For fifty years, I've carried a love of Paris. For a long time, I thought it was an inheritance — a gift from teachers, photographers, French cousins, and friends. But only recently have I realized that Paris now belongs to me.
The seeds were planted early by my very first French teacher, Mrs. Stewart in Pittsburgh, who always made me feel valued and welcome. She made French not just a subject but a joy — something expansive, a new world opening before me. Later, a college professor urged me to take my first trip to France — a visit that included meeting my French cousins, who graciously introduced me to the City of Light, followed by a month at the University of Aix-en-Provence.
In Paris, seeing the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées for the first time was overwhelming. I didn't just see grandeur; I felt the weight of history. Every time I stand on the Champs-Élysées, I think of the German army marching down it in triumph on June 14, 1940 — and then of the liberation, just over four years later, when French and American forces returned and Parisians flooded the streets.
Yet Paris was only the beginning of my French journey. In Aix, I met a teacher from the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium who shared my love of the country and its language. I also met Marica from Mexico, who was simply fun to be with. One day, we rented a paddle boat on Lac d'Esparron in the south of France. We lost track of time, missed our bus back to Aix, and ended up laughing as a kind stranger gave us a ride to the train station in Manosque so we could make our way home. It's a small story, but one I treasure — a reminder of youth, friendship, and the kindness of strangers.
That same summer, I discovered the music of Véronique Sanson. I loved her then and still do. I remember listening to her voice while visiting the calanques of Cassis, marveling at their sharp white cliffs and turquoise but icy water. Somehow, the beauty of those landscapes fused in my mind with the beauty of her songs. Even now, hearing her music carries me back to that summer.
After moving to Washington in 1979, I kept up my French. At Georgetown University and the Alliance Française de Washington, I found kind and influential teachers who nourished my love of France. Through them, Paris stayed alive for me, even when I was far away.
It was my father who made these experiences possible, investing in my education and my first trips abroad, shaping me in lasting ways. My teachers opened doors, and friends gave me stories to carry.
Now, with my camera, I carry them all forward. Every photograph I take in Paris is a way of honoring those who helped me find the city. Paris has grown inside me over a lifetime, stitched together by people, music, landscapes, and light.
Paris now belongs to me.