November 13th, 2015 - Dianne Killebrew

Paris beckoned. Savor the wine of life’s cup, taste France's subtleties. I marched forward.

I booked a room at a small, two-star motel on a narrow, one-way side street near Canal Saint-Denis. The staff spoke English. I contacted a philosophical organization about their event schedule. A tingling sensation crawled up my spine. Was this kundalini, the spiritual energy at the base of the spine? Was this decision fueling the fire, moving upward toward my head? No, it was confidence surging like a volcanic spew—etching my experience into obsidian rock. 

Fear agitated my stomach like a butter churn as the plane moved; the silhouetted left wing on the ground overwhelmed me. I couldn’t turn back. How crazy was I? I didn’t speak French. We lifted…

My first solo trip: I flew to London and took the Eurostar to Paris. Gare du Nord is notorious for pickpockets. I hid my valuables and passport in a pouch inside my bra. A captivating man approached me — tall, with black curly hair and dark eyes, speaking perfect English — no accent. His friendly tone made me feel at ease as he looked me over. I floated to the cab, thinking about my attractiveness. Oops! He could be a pickpocket! I climbed into the cab; the bulkiness in my bra signaled my valuables were safe.

The clean, double-bed hotel room featured a French window but no balcony. It overlooked the small one-way street running down the middle of the hill from the canal with shops. Arriving Thursday evening gave me time to study the MapQuest walking directions; it would take two hours to walk if I didn’t get lost. The scheduled meeting was at 7:30 PM on Friday.

I started my journey early. The French street signs and their absence overwhelmed me. I fought back tears and kept going. As I left the neighborhood, a terrorist attack was unfolding. 

I arrived at 7:00 PM and attended a meeting with over sixty people. I didn’t understand a word. After the meeting, an English-speaking man offered to call me a cab. He stepped away to speak with the cab company. He returned, speaking calmly in French; everyone listened intently like pointed bird dogs.

“No cabs are running. I’ll take you. I'll go get the car," he stated without explanation.

Gratitude was an understatement; the situation remained a mystery in progress.

He drove to the building entrance, picked me up, and calmly and reassuringly explained en route to the hotel that Paris was under a terrorist attack. The Bataclan Theatre was under siege. His demeanor comforted me. But then he froze, hearing the name of my motel. What I didn’t understand then, but realize now, is that he was willing to drive into an active terrorist attack to get me there. I was utterly dependent on a kind stranger whose language I couldn’t speak.

The police lights and sirens echoed everywhere. Road closures formed a complex, intimidating maze. Silence—no chit-chat—as he navigated the dark, narrow streets.

“This is as close as I can get to the hotel. Do you want me to walk you to the door?”

My hotel was halfway up the hill, and we were at the end of the one-way street — with an unwelcoming police barricade at the top.

“No, I can walk. Thanks for the ride. Stay safe.”  

I crept like a robot with an impenetrable force field around me. It took forever to reach the entrance.

I pulled on the hotel door — locked! Fear seized me; panicked, I  pounded on the door. The desk clerk let me in. Glancing back, I saw the man had been waiting, standing outside his car. We waved as I entered the hotel, praying for his safety.

In my room, I kept thinking about home. How often have Ι lain beneath rain on a strange roof thinking of home. Faulkner’s quote resonated a new understanding, reaching an inner depth propelled by fear. Fear is easier to manage at home. I sat in a dark room, avoiding attention from the outside.   

I stayed dressed, lying in bed, afraid to move. It gave me a false sense of being in control; I was ready to run or evacuate at a moment's notice. Sirens wailed, and red lights danced across my dark room. Morning came; the front desk announced no cabs, transit, or flights were available. I sat on my bed, wondering how I would get home, watching television news I couldn’t understand.

My intuition told me it was time to leave. I jumped up, grabbed my belongings, and took the elevator. The desk clerk called a cab.

The eerie, deserted streets looked haunting. A once-bustling city was now silent, with windows shut. No one was on the streets. The creepiness continued at the airport as I found myself surrounded by emptiness after clearing immigration. Security whispered, “Run!” I rushed to my gate, dragging my suitcase behind me. The concourse was empty—no people, no planes. I sat at the entrance, certain I had missed my flight.

An aircraft entered the gate, with Detroit, Michigan, announced. I boarded.

“We won’t leave with vacant seats.” The intercom echoed as I viewed an empty plane. We waited over two hours at the gate. I didn’t mind; I was on my way home. 

The Bataclan Theatre attack killed ninety people and wounded hundreds, less than a mile and a half from our meeting spot. The plot was planned near my hotel with café shootings nearby.

The terrorist attack brought me closer to the organization members. I returned in February 2016, which strengthened our bond. It runs deep—unexplainable. The group aims for spiritual growth. We experienced unity during the attack, which heightened our inner awareness. This connection still exists today. My gratitude runs deep for the group; they made sure every attendee arrived home safely, including me.  

Looking back after ten years, it feels like yesterday. We all make decisions that shape our destiny, sometimes together as we walk through life.

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Dianne Killebrew is pursuing her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University. After raising her son as a single parent and retiring as a caseworker, she has an interest in discovering how Individuals pursue their personal quest to find their own meaning in life.