My father was 97 years old. We both knew time was running short. While living in Dallas, I would fly to St. Louis one weekend a month to spend time with him. Wanting more time, I suggested a short trip, four days in London, four days in Paris.
My dad loved the idea. He had wanted to travel to Europe but couldn’t because my mom was not a traveler and he hesitated about leaving her home alone. After her death, we decided to make the trip.
My brother and others said, “You can’t take a 97-year-old to Europe. He won’t make it.”
I knew dad was in good shape. And we both wanted the time together. So, we did it. I got the medical insurance plans and arranged everything.
We had a wonderful four days in London and headed to Paris. After riding the ultra-high-speed train passing under the English Channel, we arrived at the Gare du Nord train station. It was massive and full of bustling travelers.
I saw no exit to the street. My French phrase book had nothing about “Where are the taxis?”
In a bit of a panic, I stopped a passerby and asked exactly that question. He briefly looked us over, rattled off a few rapid French sentences, pointed toward the ceiling, and hurried away. None of this made any sense to me. My dad was calmer.
“Look up there,” he said, pointing to a good-sized sign, up near the ceiling. It included an arrow. We followed the arrow, merged into a crowd flowing down a stairway to an underground parking garage, and saw a line of taxis. We got into the first one, saying the name of our hotel. We were elated to have overcome our first Paris challenge.
In many ways, my dad was a toughie. He dropped out after his second year of high school. The oldest of four, he needed to help support the family. Being paid by the piece at an electric motor producer, he worked quickly and received top pay. Eventually, he studied accounting at night school, earned his C.P.A., and was able to marryand start a family during the Great Depression. Throughout life, he persisted in being down to earth.
To us, our Paris hotel was high class. We oohed and aahed at the hotel room. The single bed seemed larger than a king-size bed. New to both of us was the bidet. We laughed taking turns shooting warm water on our bottoms.
For some reason, this brought back boyhood times. I was reminded of river swimming with my dad, brothers and dog. The icy cold water brought screams and laughter. He recalled being caught in a chilly storm while canoeing in New Orleans. It cost him a significant loss of hearing in one ear.
That first night, the hotel concierge arranged a fairly good table at the Moulin Rouge nightclub. We enjoyed a fancy meal, with one drink for me and none for my dad.
The show began just as we finished our strawberry cheesecake. Band music, singers, dancers, a comedy juggler, and showgirls in or out of lavish gowns.
I worried that my devoted Catholic father might be offended by the topless display. He observed without comment. We climbed into bed after midnight.
Our room fare included lavish breakfasts. Dad’s biggest kick was the swivel blade for slicing the long narrow French bread. Our second story window table for two offered a view of the morning activities. From there we watched Parisians heading to work and opening their small shops and cafés. We could relate. Both of us shared lifetimes of rising early and working hard.
At art museums, dad used a wheelchair and occasionally dozed off. At the Louvre we encountered small sets of stairs. I would take my dad by the arm and help him walk the steps. Then I maneuvered the wheelchair up or down the steps. We joked about nearby art lovers witnessing a miracle.
At the Musée d’Orsay, an attendant offered to let him go to the head of a long line at a Degas statue of a young ballerina. My dad declined, “No. We can wait our turn like everyone else.” He always avoided special treatment.
In my younger days, I attended 6 a.m. daily mass with my mom and dad. So, the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur was a special delight. A high mass was in progress.
Beautiful chanting came from six nuns and a couple of priests or brothers. The French language carries so much feeling. The nun reading the epistle was angelic in appearance and voice.
Sunning ourselves on the basilica’s steps and viewing the city below, my dad and I agreed that Paris would be our favorite forever.
On our last day, all travel was by subway, Le Metro. A man clad in a garish orange and brown suit tried to pick my pocket. At first, he tugged on my backpack to distract me. It didn’t work. Our money and passports were against my belly beneath my undershirt.
Usually, on the bus or subway, someone would give my dad their seat because of his age. On one long ride, he sat next to an older woman. She began speaking in English after I nodded toward him and said “quatre-Vingt-dix-sept” for ninety-seven.
They chatted about Hitler, the German occupation, her pension, the current government, the opposition, and what to see in Paris.
Generally, the French were kind to us, whether it be strangers on the street or museum attendants or waiters in restaurants. It may have helped that my father’s name was “Louis” and our hometown was St. Louis.
The French admire some of their kings named Louis, and my dad looked like a local Parisian, with his slightly worn suede jacket and his beret-like cap with a small beak. Once a tourist thought he was a local and asked for directions.
My most exciting moment, by far, occurred at the ticket counter of Charles de Gaulle airport. My dad had headed out on the long trek to the gate, while I dealt with the woman behind the ticket counter. It was going smoothly until, “Oh, I see that your flights are covered by bonus miles. So, you must want these new miles added to your account. Please give me the account number.” I almost fainted.
In truth, I got a good deal on the tickets through someone who had acquired other people’s bonus miles in a not-entirely-legal manner.
So, here I was in Paris, caught red-handed. What to do? The answer came by way of my dad.
“Oh, that is my dad’s account.”
“Fine. Could he give us his account number?”
“I don’t think he knows it. He is ninety-seven years old.”
“Where is he?”
“He is walking out to the gate.”
“Ninety-seven years old and walking to the gate? Sacrebleu!”
She sent a uniformed gentleman off to save my dad who got a ride to the gate, and admittance to an exclusive first-class lounge area. Most important, she didn’t bother about the bonus miles. I came close to falling on my knees and thanking God, then and there.
My dad loved our trip together and wanted more. It didn’t happen. He passed away within a year.
A few months before the trip, he had surgery to reduce his testosterone production. This made 80 percent of his prostate cancer die off. He became pain-free and was able to return to golf and handle long walks in London and Paris.
It would take another year or so for the remaining 20 percent to overcome him.
This trip put the two of us together, one on one. A time when my dad was not being my parent. He was not trying to offer suggestions on how I could improve myself by reading more news, conversing more, standing up straighter, dressing better, improving my golf swing.
I resented authority, and on this trip, to some extent, I became the parent, continually kind and thoughtful, never critical or even suggestive.
What neither of us knew was how precious those eight days in London and Paris would become. We returned not as father and son, but as friends. The best of buddies. Those memories remain among the greatest gifts of my life.