I've been adopted!

I have an adoptive grandfather, as of today, and I'm pretty happy about it.

Two years ago, thanks to connections with UCO, I was introduced to Dr. H., an Egyptian national who has lived in Paris for many years.  He and I hit it off from the start and over the course of the summer of 2008, he met my mom, my kids, and my husband.  He even came to see us at a restaurant on the eve of our departure, just to wish us a bon retour!    We have had some phone and email contact since then, but he travels frequently and as we were only available in Paris for just over a week last year, we failed to get together.

Dr. H. is already making up for lost time.  I emailed him on Friday to let him know I was in town with the children.  He called on Sunday morning. "Hello, beautiful Professor!"  he says, in his charming accent, "When can we see each other?  How about tomorrow?"  I have a pretty full day planned, so I suggest Wednesday, instead.  "I will try to stay here," he replies.  The man travels a great deal  To me, he is an international man of mystery.  Later in the day, I find out that my dear friend M will be in Paris just for the day on Wednesday; we make lunch plans.  I call Dr. H. back to let him know that tomorrow (Monday) will work out after all.  He is most pleased.

He calls me around 12:30 this afternoon.  "Can you please meet me at the Café de la Paix?"  he asks.  Can I?  It's about a 5-minute walk from the library where I'm working, and a landmark in and of itself, facing the old Opera House.  He calls me again, 15 minutes later, "Are you there already?  I am coming.  Please get us a table."  So the elegantly dressed and highly professional staff get me seated at a banquette.  I order some Badoit (French sparkling water) and he calls again so that he can find me (it is a big place, with lots of subdivisions).  He finds me, shakes my hand, and settles in.

I remember that he loves places like this.  He took me for tea at the Ritz in '08, and to the Grand Café des Capucines for lunch.  The prices at this place are eye-popping (2-course prix fixe at 35 euro?!), but of course the location is paramount.  He asks me if I am going to be a carnivore or a skin diver; I tell him I'd like the veal.  He orders veal, as well, but a different dish.  Dr. H. doesn't drink, himself (I imagine that he is Muslim, but we have not discussed religion very specifically), but he encourages me to have a glass of wine.  What the hey, if I'm going to have this fabulous lunch?

And it is indeed.  A beautifully prepared piece of meat in a gorgeous, light red wine sauce with a few tender, plump gnocchi and perfectly prepared spring onions.  I eat every morsel.  And we talk and talk.  He has three cell phones on the table, all of which ring (very unobtrusively, I might add) during our time together.  He is so happy for me and my grant.  He wants to introduce me to his friends at the UNESCO, and I should give a talk at the American University and at the American Culture Center.  About American movie heroes.  And I should organize a summer school for American families that want to learn French -- with classes for children and adults, and outings and lots of discussion about French and American culture.  "I want you to make important, lasting connections during your time here,"  he says.  Who am I to disagree?

He asks about my mother, who is on Safari in Africa (she should have her own blog!); "a beautiful lady, and what a traveller!" says Dr. H.  He also wants to know about the children, and my husband.  "He works with the Army," Dr. H. recalls.  "He is a very good person."  He wants to see everyone.  And we will be here for his birthday, in August, which makes him even happier.   

At various times, I find him just beaming at me. "I am so very happy to see you," he says.  He pulls a leather folder out of his coat pocket and says, "I want to make for you a gift."  And he hands me a coin.  An old coin.  With Napoleon III on it!  Wow!  I am speechless.  "I feel like I am your grandfather, " he says (I really think he's rather from my parents' generation, but my guess is that he thinks I'm a fair amount younger than I am).  "I will adopt you."

Then the dessert comes.  It's called "Pop Fizz" on the menu.  I have no idea why.  It is not fizzy or soda-pop-like in the least.  It is rather like some Pop Art structure -- brightly colored rectangles of painted white chocolate layered with three kinds of mousse -- pistachio, lemon, and raspberry.  It is small and light, with great bursts of intense flavor (perhaps there's the pop...)  A la carte, 15 euros.

As our coffee arrives, so does a friend of Dr. H's.  An Egyptian musician and actor also based in Paris,  he bears a slight resemblance to Howard Stern (lots of hair!).  He's doing a cabaret concert at the end of July.  He would love for me to attend.  I don't see why not, actually.  And while we're chatting, Dr. H gets up and pays the bill.  And would like to see me tomorrow, so we can make our plans for the UNESCO and the American Culture Center.  But, alas, I cannot.  And he will, in fact, be travelling on Wednesday.  But he has a catalog of film and media information that he wants me to have right away.  "I will make sure that you receive it,"  he says.  I have no doubt.

His friend asks me if I've ever been to Egypt.  "I am planning her trip," says Dr. H.,  "to the library in Alexandria."  We all leave together.  "We are your bodyguards," says Dr. H,  "Now, go back to work." It is now 3 p.m.  I kiss him on both cheeks and wish him safe travels.  And go back to work.