We’re The Russells

It was a morning that I opted to stay near the hotel. Paris had left me in a bad mood that day. Not that there was anything new in that. The city can do that to you. I was running errands, tying up a few lose-ends, doing laundry and generally not wanting to be bothered. I strode past the usual mix of Parisians and tourists. Not wanting to deal with either of them.

I hurried along when I noticed a well dress elderly couple in front of the post office looking at a map. First thought was that they were Americans. The ‘WGBH Boston’ tote bag that the woman held onto confirmed it. I really could not envision Parisians concerning themselves too much with a PBS pledge drive.

They looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. If you wanted to cast the ideal grandparents in a movie it would have been them. He had on a light brown tweed blazer and a tie as well with some suitable matching pants. She was dressed in as if she was going to play bridge and the club. They were two very well put together tourists. Perhaps because of the grandparent thing I stopped. “Do you need some help with directions?” I asked.

They looked at me pleasantly. “We are trying to figure out how to get to Hélène Darroze’s restaurant. We are going there for lunch.” Said the woman. Coincidentally walking back to the hotel the previous evening I had passed the place. I had even stopped in to get a card, and chat to the pretty girl behind the reception desk (wanted to practice my French) so I knew exactly where it was and how to get there.

I took control on the map and outlined the best way to get to the restaurant. They seemed generally grateful and pleased that the place was with in easy walking distance. “Have you been?” asked the gentleman. I related my visit to the place the night before, and while I was aware of her reputation Darroze’s I had to be a customer. They were clearly looking forward to their impending meal and thanked me for my help.

We talked a little more as the hustle and bustle of Paris went by us. They told me about their trip. They were enjoying themselves and had been eating well. They hadn’t been to any of the top 3 star restaurant in Paris but the had gone out of their way to find good local places.

They had also made use of the street market near their hotel. They raved about the quality of the produce. The hotel where they were staying at a serviced hotel each room had a little kitchen. This allowed them to cook some of the great finds from the market. They seemed to be enjoying cooking in France as much as dinning out.

They asked where I was from I told them New York. They were currently living in Texas, and prior to that Boston. They had met and married in New York. “We were living in the same building.” He said.

She continued. “He was in 12A and I was in 10B.”

“Funny” I said. “My apartment happens to be 11B.” The woman then said something that stunned me. She gave me the address of the building where they had met asking me if I knew it. I knew it well. It was my building! Had I lived there forty years previously they would have been my neighbors.

Turns out they were in fact, for a little while anyway, my neighbors we were all staying in the same hotel. They even occupied a favorite room of mine, a cozy setup with a nice view of the river. It also meant that we all shopped at the same market. I told them about a nice wine store that I knew in the area as well as a favorite local bistro.

I went on to tell them what I was doing in France, about my interest in French food. “You know who you should really talk to?” She said. I wasn’t too sure whom she meant, “Julia.”  When it came to French food or even food for that matter there is really only one possible Julia. A woman I was too chicken to try and contact.

“Do you know her?” I asked hopefully.

“We met her a couple of times when we were living in Boston. She’s very nice.” The gentleman checked his watch and announced that they would have to make a move for lunch.

I was pleased to have met them. The few minutes with this couple had completely turned my day around for the better. “We’re The Russells.” Said Mrs. Russell. I introduced myself. They thanked me again for the directions. Then we said our good-byes they headed off to their lunch and I continuing with my errands in a much better mood than when I started.

I never saw them again, not even at the hotel or at the market. I had hoped to ask them how they enjoyed their lunch. In subsequent years I have passed the little corner many times always keeping an eye out for a ‘WGBH’ bag. I think of the Russells and hope they are well.

Photo: Google Maps.