Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: eiffel tower


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Leaned in.

I don’t know if they know — that they live in Paris — these birds flitting about the Eiffel Tower. How special it is. But then does anyone? I hope so. Mostly because I’m hoping it for myself — this magical recognition of time and place. 

The first time I visited the Loring Cafe in downtown Minneapolis, I was amazed that I didn’t need a passport. Was I in another country? Inside a novel? The floor creaked beneath as I meandered through the scents of coffee, bread baking and old furniture. People hovered behind books, leaning back into cushions, further than I had seen anyone relax in public, as if the words were blankets. Between the clank of dish and the changing of the record, the thought occurred to me, for perhaps the first time, the life I wanted could be anywhere, if I only paid attention.

You’d think something as important as all that could never be forgotten, but I have to work at it. I have to give myself the reminders. Like displaying my bathroom cabinet as if it were a counter in the Galeries Lafayette. Plating cookies in front of art. Using my favorite pencil (having a favorite pencil for that matter!). Telling myself, as I busily flutter and flap through this life, to smile, and really look — to take the time to say, “Hey, that’s the Eiffel Tower, isn’t it!”  

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Little Eiffel Towers in her apartment.


She packed her delight alongside our Walgreens’ provisions. Just a young girl in a red smock in this Biloxi Walgreens, so eager to learn about the world. “Where are you from?” “France.” Gasping, she asked if we lived by the Eiffel Tower. No, we smiled, south. “But you’ve seen the Eiffel Tower?” “Oh, yes, many times.” She was so excited. She said she wanted to go. So desperately wanted to go, and began to count our change again, apologizing. “No need to apologize, it is exciting, distracting even,” I said. “Do you eat croissants?” She asked, wanting to know everything. “Yes,” I replied, “I even make them.” “Oh my! You have to send the recipe!” I told her I would. And I meant it. She already had me, but then she went all the way. “I’m going to make enough money one day to take my mom. She loves Paris. She has little Eiffel towers in her apartment.” My heart spread across the Walgreens store.

I took her email address that she scratched on the back of our receipt. I sent her pictures of croissants I have made. The Eiffel Tower I have stood next to. Kissed under. Dreamed above.

Sometimes all we need to know is that it’s possible. I hope she believes it. If we can give each other that gift, then we have everything.

I carried her delight through the electronic doors. Hope stayed with her. We are all on our way.

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The Eiffel Tower doesn’t need me.

When you say the word France, people immediately think of Paris, and not without good reason.  Paris is a magnificent city. Magical really.  The Eiffel tower, the Louvre, Montmartre and Sacré Coeur. It is, as Hemingway said, clearly a “moveable feast”!  It is fashion and history and artists and writers. Coffee on sidewalks. Croissants and romance. It is Notre Dame. It is what was, and what will be again.


But Paris is not France, not all of it. There is so much more.  Today, I’d like to take you to the lengthy, rugged coastline of Brittany.  Here you will meet French people, not tourists.  Here, they will wave to you (this doesn’t sound like much, but my Minnesota-nice loved it).  Their houses, are not palaces, but they are manicured.  Each small yard is covered with flowers. I saw a woman on her hands and knees with a scissors, cutting the grass. These people are proud and welcoming. We went for lunch at a small restaurant with white tablecloths and a bowl of caramels (the taste of Brittany) for dessert. I asked the waitress where we could purchase these caramels – I loved them! She stepped away from the table, I thought maybe she didn’t understand. She returned with both hands forming a bowl filled with these delicious caramels and she dropped them in my purse. My first (non-family) gift in France.

We went to an antique store, browsed the history, our mouths filled with butter and sugar. I was drawn to a cup filled with old paint brushes. Green handles worn from hopeful hands and spotted with paint’s proof.  I held them up and asked how much they were?  He said something I didn’t understand. My husband said they were free for me – gratuit! I held them to my heart – what was and what will be.

The next store I bought a sketch pad and began painting with my experienced brushes. Together, we sat at the beach and tried to capture this rugged beauty that I had never seen before. This worn in warmth of a place, that maybe needed me to tell its story, as much as I needed to feel it.  An exchange of beauty. This is not the Eiffel tower, but believe me, this too, is France. Bienvenue!