Free Best Laid Plans by Elaine Raco Chase

against the white iron
chair, suddenly surrounded by fond memories of another place. Another time.
    Even though the French Quarter was
dappled in sunlight and fragrant with flowers, it lacked the intimacy of Paris
in winter. Strolling, chattering tourists couldn't compare with the anxious,
effervescent students from the Sorbonne who filled the small cafes.
While New Orleans had become a citadel for artists and sculptors, it lacked the
ghosts of the old masters that haunted the crooked alleys of Montmartre .
    Wrapped in the blue mystery of dusk,
she had walked those narrow, winding streets that had inspired Renoir , Toulouse-Lautrec , Utrillo and Picasso . The Place du Tertre looked much like
Jackson Square, filled with outdoor bistros and trees, tourists and aspiring
artists amid an ever-blooming garden of easels.
    A gentle breeze sent Amanda's napkin
skittering along the red-checked tablecloth. She rescued the napkin, trapping
the white paper beneath her coffee cup and remembered a day long ago that
started the same way. It had been November and the raw wind made her drink
first the apple brandy that came with her coffee; she had borrowed a Gauloise cigarette to light for warmth.
    She had been very Bohemian eight
years ago, very worldly, very much the artist. A student at the Chambre
Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne . Amanda stayed for eight months, October
to June, to train as a minor couturière in the haute couture system.
    Train? Labor! By nine every morning,
she and eighty other students, of varying nationalities, would squeeze onto
small stools behind even smaller tables to toil until five with only a brief
break for lunch. No talking was permitted during the work time. Mme. Gervaise
would teach and order, walking through and ripping apart days of effort with a
short, "Non! Like this!"
    A single light bulb illuminated their
cramped work areas. Pressing was done with flat irons heated by gas plates that
Amanda had remembered seeing in the Smithsonian. The ironing board was a piece
of wood on two saw horses, yet muslin patterns were always perfectly pressed.
    A lot of hard work had brought her to
that cramped space. She had labored mightily to attain her goal: Student
Designer of the Year at the Fashion Institute of Technology. It had enabled her
to go to Paris, learning from the best. She had loved it. She had cursed it.
She had been happy. She had been sad. But she had never been bored.
    The students had formed a solidarity
group, living in a dorm, touring the city, claiming L'ècole Cafe in
Montmartre as their own. The outdoor bistro became their country; the students
were its citizens. Amanda literally owned a wicker chair at the corner table,
watching an endless parade of beautiful people who entertained with their
dress.
    She loved to stroll along the Place
Vendôme , home of the most expensive shops on earth. She was smiled and nodded
to in Nina Ricci and possessed a Hermès silk scarf. Yet on that distant
November day all the breathless excitement and passion that was Paris had been
forgotten, replaced with depression and despair.
    In the States it was Thanksgiving.
Amanda knew her parents' house would be filled with laughing relatives and
friends. She could envision the golden-brown turkey stuffed with oyster
dressing that would be centered on her mother's holiday lace tablecloth.
Ruby-red cranberries would shimmer in their used-once-a-year crystal dish,
nutmeg and cinnamon would rival all the other tempting aromas, making stomachs
anxious for pumpkin and mince pies.
    While there was no Thanksgiving in
France, Paris was celebrating the Feast of St. Catherine, the patron saint of
seamstresses and young girls. The Chambre was closed, and all couturiers
enjoyed the holiday. Girls roamed the streets wearing their special green and
yellow caps to signify their unmarried state.
    If there was one city in all the
world that was not meant to be viewed alone, it was Paris. Affectionate young
couples strolled through