In the beginning

I was conceived in Paris, born in New York.  I would like to think I was formulated within a rare romantic atmosphere, but perhaps the physics of my life were only meant to operate properly within the states.  Had I been born and raised in Paris, say, I would have been missing one side of my face or been unable to pronounce certain vowels.  Thank you, random chance!

Neither of my parents are French.  My mother died of cancer when I was five.  I've noticed my father holds no special reverence for Paris, other than the standard type: he enjoys Serge Gainsbourg and speaks half-heartedly of seeing the Seine at night once more before he's dead.  It's possible the memory of my mother is what keeps him distant from the place, but I think he is just the type of man who moves forever forward rather than back.  For that we get along famously.

To this day I don't know what my parents were doing in Paris and I like that very much.  I know one thing they were doing, and I am glad to be alive.  When I can tell my father is thinking of Paris I don't sense regret, and secrets without regret are the finest kind.

~ Bernard