Alone in Paris

Eight years ago, my husband sat across from me at a table covered with white linen and cascading orchids. He wore a suit, and I wore a little black dress on the first night of our honeymoon.

Lasserre, in the Champs-Élysées quarter, was like nothing I had ever experienced growing up in Brooklyn.

I was in absolute awe.

All the delicious and expensive food—macaroni filled with truffles, foie gras, beef filet, souffléd potatoes, and a selection of fine cheeses—all delivered by a staff of tall, impeccably dressed waiters. It appeared to be perfection.

But it wasn’t.

From the outside looking in, we appeared to be two newlyweds in love, having a romantic dinner in a magical place. But something was missing, and it didn't feel right.

My husband and I ate, course after course. The room felt quiet except for a few whispers from other tables. We stared at the breathtaking baroque-style décor, without saying much to one another during dinner. Our eyes never locked as we sat beneath an open ceiling that revealed a glittering autumn sky. I loved him, but I hadn't felt that we were in love or that I was the person he wanted to be there with. There was no spark or excitement when there should have been. I knew he had to feel it too.

But I didn't know how to fix it.

I knew our honeymoon wasn’t the time to have these conversations. It would have to wait until we returned home—to our Brooklyn apartment near the shore. I wondered what things would be like when we got back. If Paris couldn’t bring us closer together, I wasn’t sure anything could.

As we returned to our hotel room each night, I wished it would be different—that he would want to hold my hand or hold me. We stayed in a beautiful Parisian room adorned with roses and blue velvet curtains for ten days. And he slept beside me the whole time, devoid of any desire.

Our last day in Paris, we walked to the Ponts des Arts to attach our “love lock” to the bridge. In black marker, I wrote our initials and wedding date on a gold padlock. We found a small opening in a cluster of hearts and hopeful messages about love. I closed the lock, and we walked away, still hoping for the best.

Not long after returning to Brooklyn, we started sleeping in separate rooms. We tried to save our relationship, but nothing seemed to work. It seemed the more we tried, the farther the ever-widening river between us grew. I realized even the most romantic city in the world couldn’t give us what we lacked in our marriage—passion.

Weeks later, I read an article that reported some of the locks on the Ponts des Arts bridge were removed. The weight of them had been more than it could withstand. Part of the bridge collapsed over the Seine River, and so did our marriage.

I had given it my all and I decided to leave after a few years.

One evening in December, I moved out. Arriving at my new place, I felt tired and afraid but also a sense of relief. The moon tinted the row of garden apartments a shiny silver blue. Strings of warm, white Christmas lights swayed in the wind. The lights illuminated the long path before me, letting me know I was finally home.