Champagne Wishes & Curry Dreams

A Tale of Deja Vu in Paris...

A layer of mist soaks my vintage coat as I cross the barren Jardin de Tuileries. My Doc Martens may be mud splattered by the time I arrive in this neighborhood of Paris, but at least my small Louis Vuitton is safe from the elements, hung crossbody along my heart. A queue has formed in front of me, and I instinctively join, my father’s sage advice ever present in my mind: If you see a line forming, there must be something nearby worth the wait. The only signage I can see up ahead is for Carolina Herrera, and quickly I recognize I am in a very different part of town than across the Seine with the Musee’ D'orsay. Here, the art doesn’t hang on walls. Here as my father once showed me, art is worn and savored.

An excited couple walks by the line, their eyes sparkling, carefully holding their prize with two hands, the signature gray and white marble boxes of the acclaimed Pastry Chef Cedric Grolet. To my delight, I realize I am inadvertently queuing in for my favorite Pastry Chef in all of Paris. At first this seems like destiny, until I remember his typical queue is four hours long and today the rain is relentless. The French have a wonderful expression for window shopping, Leche-vitrine, which literally translates to window licking. So, I followed my French heart, stepped out of the queue of my dreams, and dined upon his epic window display: Artisanally crafted croissants, gateaux, and St. Honore Pastries were lined in identical rows atop long black slate platters and marble counters, the track lighting of the bakery reflecting off the silky cream and thick glaze of the choux. There were glass domes housing his signature fruit patisseries glistening as if from morning’s dew. These legendary works of art were so striking, so pristine, I was content simply to “lick the window panes” without tasting a single one.

I wandered down the avenue and into an expansive open square, Place Vendome, the brilliant turquoise of Napoleon’s bronze column is a beacon stretching into the gray clouds above me. Initially built by Louis XIV to flex political power, this octogonal square has gradually shifted to a flex of a different variety, a showcase of luxury goods adjoining the Rue de la Paix into one continuous stream of window displays sparkling with gems and diamonds. While I appreciate Paris’ commitment to history and tradition, I much prefer this modernization of the first arrondissement. As I stumble across the slick cobblestone, the heels of my boots etching their mark along hundreds of years of history, architecture, and now luxury, these buildings call to my earliest memories of walking down a similar tree lined street. Ornate three pronged lampposts illuminate midday to light my way through the storm, the canopies rustling in the wind protect the whimsical window displays from the harsh realities of nature.

I peek behind me, a father and daughter are walking hand in hand. She’s tugging on his camel colored overcoat and pointing at the pale pink canopies of Laduree. As I listen to the sound of her little french voice begging for tea and sweets, I savor this moment of deja vu, and allow myself to indulge in the childlike fantasy that deja vu is simply how the French explain reincarnation, to chip the ice away from my grieving heart and place it lovingly back on my sleeve where it has always belonged.

Memory is the ultimate magician whose illusions can raise the dead with greater success than any djinn or a genie could ever muster. Turning the corner, the Ritz Hotel is to my left and straight ahead is Louis Vuitton, those two iconic gold letters transport me to another boulevard, another time and place, and all at once, I’m a time traveler. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the rain, the pitter patter on the cobblestone reminiscent of the souls of my Saltwater Sandals following my father’s long stride. I can hear his voice describing these streets as special, that they are built to resemble the streets of Paris, and reminding me if I work diligently one day I may be able to travel across the world to this magical land and walk these iconic streets myself.

As if carried on the back of the wind, dad is saying my name, my full name, as he always would when I was a young girl.

“Rachel Nan.”

Dad hoists me up onto his shoulders, and we are walking down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. “I want you to have the best view, Rachel Nan.”

“Are we going to count the famous stars in the ground, daddy?”

“Oh no, my darling,” Dad says, a smile in his voice. “This street is where the rich and famous go shopping.” He points to a yellow and white striped canopy. “Remember those colors, Rachel Nan, that’s Georgio of Bevery Hills. Next we stand under a deep crimson awning with gold lettering. “This,” Dad sighs, “is Cartier.”

He continues moving down the street wading through crowds of men and women, their hair teased high, their arms dripping with bags of every color, a rainbow of luxury. The hum of their conversations muffled by the clacking of high heels over cobblestones. A few steps down the street, we approach an ornate corner of white slate masonry and marble.

“Is this a castle?” I squeal.

“This is Van Cleef and Arpels. They design jewelry for people who live in castles.”

And then we turned the corner onto a magnificent street with beautiful buildings, tall lamp posts lined the sidewalk, painted a licorice black, pots of lush green plants sprinkled with red and pink flowers hanging from their arms. Square concrete boxes of lush green plants separate each side of the street and provide benches for passersby to rest amid their shopping sprees.

“Here is Two Rodeo Drive. It just opened this week and was built like a European style Avenue. This is what the streets of Paris look like, Rachel.” Gently, he sets me down on the stone steps, hand-laid in lieu of typical California concrete, and we walk hand in hand down the most expensive street in America, pausing at each window to behold the displays, each one a whimsical installation of wealth and beauty.

“They designed Two Rodeo Drive to be the most elegant street in the world,” Dad says, pointing to a silhouette in the Lanvin shop window. “Look at the draping of this dress, how the train ripples…these are works of art one can live their life in.”

