Sometimes when I walk through a city park, I think of the time I took an acquaintance to the Place des Vosges in Paris. She was from Yorkshire, England, visiting Paris for the first time on business, and I acted as her enthusiastic guide. Place des Vosges, located in the center of Paris, has grass, benches, and a fountain and is surrounded by old beautiful architecture. The day we went was beautiful and sunny, and many people lounged on the grass. “I love this park,” I told my new friend. She laughed, and not one to mince words, said, “You call this a park? It’s so small!” I was confused and remained so until a few months later, when I visited her in Yorkshire.
I stepped out of the airport in Leeds, England, where my friend awaited me with the little blue Mercedes convertible she drove for her employer. I had never ridden in a convertible and was thrilled as we zipped away to her village, our hair whipping around as we caught up during the hour-long drive.
Upon our arrival at her place, I noticed that her house was neither isolated nor crowded because she had neighbors directly on either side but vast space in front and behind her property. Her home was lovely. A red roof topped a brick structure that featured a perfectly-sized back garden and patio along with a small pond and nursery.
Approaching the back fence of her garden, my jaw dropped when I saw what seemed like endless miles of cornfields. They didn’t belong to her but ensured that this amazing view would not soon be obstructed by new buildings. I suddenly understood why she thought Places des Vosges was small. If only she knew how Parisians considered a tiny balcony prime real estate. When her two young adult daughters arrived at the house to join us for dinner, she laughed and remarked to them that I had taken photos of the cornfields.
From my time with my friend and her family, I noticed that most of them had lived in Yorkshire all their lives and were happy there. She told me that all of her family lived close-by except for one of her daughters, who lived in Leeds. Leeds was only an hour’s drive away! Her considering that as far made me think about how I was an eight-hour plane ride from my own family and how my parents were halfway around the world from their families. I love traveling and feel lucky to have lived in different places, but I also thought about how nice it could be to be the type of person who is content staying put. Not to say that my friend and her family didn’t travel—they had all gone on vacation to different countries in Europe—but it was clear that none of them had that yearning to move somewhere else.
My friend served a pitcher of the English alcoholic drink Pimm’s to which she had added slices of cucumber and fruit. We ate dinner outside at the table on the patio: my friend, her two daughters, one daughter’s fiancé, and the other daughter’s new beau, whom I only realized was a new boyfriend when my friend started questioning him conversationally. My friend’s husband worked long hours on the field and would not be home until later.
As darkness fell we all sat in the living room that was in an extension of the house covered with a glass roof and walls. It was interesting having the light on and night around us, being inside and outside at the same time. I remember a similarly warm and pleasant night when my friend and I had reverse roles; she was the visitor and I was the host. I took her to a restaurant in Montmartre and we ate French food at small round tables outside on a steep little street, other diners seated closely on both sides of us. How different an evening may be in different parts of the world.
On my first night in the English countryside, I was kept company by this boy, whose name is Paddy.