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!”