Endpiece

Lost and Found in Paris
by Melissa Carran '83

Almost 20 years after graduating from Centre, Liz Day '83, Lee Anne Stigers Genasci '83, Robin Tassie Blank '83, and I decided to celebrate the year of our 40th birthdays in Paris. We broke away from our jobs (criminal justice, dentistry, insurance, neurology), our kids (nine, all told), our lives, and our men.

"All week?" asked the men, some nervously, others happy to have their own traditions of getting away with the guys sanctioned. "What will you do together?"

The prospect of spending time with my old roommates (with whom I hadn't had an uninterrupted conversation in years) and seeing Paris again (we'd all been there at one time or another) was tantalizing. We planned for months on end, easily reaching consensus. The week before leaving, however, there was a sudden wave of panic. Some of us wanted to travel, others wanted to "live the life" in Paris. I complained to my husband, "We're going to fight and have control issues. So-and-so will be stubborn, like always, and so-and-so will want to be the boss." (The trip was her idea.) Somewhat demoralized, I boarded the plane from my home in Philadelphia for the easy six-hour flight to Charles de Gaulle airport. I took my melatonin and Ambien and resolved to be flexible and easy-going no matter what, right before passing into pharmacologic sleep for the entire flight.

We found each other easily in the airport. Although we'd met often over the years, recognition was not instant. There had been a definite change in something more intangible. Suddenly, inexplicably, we were at the height of our powers as women, neither young nor old, and rich in all that matters. Just as Joan of Arc and Saint Genoveva had conquered intruders and defended Paris, we would punctuate our midlife anniversary by taking on the city.

We floated through the city on a stream of conversation and fascination, as much with each other as with our surroundings. We stood in lovely little shops and smelled soap for hours. We walked for miles in the warm rain, and skipped around on the Metro without missing a beat. We sat in sunny corner cafes and savored wine, foie gras, gorgonzola, and good bread. We scanned monuments and museums and read history to each other from tour books. Once we couldnÕt find each other at the opera, and I was saddened to think we might miss a few hours together.

Moments of chaos were also part of the formula. The Stubborn One was pick-pocketed twice when she wanted to wear her purse as a backpack. The Boss decided we would stay in the city, not travel to the countryside, and we ended up in a less than charming, somewhat malodorous hotel for a few nights. The Middle Child's middle child reported a spanking from dad that made us all want to rush home. And the Know-It-All suffered terribly from jet lag and insomnia, despite her medical tri

I had scheduled my flight home a day earlier than the others, thinking I would miss my young children, but I felt torn about leaving when the time came. On the plane I was overcome with emotions, fatigue, and excitement. My eyes filled with tears as I recalled images of times more difficult and uncertain. The raw existential angst of youth with its losses and potentials had been gone for years, but I felt it again for a moment. I didn't try to sleep on the plane home but sat thinking instead. The seeds of friendship and humanity which had been planted at Centre years ago had brought me to this point.

At home in Philadelphia the children cried when 10 presents were not enough. No one liked the dark French chocolate I brought, and a patient had died in my absence. Missing my friends, I called the hotel in Paris. "We saw a woman in a café today who looked just like you," they said.

I was ecstatic. They had missed me, too.

Melissa Carran '83 is an assistant professor of neurology and the medical director of the Epilepsy Center at Cooper Hospital/Robert Wood Johnson Medical School/Princeton Medical Center in southern New Jersey. She lives with her husband and their two children in Philadelphia.



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