It’s so interesting to me that the French word for a memory is “un souvenir.” A souvenir, as I have come to know the meaning, is something, anything, that we take away from somewhere and keep with us. It is physical, tangible, and charming. Always joyous, a souvenir is a physical representation of a happy memory.
Meandering through the West Village yesterday afternoon with my grey puffy coat zipped all the way up and D’Agostino grocery bags slipping through my fingers, I was stopped straight in my tracks as I peered into a warmly lit, chandelier-clad window. And then, right there, even with all that romantic New York charm, not even the cotton/cashmere blend wrapped tightly around my neck prevented the chill of nostalgia that trickled down my spine. I set my bags of nourishment down on the sidewalk and took a step forward for a closer look.
Inside the store were a man and a woman dutifully crafting mountains of sugary, floury, powdered pastries, cakes, and sweet goodies galore, embellishing the window between us. And above the modest store window, framed by fading brick, hung the name of the patisserie on a black awning: “Aux Merveilleux de Fred.” Mounds of crisp meringues and tiny delights wrapped in whipped cream were mixed amongst fluffy brioche breads glazed with sweet sugar and hints of chocolate – all taunting me under glistening pastel light.
I stood there, on the other side of the window that cased these scrumptious confections, and found myself on the other side of a memory. However, this memory, this “souvenir,” was not met with joy and cheer, but rather, brought to light the blunt reality of a now unattainable experience.
My nostalgia transported me back to the streets of Saint Germain and Le Marais, the winding paths of the Tuileries, the lovely Adrienne who worked at my local patisserie, and of course, 18 Rue Tournefort – my address for four magical months as I studied abroad in Paris. My time in the city of romance and sweet indulgence was not merely an academic experience in a foreign country. Language barrier and culture shock aside, Paris was a time of growth and liberation for me. I delved into the fresh newness that the city initially encapsulated, into the cultural ambiguity that sparkled around me, and came out the other side rejuvenated, with a new perspective on life. And while quaint and dazzling sights are significantly symbolic of my time there, the tastes of the city are what truly trigger the memories I’ve held on to from there – my souvenirs.
I felt it would be wrong not to indulge in a sweet little treat, and so I walked into Aux Merveilleux de Fred and ordered a pain au chocolat – only this time, the woman behind the register did not correct me when I pronounced the silent letter T at the end of chocolat like my Adrienne would, every day. Even more disappointing, when I exited the store and stepped back outside, my scrumptious pain au chocolat and I were still in New York City.
I walked home juggling my groceries and halfheartedly eating my pastry, and the truth became as bright and as vivid as La Tour Eiffel at night, (well, almost): I wasn’t in Paris anymore, and I would never be in Paris again in the same context I was a year ago. That part of my life is now a fleeting memory, living only in my mind – and on my taste buds. All that was left were memories, and now, crumbs.
But maybe what has made the memory of Paris so magical and vibrant is the reality that it, like my delicious pain au chocolat, was temporary. If it had lasted forever, if I extended my time there and studied abroad indefinitely, prolonging my “happily ever after,” I wouldn’t hold the same value and appreciation for the experience that I do now. The truth is that the transient nature of life’s events is what truly makes them eternally special. Of course, I wish I could experience my midnights in Paris forever, feasting on all the fresh croissants and éclairs I could get my hands on. But my “au revoir” from the enchanting city was inevitable, like all of life’s momentary events.
As nothing stays the same, and nothing remains forever, we must savor the crumbs. We must hold the memories of these instances in the drawers and shelves of our souls, wrapped in colorful nostalgia, like novel souvenirs. And at the end of the day, when we do find ourselves exploring the comfortingly mundane streets of the places with which we have become overly acquainted, we can find solace in life’s impermanence – in the magic of our memories and our reminiscence. Because, ultimately, no matter the experience, that’s just the way the pain au chocolat crumbles. C’est la vie.
Aux Merveilleux de Fred – 37 8th Ave, New York, NY 10014
