passeport

The other day I took B to have his passport photos snapped. After seven – no, eight - weeks we’re finally beginning the process of establishing B’s bona fides as a person filling up his own space in the world; in his case he needs a US passport, a social security card, and a piece of paper called a Consular Report of Overseas Birth. As always, there is a circular and dependent relationship between these pieces of paper and the data needed to procure them, but we have a form for all that and I’ll worry about it later.

The photo studio is just off the fancy shopping street that runs behind the embassy. It’s really a glorified copy shop staffed by a couple of bored teenagers in pegged pants; the “photo studio”, complete with flash umbrella, is an open closet in the back of the shop exactly one steep and dangerous step down from the main level (using a baby carrier puts me in a constant state of vertigo; it seems that the only thing that keeps me from feeling like I’m about to teeter off the steady plane is being able to see my feet. It’s like constantly living in a funhouse of wobbly bridges and receding staircases, only not that fun).

Anyway, I unstrapped B, hung my coat on the peg, and followed one of the teenagers into the studio, where the idea was to hold B up high enough to be seen in front of the backdrop by bracing him against my leg, which was meant to be propped on a rickety barstool complete with a rotating seat. How we managed this without complete disaster is beyond me, but it at least accomplished the necessary goal of having B photographed awake and with his eyes open. The look of surprise is not feigned. It’s a sweet picture, while looking not at all like B now and most definitely not like the B of five years in the future, when this passport will finally expire and we will be living somewhere far from Paris, probably. Becoming a parent is pre-loaded with the application software for nostalgia, but I do think about this large piece of my children’s early lives, and my early life with children, being left behind here.

While waiting for the photos to develop, I rifled through a display of postcards on a rack, in a series called Paris Poeme – classic photos of the city inscribed with a quotation from a French writer (though not necessarily a poet). They were clearly not a popular item – though not vintage, most of the cards had warping edges and were beginning to lose their shine. One card had a cheesy picture of old-school Parisian waiters standing in front of a café and popping the corks off bottles of champagne. The Appollinaire quote below read “Ecoutez-moi je suis le gosier de Paris/Et je boirai encore s’il me plait l’univers” – “Listen to me, I am the gullet of Paris/ And if it pleases me I will drink the universe.” I don’t know what Appollinaire would have thought of the postcards, but that scrappier, blowsier personification of Paris made me smile, living in these more polite and organized times. I liked the Whitmanesque flair. And it reminded me why I like living a city with children – one can take the stance of drinking in the universe even when it’s more like drinking from a firehose…

We’ve had a number of visits lately from old friends from various parts of our lives, all of whom have been gracious enough to roll with the flow of our unpredictable yet not exactly exciting life. M was here over the weekend, and it was great to be reminded again of why she is one of my all-time favorite whipsmacking conversation partners. Her account of the visit, posted here, puts it better than I ever could. And I don’t think anyone will ever accuse me again of exaggerating. Thanks, friend.

Meanwhile I bought another set of plane tickets for a trip south. The triumph of hope over experience, no doubt, but we are sure looking forward to it. I imagine the famille Marron are nailing things down as we speak.