Dear Madame Michele Bonhomme,

I stepped out of the cab, bags loaded, and looked at the wall that shot up before me. The taxi driver pointed to a green square in the mass, resembling a door-like outline, and threw in some beautiful French that was surely helpful, had I understood any of it. However, the gesture was enough for me to pick up on the fact that this was my entrance.

I meandered over to the door, identifying the code box, and entered my first set of numbers. After pushing the giant door open I was faced with an open courtyard. A large B printed to my left and an A to my right (Yes, this was their order). I turned to my left to punch in another set of codes before finding myself at the base of a thin, twisting stair case.

Your directions couldn’t have been any clearer, codes, turns, and lack of electrical elevation included.

It was at this moment that your emphasis of the third level hit me.

I decided to take two trips up, one with my two backpacks and the other my suitcase. It was on my second climb that I was met by your open arms, sweet kisses, and perfectly accented ‘Bonjour!’ You took my bags, showed me my cozy Parisian room, and immediately offered me tea and food. While I unpacked you proceeded to make me gnocchi, not knowing that this is among my favorite dishes and easily my favorite type of pasta. My door was open and I could hear your French murmurs flurry through the house.

As we sat down for lunch I was forced to tell you that I had never taken a lick of French, which explained why I had already given you too many overly smiley grins that were half puzzled and half embarrassed. I was the intruder, the one who came to France where you speak French without any knowledge of the language that went beyond bonjour and merci!

But instead of taking offense you simply nodded and began using your best English, telling me about your family, sharing photos, and opening up your entire home to me.

Since this first lunch we spent together I have noticed the small things you do differently for me that you do not or have not done for Liz, my fairly fluent French speaking flat mate.

You point things out to me on the street, you pause during your show to explain the scenes, and when I pour your soup all over my pasta thinking it’s the sauce you only say things in French for a few seconds before laughing at me and my silliness.

You have joyously opened up your home to me, which has ultimately given me part of your soul, something I do not take lightly between friends, but to a mere foreigner whose friendship you’ve formed only hours before? That goes beyond the ‘City of Love,’ that goes beyond Paris.

Thank you for making me dinner every night, saying good morning with each sunrise, and setting out my tea cup for each breakfast.

Thank you for taking me under your wing, making faces at people who glare at my English speaking self, and asking about my day whenever I return home.

I love hearing your voice when you’re on the telephone. I love your palace-of-a-home which is rich in history and has belonged to you since 1982. And I love, love, love your cooking.

You are by far my favorite part of Paris.

(And I’ve seen the Pantheon, Arc De Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Louvre, and Notre Dame)

Thank you for a home away from home.

Merci, Merci, Merci

Riley Makenna