An Afternoon in Paris

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

The city of lights was abuzz with the filming of Gigi, a movie that would become synonymous with Parisian charm. As the cameras rolled in the Tuileries Gardens, I found myself living a parallel fairy tale just steps away.

But my journey to this enchanting moment began years earlier, in a summer camp nestled in the Adirondacks. It was here I first met Debby, a long-legged girl who fell off a horse and broke her arm that summer. Our paths crossed again at boarding school. I was in awe of her sophistication and intelligence and was thrilled when she chose to befriend me and then asked me to be her roommate.

At seventeen, Debby and I, along with our English teacher Mr. Spears and a group of classmates, embarked on a European adventure. After exploring the streets of London, the fairy-tale landscapes of Denmark, and the piazzas of Italy, we finally arrived in Paris. Our home for the stay, the Hotel France et Choiseul, was a real-life set that rivaled the very movie being filmed nearby.

Before I left for the trip, my father had given me a specific instruction: "Be sure to look up Hélène Arpels when you get to Paris. I've told her you will be there. Don't forget!" I knew the Arpels name, but I didn’t know the prestige of the Van Cleef and Arpels Jewelers. I had no idea what to expect from this encounter or, for that matter, if he was serious.

On a sunny August afternoon, our last day in Paris, Debby and I decided to follow through on my father's request. Dressed in our practical drip-dry shirt dresses and sensible shoes, we made our way to the flagship Van Cleef and Arpels store on the Place Vendôme.

With a mix of nervousness and excitement, we approached the salesman at the counter. "We'd like to talk with Hélène Arpels, please," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The salesman gave us a patronizing look, clearly doubting that two bedraggled American girls had any business requesting an audience with Madame Arpels.

"Whom should I say wishes to see her?" he asked skeptically. I gave him my name and that of my father, silently hoping this would be enough to grant us entry. As he disappeared into a side room, Debby and I waited nervously, unsure of what would happen next.

Moments later, the salesman burst back into the room, followed by a chic, slim woman. She wore a soft linen skirt and a tan silk blouse, her hair elegantly pulled up in a chignon. With crisp, fast steps, she crossed the showroom and, to our surprise, threw her arms around me.

Letting out a gleeful laugh, she exclaimed, "Ah! Now we go to my house and have tea. I'll get the car." Before we knew it, Debby and I were whisked away in what I remember as a very small Renault, though part of me wants to say it was a convertible.

We arrived at Madame Arpels' home, where she led us into a garden completely enclosed by walls covered in lush green vines. "We in Paris like our privacy," she explained with a smile. "We don't show our faces to the whole world."

As we settled in for tea, the garden offered a cool respite from the August heat. The air was perfumed with the scent of flowers, and delicate sandwiches were served on fine china. Madame Arpels engaged us in conversation, asking about our trip and our lives back home. Debby and I did our best to sound sophisticated, though I'm sure our excitement and youth shone through.

During our chat, Madame Arpels imparted a piece of beauty wisdom that has stayed with me ever since: "French women never use soap on their faces," she said with conviction. From that day forward, I've followed her advice.

As the afternoon wore on, I found myself marveling at the nature of our situation. Here we were, two American schoolgirls, having tea in the private Parisian garden of a woman whose name was synonymous with luxury and elegance. The contrast between our innocence and Madame Arpels' effortless chic only added to the dreamlike quality of the experience.

All too soon, it was time for us to leave. Madame Arpels drove us back to the boutique, where we waved goodbye as she drove off into the Parisian traffic. Debby and I stood there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. We had been treated like honored guests by someone we had only just met, all because of a connection my father had made years ago.

This Parisian adventure became one of many shared experiences that cemented my friendship with Debby. We roomed together for one more year before graduating and heading off to different colleges. Over the years, we had more adventures together, but eventually, life took us in different directions.

Despite the distance, Debby and I kept in touch. Years later, long after we had both settled into our adult lives, Debby came to visit me at my house in upstate New York. It was a difficult time for me, as I was grieving the loss of my daughter, Rosalyn. During that visit, Debby reminded me of our Parisian tea party with Madame Arpels. Recalling that carefree afternoon that I had almost forgotten brought a smile to my face, providing a moment of light during a dark period.

That visit, now fifteen years in the past, was the last time I saw Debby. This year, when I called on our shared birthday in February, as I always did, there was no answer. I learned a month later that she had passed away just two weeks before turning eighty-four.

As I reflect on our friendship, the afternoon in Paris stands out as a perfect encapsulation of our bond, and the magic that can happen in life.