A brilliant, beautiful day at the beach – perfect for a death march. This is what friends call my barefoot beach walks. There is no lollygagging, no sauntering. This is a walk with speed and purpose. Yes, I notice the dolphins that frolic. Naturally, when it’s the...
When Colette O’Connor’s thoroughly American mother, who in a previous life likely lost her head to the guillotine, given how thoroughly French she felt, in this life lost her heart to an apartment in Paris, what else could Colette do? She quit her job, pocketed...
Worlds away in a Paris pet shop, true love awaits The phone buzzed in its foreign French way, buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz. “Allô?” “I had to put Terrence down.” It was my brother George, calling from San Francisco. The pain in his voice, the disbelief, traveled...
Her cups runneth over so she took the girls on tour My sister showed up the other day with a new set of breasts. Bouncy breasts. Rounded breasts. Breasts that aim dead ahead with the resolve of a heat-seeking missile. And I don’t get it. This is a woman so...
Who was this chic, seventy-something woman the author once called Mom? It started, as these things do, without a lot of hoopla – my mother and I arriving at Place de la Concorde during our first-ever trip to Paris. The day was dazzling, and jet lag had us woozy...
Recent Comments