Travel Tips

we started as strangers. we all do really Except for family you have to start somewhere with everyone new. In years of travel you meet dozens of people - they come and go. Passing friends, acquaintances. A dinner here, a few drinks after meetings, maybe a passing greeting. Mostly formalities. Even after work the conversation still centers on work - trying to get the inside scoop on what is really going on back in the states, or trying to make a good impression on the local dealer. You start strangers, and part strangers. Nothing is left behind, nothing of substance shared.

This time was no different - just part of the job. Acting as tour guide for one of the athletes that we had brought with us to Paris. She spoke english and spanish, I english and french. A perfect combination for a tour of paris by day, the latin quarter by night.

Strangely though, this time the conversation was different - almost from the first words spoken. For some reason the words flowed easily - passing from one branch of our lives to the other. As the day unfolded around us we found the edges of our lives overlapping. Freed as we were from the responsibilities and duties of home, we were free, just for the moment, to just be. What magic happens that brings two strangers into harmony so quickly when the rest of the world has receded into background chatter? What makes two people seem to fit so well together? The metro to the musee d'orsay, the shared laughter over the stranger trying so hard to make sure that we didn't miss our stop, the ticket line ? even the day spent in the musee. Every step we took, the other was in time.

As the day unfolded we traced the outlines of our lives. Where have you lived, where do you find joy in life, what do you want to be when you grow up? How does it work ? this sudden realization that the total stranger that you knew moment ago has now become a friend.

The day passes by, and the formalities of dinner begin. Polite conversation with the group. Now I'm back in business mode. Glad handing the European guests, buying a round of drinks. Being sure to say hello to everyone there. Using my best textbook french to make sure that everyone get medium steak and red wine. Another glass please, some more bread. The whole time, though, she is there. Playing the same role - we exchange glances time to time. She has changed into dinner attire, a striking black dress. Tall, strong and beautiful. She catches my glance, and smiles back. She alone realizes how foolish I feel wearing a tie. My climbing days aren't so long gone that I can wear a tie and not remember swearing that I would never dress like my old man, shouting at the moon over cheap red wine in the utah desert.

After dinner we break into a small group - a collegue, her and I. We head for a dance club in the latin bar, the first cab we see stops on a dime when she steps out onto the curb. What paris taxi driver would ignore a woman like her flagging down a cap on a rainy Sunday night? Just 20 feet past the taxi stand, the old driver comes to a halt, and the three of us pile in - laughing at how easily we caught a cab in the paris night. Now we are but three friends, out for a pleasant evening. At the club we take turns with an occasional dance - still just polite friends in the company of another. The night wears on and I see her dancing with the cubans - her perfect spanish making her a popular at this club. Even while dancing with another though, she glances towards me, smiling as if to say "this next dance is for you". I watch the way she stands tall and graceful on the dance floor ? looking straight into the eyes of whoever she is speaking with.

Soon it is late, my collegue is tired. I ask the cab driver to take us to monte martre to see the dame de fer one last time. It is late Sunday night now - the rain falls lightly on the cab windows as we wind our way up the narrow streets to the sacre cour. From here we can see the clock on the musee d'orsay. we had lunch there earlier in the day - and I know she is thinking of our lunch together as am I. The cab driver waits patiently until we are ready to go. My collegue friend protests the hour, and wants to go back to the hotel. Without exchanging a word, she and I know that we are not ready for the evening to end. I pay the driver to make sure my friend gets back safely, and suddenly we are alone. Heading towards a late night latin bar just off the champs. We are dancing together again - pressed together among the twisting, dipping and smiling couples that are holding onto the evening just as we are. Now it is 2:30 in the morning, and I can feel the sparks fly from holding these unfamiliar curves in my arms. I trace the outline of her face with my eyes - wanting to commit every line to memory. I hold onto the way the dips her head just before smiling, the way her hair falls across her face, the color of her eyes as she and I speak.

Now we have stayed up later even than this crowd of young parisians. The evening grows quieter and the crowds thin. we have time now for just one last glass of wine, upstairs by the window. We talk about dreams, hope, our lives. We are only just past strangers, yet we are sharing parts of our lives that I've never shared with another. I turn my chair so that I can watch her more easily - and she rests her hand on my shoulder while we speak. I'm in paris, 4:00am. I've known her for exactly 20 hours, and I'm lost.

The cab ride back to the hotel is quiet ? we are both deep in thought ? realizing that the night is over, wishing it wasn?t. Her roommate is waiting for her, and I have a flight to catch ? leaving in only a few hours. We can feel reality looming as the cab brings us nearer and nearer to the hotel.

"What time did you guys get back last night?", my friends ask. ?Oh, I don?t remember? is all either of us say the next morning. I?m too selfish to say more. I don?t want to share the memory of the stillness of the rain soaked roads, and quiet intimacy of the cab ride back we shared only a few hours ago. Our flights arrive on time that morning, and we part as quickly we we met. She goes to a distant coast ? her family, her friends, our relationships, work and obligations pulling us apart as quickly as paris had brought us together.

I will always wonder what would have become of us, had we only one more day together in the city of lights, even one more hour. In the dark hours of jet lagged sleep in the months to come I?ll have plenty of time to think about it, and wonder what if.