One of my favorite walks in Paris is from the Louvre to Le Madrigal, a café on the Champs Elysees. It begins at the Louvre’s glass pyramid (recently of Da Vinci Code fame), passes through the Tuileries Gardens, past the Hotel de Crillon and the Palais d’Elysees (the French White House). There are beautiful gardens, sidewalk crepe stands and several amazing buildings. The one that has always intrigued me the most, however, is the American Embassy. Perhaps I’m intrigued because I think I have a right to it as an American citizen or perhaps it is because it always seems so forbidden behind the guards and gates. Regardless, I’ve always wanted to find a reason to go inside. Yesterday, I had one.
The invitation arrived two weeks ago. It was on beautiful stationery with the governmental seal embossed in gold and, in French, an invitation to a party at the Embassy Residence, hosted by the Ambassador and his wife. I was thrilled and called to R.S.V.P. before even mentioning it to my husband. I “Googled” the Ambassador to learn more about his situation, looked up the appropriate protocol in Emily Post and then raided my closet to see if there was something appropriate to wear. We made train reservations, hotel reservations, babysitter arrangements and bought my husband a new suit.
On the day of the party, we boarded the train for Paris and found ourselves, for the first time in a long time, without kids (thanks to his parents who graciously offered to care for their grandchildren on their vacation). My husband and I talked, we rested, we laughed and then we were there. We took a taxi to the hotel, freshened up and set out. Dressed to the 7s (not quite the 9s—it wasn’t black tie, after all), we decided to absorb as much of Paris as we could and walked to the party.
We arrived exactly on time and, after a few security screenings, made our way into the Residence. The ceilings were high, the walls were gold-gilded and the chandeliers sparkled. It was perfect. In the parlor, we found a lovely assortment of hors d’oeuvres and and drinks. I commented to the garcon that all the products were French and he smiled, “But of course. They are the best after all.” It’s true—and only the best was on display that night.
As the other guests filed in, I was amazed at the diversity. They spanned 60 years of academic exchange between the two countries in everything from music to mathematics. There were artists, historians, and chemical engineers—and nearly all of them spoke both fluent French and English. I felt like Cinderella in my dress and pearls, spending an evening without the children, mingling with lawyers and opera singers alike. Eventually, however, the proverbial clock always strikes midnight. We said goodnight to everyone and bid the embassy adieu.
I walked home feeling like the world was mine (being a mother of two toddlers, it isn’t a feeling I have often, so I treasured it enormously). And in the morning, I woke up in a lovely hotel before catching a train back to Strasbourg. Unlike Cinderella, however, I woke up with my Prince at my side. Sometimes fairytales are even better in real life.
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