Christmas in Paris is not what I had imagined. I had dreamt of a New York Christmas, only more charming and romantic. In reality, Christmas in Paris means a few random lights scattered on trees which seem to have been dropped from passing air traffic. Here and there, I did spot a mangy Christmas tree, but in New York, we call those branches. The lack of the Christmas spirit I knew and loved left me even hungrier for some New York style, and I was thrilled that we had planned our trip back on December 18. A New York Christmas doesn't disappoint. In fact, the holidays began on our plane ride back with a A Christmas Story marathon and some classic Christmas songs.Meanwhile, everyone knows that the French are notorious for their strikes. I had learned quickly that Parisians have a love-hate relationship with strikes. It's considered a basic human right. And yet every time there is a strike, everyone complains about it - another basic human right. As a monthly occurrence, it often prompted much French discussion in our classes. I always voiced that we Americans had strikes too, but not the kind that make it impossible for people to get to work in the morning. We had laws against that sort of thing.
So imagine my surprise when in our NYC taxi cab from the airport, I overheard on 1010 WINS news that a MTA strike seemed imminent. Wait, what's that? I asked the taxi driver. In several decades in New York there had been no strikes, and in fact they were illegal for metro workers who were considered government employees. Humorous timing, I thought, but nonetheless impossible. It will never happen.
Upon our arrival, New York was aglow with Christmas spirit - equal parts tradition (Rockefeller Center's tree and skaters) and commerce (every store window featured Christmas decorations). I visited the department store windows - a burst of colors and textures portraying fairy tales and legends. The Paris windows I had seen were with goofy reindeers. Somehow New York managed to make Princess and the Pea and Goldilocks and the Three Bears look grown-up.
The next morning we decided to go for a real American breakfast. We weren't sure if Harlem's Amy Ruth was open (we were of course up before dawn due to the time difference). So we decided on the Edison Diner - not the best, but a simple choice, an easy walk and guaranteed to be open. When we sat down at our table, I was sure I heard some people speaking French. I have French on the brain, I figured. We ordered our breakfast, and talked. But then, wait, I was sure the people two tables over were speaking French. And is the couple sitting next to us speaking French too? Of course, then I spotted him cutting his doughnut with a fork and knife - definitely French. So I turned to them and asked in French why there were so many people speaking French there? They didn't seem as surprised by my French as you would have thought. They answered in French, they had no idea. I asked, it's not a group? No, in fact, they were on their very first trip to New York City and had just arrived last night. So we chatted for some time and we gave them some suggestions of where to go and what to eat. They didn't know about bagels so we promptly wrote out the address for H&H.After they left, I couldn't help but smile. There's a new meaning for me to the line "we'll always have Paris." I could feel that the language and the experience had become a part of me. And I was happy to be back in New York, not only because we would be going back to Paris in a month, but because now I know I can always go back to Paris. It's a part of me now.
Two days later, the New York City subway and bus system went on strike. I wondered what the French couple we had met thought about a $5 cab ride (or $4 metro ride for two people) now costing $30. Actually, come to think of it - expensive cabs and strikes - maybe they felt a bit more at home too.
