c'est la vie

My mother has come and gone.

She met me in Cafe de la Paix in la Place d'Opera, where the bus from the airport would drop her off. When she found me I was busy befriending the Irish bartender and my old friend Jack Daniels. My heart stopped when I saw her, standing with her suitcase, calling my name from a distance. I jumped out of my seat and ran towards her with open arms.

Soon she was seated at the bar beside me. Together, it seemed like we could finally breathe again, until my mother reached into her bag. Her wallet was gone. "A woman bumped into me on the bus," she said, "it wasn't natural. I know she took it."

I paid our bill and soon we were down in the metro. Two violins played sadly in the background as my mother left a frantic message on the answering machine for my father. "Cancel the credit cards, my wallet is gone." She had three credit cards and three hundred euros in her wallet.

On the metro home my mother sat stunned, with watery eyes, while a man in our car pulled out puppets which he made sing to opera music. I stared at my mother, smiling in sympathy, while the dramatic music played to the drama of our lives.

The night was spent running to phone booths in the cold-my cell phone is broken-cancelling credit cards, and trying to find a police station. We found out that the woman who stole her wallet had spent 3000 euros that night, within minutes of the theft. The police station was closed that night, but we made it the next day, and a police report will insure that this money will get back to my mother.

We had planned to relax the few days she was here. But our nerves were shot. I couldn't sleep at night, took on a cold, threw up my dinner one evening, and missed my period all together because my stress level was shooting up so high.

But I still had my mother. And we walked through the streets of Paris, arm in arm, like we'd dreamt about for so long. She bought me a winter jacket so I wouldn't freeze. We ate well. We had creme brulee her last night here, in a restaurant called Les Philosophes.

She held me one morning, when I came out the shower crying, my hair wet and a towel around my body. I was running off nothing, wanting to show my mother a good time, and afraid of the lifeless bitch my sleeplessness had made me. I was tired of running. Tired of nothing working. My body wasn't working, my emotions were a mess, my mother was robbed, and my cell phone and camera were broken. It felt like nothing was allowed to go right.

I took my mother to the train station at seven this morning. She needed help lugging her suitcase, and seduced me with the idea of a petit dejeuner complet. There's nothing better than sitting down at a train station with a croissant, baguette, butter, jam, coffee and orange juice. So I went.

She got on the train, pulling her body after two hours of sleep, and sniffling from my cold that she picked up. I hugged her one last time, so happy to be back in her warmth, knowing I'll be joining her down South in a couple of weeks.

I left her and walked slowly down the platform, dressed in black, my tired eyes watching people run to the train, lugging bags bigger than their bodies.

I walked back down into the metro, the lights blaring down on the mass of passengers in suits and winter jackets. People rolling suitcases, holding briefcases, or stylish little purses. People in a hurry to get somewhere.

Things don't always work out as planned. Sometimes you have to push yourself until you're practically empty. But it's life. You accept sad truths, work with what you've got, and move on.

The past few days have been crazy, but I had my mother. We still laughed, danced, drank, and found warmth in the other's company.

There's a time to grieve, and there's a time to shrug, pour yourself a glass of wine, and say: "C'est la vie."