Buttery flakes of flour flew everywhere as I bit into the croissant. They dusted the tabletop beneath me and coated the inside of my mouth as I savored my first bite of the pastry.
In an instant, I was back in Paris, at the café just around the corner from our hotel where we would take a few moments to enjoy a café au lait and croissant before heading out for a day of sightseeing.
I could almost see the people in their fine, French fashion walking past us on the narrow, cobblestone street, some of them riding their bike in the French summer weather that was warm, but not oppressively hot the way our Midwest summers tend to be.
I saw the old, stone buildings that rose up around us, towering monuments to a history stretching back longer than we could even imagine. I could picture the face of the waitress who served us each morning, smiling patiently as she corrected our French.
The new bakery we were trying hadn’t been lying when it said its croissants were authentic, but I hadn’t been expecting the resemblance to be powerful enough to convince me I was back there, even if it was just for a split second.
I set the remainder of my pastry back on the table as I chewed slowly, savoring every bite. I stared down at it, refusing for a moment to even look up, to acknowledge the fact that I was not actually back in Paris, but here in the American Midwest, with its skyscrapers consisting of only glass and metal.
I drag the moment out as long as I can, but in the end, I’m forced to admit the necessity of the reality around me. I look up and allow myself to see the mundane world that surrounds me now, but as I do, I take another bite of my croissant, and with that bite, part of me remains anchored in gay old Paris.
The end.