The Meaning of Parisian Socks
The other day as I took off my socks, I realized that it must be nearing the time for our almost yearly trip to Paris—my black Achilles yellow, brown and tan socks were wearing thin. Luckily, the problematic areas were situated low and near the heel and were hidden from public view. But it was a sure sign we were due to pay a visit to Bon Marché where I buy my favorite chaussettes.
The habit started ten years ago when my wife discovered the men’s sock department of Bon Marché; we bought ten pairs of the most unusual socks we had ever seen. Floral patterns, red keys on a black background, a fish dangling from a line, cartoonish characters giving thumbs up, stripes and polka dots, etc.
There is a certain tension of expectation in our house when we have less than three months before a French vacation. To ease the situation, we sometimes live vicariously.
For example, our neighbors are planning a sabbatical year in Paris and we are helping them with the details: getting their three children into school, finding an apartment to rent, and generally talking up the whole year to them as if we were doing it instead.
Shandy, a twenty-something friend at the Two Creek Coffee shop down the street, announced that she was planning to save enough money to go to the Paris Zen Center in the fall. I, of course, became very chatty and waxed rapturous about what Paris would be like for someone forty years younger than I. Right after college I visited Paris for the first time in my life, but unfortunately I cannot recall any of it: I must have been too young to have had it sink into my consciousness.
I lent Shandy and her friend a copy of Wandering Paris by my friend Jill Butler to whet their appetites. Jill’s artwork and suggestions are titillating, even for the seasoned traveler.
Finally, a month ago one of my regular Sunday tennis buddies (we have been playing a regular game for over twenty years) went to Paris and Normandy with his wife and son. I clued him into some of my favorite haunts before he left. His only comment, upon returning, was a short email: “You didn’t tell me about the women.” There always have to be some surprises, I thought.
As I examined my worn socks I decided to see if it was at all possible to purchase them in the United States, although that would have been a disappointment considering the guilty pleasure of buying them in Paris and telling people who comment on their uniqueness, “Yes, I buy them in Paris.” A snooty response perhaps, but it adds un air de la mystérieuse to the situation. When I Googled “Achille,” I discovered a quote from a recent interview with Dustin Hoffman in A and U, an AIDS magazine. When asked what was his most cherished possession was, he replied:
”My lucky socks. They’re one of my cherished possessions. I have different pairs, some have question marks, and some have nutty faces. They’re funny. I found them in Paris, and they are my Achille’s socks. If I need good luck, or fly in an airplane, I wear my lucky socks.”
Copyright © Louis Borgenicht