“It looks like frosting on a wedding cake!” I giggle.

To my small stature, the glass window panes might as well have reached the clouds. Each storefront down the impressive avenue was a different vibrant color: Tiffany blue, the black marble and gold glossy letters of Yve Saint Laurent, the stark white and gold of Hermes, the Christmas red canopies signaling House of Gucci.

We lingered before a window showcasing mannequins adorned in brightly colored fabrics gathered like Grecian statues. Dad squeezes my hand and smiles, “This is Versace. I will dress in their shirts one day.”

The low rumble of an engine startles me, and I grasp onto my dad’s legs, peaking around his knees to spy a slick red Ferrari parking in front of a store with a delicate cream canopy. Jimmy Choo is written in a sleek font. I scuttle up to the window where purses and ornately crafted high heels appear to float in the air by magic. “Can we go inside?” I beg, tugging on my dad’s white shorts. “Today we are only going to one store, because it’s the best one.”

He guides me down the avenue, my eyes skittering past the rows of perfectly potted plants, lattices dangling off the exterior of buildings, fuchsia bougainvillea in full bloom dripping like icing on a cake, the delicate petals twittering in the breeze fanning nectar to the passing hummingbirds. Women lunching on terraces, lips painted scarlet red are laughing, dainty white hands with perfectly pink nails are toasting champagne flutes. Servers in black aprons balance platters high above their heads, twirling around tables with the prowess of ballet dancers, delivering immaculate plates with elegance and ease onto immaculate white linen table cloths.

The only place I had ever experienced in my young life which was so carefully crafted to grant every wish before one even had the desire was Main Street in Disneyland. I admit, my younger self half expected Sleeping Beauty’s Castle to be waiting for me at the end of this gorgeous avenue.

Finally dad stops us in front of adjoining glass double doors outlined in thick gold frames. The golden door handles, glimmering in the California sun two impressive letters: an L and a V. A door man stands outside waiting patiently to open the door for us. Welcoming us with a nod, he beckons us inside with white gloved hands.

My father sets me down in front of the door man, and hand in hand we cross the threshold of this sanctuary of satchels, handbags, and luggage. A woman with a silk handkerchief knotted smartly at her neck welcomes us to a display case. While my father chats with the woman, I crouch down, my knees sinking into the lush carpeting, my nose pressing against the cold glass. There are two large shelves inside the glass cabinet, but only six purses are on display, each one illuminated by warm lighting and ascending from smallest to largest. The woman reaches inside and pulls the first handbag from the top shelf.

“Rachel, what do you think of this one?” my father asks.

A petite, rectangular City Bag rests atop a red velvet tray. The woman says I may hold the purse, but I am too afraid to touch something so beautiful. Dad nods in encouragement. Slowly, my small pointer finger gently grazes the supple leather, tracing the golden tracing an L and a V, matching the letters on the door. I finger the thick gold tab of the zipper, an LV raised under my finger print like braille. The cream colored handle hangs in a half circle from two gold bars, and I can’t help imagining the bag smiling, the glittering gold rivets like two eyes shining amidst the soft buttery leather.

“It looks like a Happy Meal Box.” I whisper in my dad’s ear.

As children never truly whisper, both the woman and my father laugh so loudly others in the store turn to look at us. I flush, embarrassed, but my father pinches my chubby cheek and says, “I suppose that means we’ll take it!”

We are ushered to another counter with other women with handkerchiefs knotted smartly at their necks bustling with boxes and tissue bags and ribbons. After what seemed like an eternity my name is called, “Rachel Nan Isaacs.”

My dad and I’s eyes meet, and it’s as if our matching brown irises are dancing a Minuet. I can’t help but giggle and blush at the sound of my name, Rachel Nan, being called in front of all of these grown ups in such a luxurious place. Trepidatiously, I step up to the glass counter like a Hollywood starlet ascending the stage to accept her first award. A man in a black suit walks from behind the counter and crouches down to present me with a glossy cream and brown bag, a medium sized cream box resting inside wrapped with a wide gold satin ribbon and nestled in tissue paper.

I pull my Louis Vuitton purse from the protection of my peacoat, and break the trance of my treasured memory. What once seemed like a purse large enough for all my prized possessions, now hardly holds my iPhone and a lip stick. Nevertheless, as I stand outside the expansive double doors of Louis Vuitton contemplating disregarding my budget and creating a new memory, I can’t imagine purchasing a replacement. The leather is worn, the handles in need of repair.

And yet.

So few objects remain on this side of the world which my father has touched let alone gifted me. Even this very moment in time is more his than mine. Not until my breath fogs up the window, do I notice my nose was nearly pressed reminiscently up against the glass.

When I walked across the Seine this afternoon, I was unaware I would be fulfilling my ancestor’s wildest dreams, that I would be crossing the rubicon from immigrant aspirations to first generation realism, that I would be forging a mark on this earth that had been imprinted in the stars. That even though my father’s life was cut so painfully short, I could walk in his footsteps and continue to fulfill his dreams one city, one country, one adventure at a time.

And in that moment, my California sunshine loving heart didn’t recoil from the cold, in fact I welcomed the storm, the sweet sensation of rain dripping down my cheeks like icing melting into my tears.