateboards down the steps.
    Inside was an explosion of colorful, dynamic political art, some of it criticism of the war in Afghanistan. One did not need an art history degree to see that Bush was regarded as the spawn of Satan here. His horned image