Ward - Mac in the city of light militia casualties of the War of 1812

Its summer in Paris. You cant wear only sneakers! My mom pleadingly held up a pair of lemon-coloured sandals for inspection as my dad peered into a stack of guidebooks.

Its a school walking tour, Mom, not tea at the Ritz ... and besides, my ankles still a bit swollen. I instantly regretted reminding her of last weeks incident, when Id tied some sheets together and parachuted off their bedroom balcony.

Did you realize that the Erik Satie museum in Paris, celebrating the famous twentieth-century composer, is the smallest in the world? My dad hummed an obscure melody, bouncing his head lightly from side to side. Oh, but its by appointment only.

I feigned disappointment as my mom launched a chiffon offensive. And this picks up your eyes beautifully, she said, wrapping something caramel-coloured and more than a little itchy around my neck. How I envy you, sipping a coupe of champagne ... or rather, a Shirley Temple at the Caf de Flore in the very heart of the artistic milieu on Boulevard St. Germain. At this she became a little dreamy, and I saw my chance to tuck the sandals back in the closet with the scarf and floral frocks.

Hey sweetie, did you know that they still leave roses daily on the grave of the little sparrow, Edith Piaf, at the Pre Lachaise cemetery? He sang her famous song, La Vie en Rose, in a fluty falsetto as he waltzed my mom around the bedroom.

While they were distracted, I put seven of every item of clothing Id need in my backpack, along with my copy of Victor Hugos Notre Dame de Paris , number one on our summer reading list, and snapped it shut. Okay. Done.

Dont forget this. My dad handed me the letter from his old friend and former bandmate, Rudee Daroo. It takes some time to catch on to Rudee-speak, but hell give you a great cab drivers view of Paris. Rudee, a classically trained organist, had toured with my dads band one summer way back before they had computers. My mom loves the scrapbook, which features pictures of my dad with a ponytail and a mushroom-embroidered vest. Rudee was the resident clown who had supposedly once played a keyboard solo with his nose and with his feet in the air. Other tales of his love for pickled herring juice and beets always seem to bring choruses of laughter, but I guess thats just adult humour. The letter looked like someone had served dinner on it.

Hey Mr. Bigsport,

Good to hear from you after so many spin cycles. How are you and the pretty missus? So you are air mailing the little Mac to Paris to smell some buildings. Good I understand architexture you know.

Me Im fine. No, Im not. Ive got a problem and I dont know what it is. Its Sashay. She says her gig at the Moulin DOr is in danger and its the only place she can dance and that when this one ends shes going to do one last twirl and disappear. And there is something strange about the city but Im not going to tell you because no one believes me and you already think Im mad as a dormitory.

Nevermind. Send the sprout to the Pont Neuf when I go on my brakes at 4. Jerome the bookseller will find me.

Yours for days, Rudee

My mom watched with trembling lips as we got in the car to pick up my friend Penelope on the way to the airport. I was glad that Mom was off to Twigs and Roots, her annual yoga retreat in the hills near Santa Barbara. Mellow is good for moms.

My dad called from the drivers seat, Okay, lets go, Mac, or as they say in France, allez-oop !

The Mac is short for Mackenzie. My mom is a teacher and my dad is a songwriter, and we live in California in Upper Mandeville, which tells you that theres a Lower Mandeville. Both towns are made up of wood-and-brick houses that run the length of a very green canyon, not far from the ocean. Sycamore trees surround our house. The teetering redwood fence has ruby-coloured bougainvillea climbing over it, and my mom has planted roses and calla lilies all around the property. There are lots of creatures that share the place with us hummingbirds, lizards, dragonflies, deer, the odd skunk, and even the occasional bobcat.

I like Upper Mandeville. Its a little quieter, not as ritzy as Lower Mandeville, where my friend Penelope lives. The trees meet over the road, and its easier to get lost, which I like to do whenever I can, and it has more butterflies.

When we passed through the gates and pulled up in front of Penelopes house, she rolled out her matching set of pink Louis Vuitton luggage in top international girly-girl form, lowered her giant sunglasses and flicked a tiny wave in the direction of her parents. Au revoir, maman, papa ... Paris awaits. Inside the car, she snapped her first of a million photos, me cross-eyed, pretending to read Victor Hugo upside down.