How a Traveling Writer Ended Up in Paris -- Part II
by Norma Jaeger Hopcraft
I
was living with my frail, tiny, 84-year-old mother, cooking for her, trying to tempt her to
eat by making foods just the way she liked. After breakfast, which she picked at, her aide would
arrive, and I would be free for a few hours.
So
I explored coastal Connecticut. My
mother lived in Mystic, which in itself is mystical. Route 1 went through
Mystic and over its iconic drawbridge. Strung along Route 1 was a series of
towns that were historic, interesting, beautiful: Stonington, Niantic, Madison,
Old Lyme.
The Charles W. Morgan was refurbished in Mystic, then sailed--for the first time in many decades--to New London for tours by the public.
Arriving by ferry into New London one evening, I caught the Charles W. Morgan silhouetted against the sunset.
The lighthouse just outside New London.
One of the lovely historic homes in Stonington, CT.
More pics of coastal Connecticut here and here.
In Search of the American Dream Takes a Twist
One day, I took Route 1 to New London. It has lots of history as a whaling and fishing town. It's suffered hard times for many decades, but it’s now gaining ground slowly with some recovery downtown.
I
wandered among the historic commercial architecture downtown and suddenly spied
something that I’d never noticed before: an independent bookstore!
I
dashed in. It was a cold January day, with freezing blasts of bone-chill air
off the Long Island Sound. The bookstore’s huge picture windows were steamed up with the
temperature difference between indoors and out.
I
was delighted with what I found inside: a grand piano covered with an eclectic
collection of antiques and memorabilia. A café with chairs and tables along the huge storefront
windows. New Londoners sat talking, discussing their latest projects.
I hunted for the owner. He was holding his nine-month old son on one hip and writing inventory with one hand.
“I love indie bookstores, and I support them by writing about them on my blog,” I said. “Can I take some pictures?”
“Sure,” he said. So I poked around with my camera.
"Buy a Book! You'll still be cold...but at least you will have a book!"
I stepped out of the bookstore later, into the cold air, with a book that changed my life.
The owner with his baby son.
Where the family hung out during long days in the shop.
I love the old tin ceilings.
The piano: piled with books!
The cafe, where New Londoners discussed their latest projects.
The owner made coffee, bobbled the baby, and sold books.
Creative collaboration?
As I left, the owner snuggled his baby.
The
bookstore was quiet and lovely. I thought I really should support the bookstore
with more than just a post on my blog. Especially one owned by a family. But I had
to be really careful with money, so I poo-pooed that idea.
I
snapped a few more pictures. And I heard a still small voice say, “Norma, put
your money where your mouth is. Buy a book.”
That’s
Higher Power, my heart said.
So
I went back to the owner and asked where the writing section was. He directed
me around the corner of a bookshelf, and there I saw a little brown book. A Writer’s Paris, by Eric Maisel.
“Thanks
a bunch, HP, I’ll never get to Paris. You’re just making me jealous,” I
thought. But I took the book off the shelf, opened it, and read a random
paragraph.
“If
you’re an American writer, you need to go to Paris to write. Go for 1 month, or
3 months. Better yet, go for a year. Paris is one of the more affordable great
cities of the world. You can do it! Just go!”
Well,
I thought to myself. Am I qualified? Am I a writer? I didn’t have an
exceptional track record of being published, not by any means. But I’d
persevered for years in a writing apprenticeship. I'd graduated from New York University's creative writing program magna cum laude. It has all been a ton of work. But I'd persevered. For years. Yes, I decided, I certainly
could count myself as a writer.
But
could I actually go to Paris? And live there?
The
idea exploded in my mind. I bought the book.
I
would not go as long as my mother needed me, which I hoped would be years.
But
when I got home, I Googled “French visa” and was led to the site of the French
Consulate in New York City, which serves New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.
I studied the documents I’d need, which included a letter from a French
sponsor.
I
cared for my mother, and while she was resting began to network with people for
contacts in France.
I
emailed a French pastor in Paris that one of my friends in New Jersey knew of.
He told me that he would be willing to write the sponsorship letter, but that
he rented an apartment, would be moving soon, and the French government
wouldn’t be impressed with him as my sponsor.
“You
need someone who owns property in France,” he said.
I
tucked that thought away and continued to care for my mother. I wanted her to
thrive and enjoy life for as long as possible. She had cared for me as a
helpless infant and small child. She had borne with me during the years when I
was a rebellious, moody teenager full of scorn for her stupid, old-fashioned,
protective ways. I owed her my very life, and I would make hers as enjoyable,
comfortable, and fulfilling as I could.
But
overnight she declined so steeply that we asked hospice to come in. A few days
later she was in bed around the clock. A week after that she was on morphine.
She died a few days later.
My
siblings, my whole family, were in deep mourning over the rather sudden loss of this
extremely adorable and wise little person. The funeral, the burial, all felt
distant, unreal, impossible.
While
still grieving (and I still miss her daily), I began to help my siblings by organizing and cleaning my
mother’s condo to get it ready for sale. In between emptying closets, I
returned to my research on being an American writer in Paris.
It
seemed like something that would be too good to come true for me. Life had been
very tough for a long time. After a heart-wrenching divorce, I’d raised two
children alone. I’d worked to support them by holding down jobs in tough
corporations in New York City. I’d lost jobs to corporate bullies and to mergers.
I’d been hunting for a job for three years already in the non-profit realm without
finding one, with all the rejection that entailed. Was something as glorious as
Paris possible for me?
I
talked to my pastor. “Should I go to Marfa, Texas, or Taos, New Mexico,
instead?”
“Emily
Dickinson had her Paris—her bedroom,” he answered. “Thoreau had Walden Pond. You just need to
find your Paris.”
I loved that he was giving me support, and a sense of freedom, to decide.
I
decided I’d worked so damn hard for so damn long that I deserved my heart’s
desire. I decided Paris was my Paris.
My
kids were adults and on their own. My mother didn’t need me anymore, God bless
her. No job required me to show up every day. I had the rental income from my
house and a small pension. If I was extremely careful with money—not buying
coffee in cafes more than once a month—I might make it in Paris for a year.
I
just needed a sponsor.
The
story continues…come back next week! Or sign up to follow--in the righthand column.
