Isn't It Romantic?

The only thing my students are asking about more than the musical, which we're announcing this Friday, is my upcoming trip.

The initial conversation went like this:

"Why aren't you going to be at that speech meet?"
"I'm going out of town for Thanksgiving."
"Where are you going?"
"Paris."
"Ooh!"
"I know, right?"
"Are you going with your family?"
"No, I'm going with a friend."
(gasp) "Is it Jason?"
"I don't want to tell you.  You'll make fun of me."
"It IS Jason!  That's so romantic!"

And ever since that conversation, they bring it up every day.  Each time they do I admit to excitement, deny the romance, and redirect the conversation.  They took it to new levels today when, during business, Kailey suddenly announced, "Ms. Waterhouse, I bet Jason proposes to you in Paris."

The other students quickly agreed, deciding that it will mostly likely happen in front of the Eiffel Tower (a choice based primarily on their lack of knowledge of Parisian landmarks - it would either be there, in front of the Mona Lisa, or in close proximity to cheese).  I pointed out that since we're not dating and we've certainly never kissed, that's a pretty big jump to make in a relationship.

"But it's PARIS!" they countered.

Okay, fine, I will give them that.  I can't be that upset either about their conviction of a secret romance.  Jason and I have done a lot of supposedly-romantic things together - a hot air balloon ride at dawn, a cruise across the Mediterranean, a slow walk home from the Metropolitan opera, and so on.  Heck, even I have caught myself being lulled by the romance of settings.  Fortunately, Jason is not nearly as prone to indulging in 19th-cenutury novelistic emotions.

Take Bastille Day for example - the night we went to see the fireflies.  As we stood there alone on the path by the creek surrounded by lush foliage and the magical fairy-lights of fireflies under a beautiful full moon, I couldn't help but think about how sweet it was of Jason to make sure I got to see fireflies before my visit ended and of the loveliness of the whole evening.  The moment would have been romantic even if I was standing on the pathway alone, and I admit my stoic practicality was wavering.  As we stood near each other, both looking up at the moon, I heard Jason clear his throat and I turned to him so caught up in my Alcott/Bronte/Austen-imaginings that I more than half-expected him to declare, "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you," not "Isn't it funny how the moon is just a really big rock?"

That's what comes from reading too many novels.

Yes, my students, it is Paris.  But you haven't been there yet.  When you do I think you'll understand that the romance of the trip is not in the company - we are in love with the city itself.