I arrived in Paris for our sabbatical just last week and one of the places on my list to return to tout de suite was the Brasserie Balzar. This famous, left-bank bistrot is one of my favorites– they have a wonderful combination of a warm ambiance, friendly staff and a great location. During our last sabbatical, we visited a handful of times in various forms- my husband and I alone, with children, with friends, etc. and had a lovely dinner each and every time.

Since it had been three years since I had the pleasure of dining with them, I wondered if I would remember any of the staff. As I walked to the front door, I immediately recognized the maitre d’. He is a stout, older gentleman with an unforgettable mustache and a ready smile. In addition, a couple of the waiters (yes, they are all men) were the same. I gave a vague smile as I didn’t want them to think they should remember me and walked to my table.

Shortly after being seated, the maitre d’ walked up to me and said (in French) “It has been awhile, Madame.” I was stunned that he remembered me and then quicly realized that he probably saw my look of nostalgia as I walked in, but I played along nonetheless. I told him it had been three years, in fact, but that I was happy to be back. He next said (again in French), “And how is your husband, the professor?” You could have told me I’d just won the lottery and I would have been no less stunned. How on Earth could he remember me three years after my last visit– even remembering my husband’s occupation? I told him my husband was well and we would return together soon.

Some people say home is a collection of personal objects, others argue that home is wherever you belong, the old sitcom “Cheers” said it was “where everybody knows your name.” I don’t know that anyone here knows my name, and I am certianly lacking in personal belongings, but I am most certainly home.