The advantage of working only part-time is of course the days off you can spend as you please, and the train tickets you can grab for a bargain in the middle of the week. So last Friday, realizing that my schedule would be empty on the following Monday and Tuesday, I started dreaming of a trip to Paris, which I immediately organized, surrendering myself body and soul to the Universe, which I know to be magnanimous, and counting on the generosity of my childhood friends, as well as their receptiveness to my spontaneity, having been warned at the last minute of my unexpected visit, which straddled a weekend and weekdays.

Indeed, apart from a lunch pre-arranged with Flore on Monday, when I paid for my train tickets I knew neither who I was going to see, nor where I was going to spend the three nights of my brief stay, but my faith was rewarded as in just four days I managed to visit my five best childhood friends: Camille, Flore, Estelle, Ariane, and Elise, in descending order of years of friendship.

The weekend got off to a flying start in Montpellier, with Erna’s delicious Santa Milonga, which kept us awake until the early hours of Saturday morning, a lie-in, homemade pancakes, beach volleyball with the Commies followed by an invigorating swim with Thomas in a 12-degree sea, a late lunch and a presentation of our trip at the Salle des Cistes to around fifty members of the Carnon APC, from which I had to slip away, missing both the galette and the socializing with the other yachtsmen, to be accompanied to the station by Nada (cf. What are the odds?) and hop on the TGV OuiGO to Paris.

My short night the night before and the three-plus hours of travel time didn’t dampen my desire to maximize my Parisian escapade: I was among the first to get off the train, and despite the shock of the striking temperature gradient between Montpellier and the capital, determined not to dawdle on public transport and find myself a Vélib’ to go, first to Place Monge to pick up the keys to Elise’s studio left at her aunt Marie-Jo’s, then to the said studio, Place d’Italie, to freshen up with a quick shower before heading off immediately to the milonga La Conviviale, which I’d identified a stone’s throw away. A little bewildered at first by the unusual venue and the crowd of strangers who populated it, it wasn’t long before I was invited, in particular by a singular-looking young man, not very tall, in a suit jacket and jeans, with wavy drak hair almost longer and fuller than mine, whose precise, mellow tango pleased me so much that I asked him again at the end of the evening for some more.

After which, I headed back out into the dark, icy night, bundled up in my big red coat and black gloves, perched on perilous heeled boots, taking care not to slip on the icy patches that punctuated my path, until I commandeered an abandoned scooter on the sidewalk and sped my way back to the warmth, under the covers, satiated.

On Sunday, Camille and I had agreed to meet at Saint-Lazare for a meal and a walk in Montmartre, but after much hesitation, I finally made the trip to her home in Triel, which gave me a chance to see her house, as well as her partner and her oldest daughter, her two twins being at a friend’s birthday party. So, after waking up late to say the least, I wasted no time packing my suitcase, hopping on a Vélib’ to the train station (40 minutes on the bike, weaving in and out of the Sunday joggers who had trotted along the banks of the Seine) and hopping on the suburban train to get to her house in time for Sunday lunch. The snow was heavier in the suburbs, with icy patches lining the shaded streets, and as I walked gingerly towards my goal, my mood oscillated between eagerness to see my girlfriend again, and nostalgia, as I passed the Espace Remi Barrat, where I had danced so much with Frédérique Laillet, I’d taken the same route every Thursday evening from Saint Louis, spending no less than three hours in transit to get to my weekly dance class (we were then preparing a long choreography under the expert eye of Charles Créange).

With all our chatter, lunch dragged on and on, and by 4.30pm, just as we were finishing our coffee, it was time to set off for my next stop, Auvers-sur-Oise. It was very strange to take the paths of my childhood and recognize the Boisemont crossroads, where Dad had had a car accident, the Courdimanche water tower, and the wasteland where the Mirapolis amusement park once stood, destroyed in the early 90s, and whose gigantic Gargantua was dynamited in 1995. I took note of these places, which were certainly familiar, but without resonance, as if borrowed from a vague memory of a film I’d seen a long time ago, trying in vain to recapture an emotion that should have arisen but didn’t.

After a quick hello to Estelle’s ex-husband at his Milonga Ramon, and a tanda with the man who introduced me to tango in Salta almost eight years ago, I joined my friend a thirty-five minute walk along the long avenue Charles de Gaulle away. It was a short evening with Estelle, who had to catch a bus first thing in the morning, but we did have time for a brief update of our respective lives over herbal tea and tarte tatin – an update made all the shorter by the fact that we’ve never stopped talking on the phone since I’d left France.

In the morning, I made my way to Nanterre Préfecture by bus + RER in spittle-flecked weather, and found the Cergy Préfecture station to be quite sinister with its gray walls, which used to be covered in colorful graffiti and made it possible to wait for the train like in a museum. Fortunately, at the Sancerre, a table was reserved near the entrance, the sky had cleared and I was able to take advantage of the light from the large bay window, so typical of French brasseries, to work on a biography correction before Flore joined me. Once again, we ran out of time to tell each other everything, and catch up on the six years since we last saw each other, but we’ll make up for it soon.

I then had the leisure of an idle afternoon to return to Paris by metro + vélib’ and settle in at the Salon de Thé de la Grande Mosquée de Paris, inhaling the smells of black soap taunting me from the hammam, and recalling massage sessions with friends from my Parisian prep school days. I continued my proofreading work before meeting up with Elise in a less noisy café. With her, who had already visited me in Carnon (twice!) since our return, there was less urgency, but the hour we spent together was also far too short.

However, I was called to the twentieth arrondissement for my last visit of the trip, to Ariane and Olivier, and their little girls Iris and Cléo. Together, we watched the Eiffel Tower sparkle on the hour from the balcony of their twelfth-floor apartment, discussed the good old days, our children’s education, and the redundancy of Mr. Oumar in their collection of African marabout posters plastered on the toilet wall, before I fell asleep on the late grandmother’s shrink’s couch, converted into an extra bed. The next day, I was able to see a real Parisian kindie school up close by dropping the little ones off. And then I struggled to find one last Vélib’ in good condition to take me down Boulevard Belleville, Ménilmontant, rue de la Roquette, rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine, rue Crozatier, rue de Cîteaux, Boulevard Diderot, Avenue Daumesnil, then rue Guillaumot, all the way to Gare de Lyon. Last stop at a bistro to wait for the train, continuing my correction while sipping an Earl Grey. Even though I was itchy, unwashed and frumpy, I didn’t dare go to the Train Bleu on my own (and its 10.50 EUR tea). I’ll have to go back. Don’t hesitate to invite me!

Four days, five childhood friends, ten modes of transport (TGV, foot, vélib’, scooter, commuter train, car, bus, RER, metro, elevator), this decathlon pilgrimage, though grueling, filled me with joy and pleasure at seeing such familiar faces and scenery again, taking the measure of time passing but friendships enduring. And yet, as I boarded the train back to Montpellier, I wore the blissful smile of someone returning “home”, with the double satisfaction of knowing that two of my friends were coming back to see me the following weekend (a birthday surprise orchestrated by Thomas, who had let the cat out of the bag when I announced my impromptu jaunt to help me prioritize my visits).

I look forward to another celebration of lasting friendships on Saturday!