How to Spoil Yourself on Valentine’s Day

Love the One You’re with—Even If It’s Just You—Says This American, Reporting from Paris on February 14, 2003

By Laurie M. Lesser

Dateline: Paris, 14 February, 9 P.M.

alentine's Day: a Hallmark holiday, a totally American phenomenon, takes over, like Halloween, all around the (Catholic) world. Like Thanksgiving, I decided to spend it alone. Except for the few e-cards—all surprises and all greatly appreciated—it was a day like any other. What a relief not to deal with overbooked restaurants and phony offerings of flowers and good wishes from men to women.

            I remember elementary school, the punch-out Valentine's cards, getting and giving lots of them till they lose any meaning. You'd think I'd learned. But it takes more than good sense to make me think sensibly.

            On the way home from work tonight I decided the house needed some flowers. The second day I moved in I'd bought some wonderful lilies—"Star lilies" they call them at the local florist. They were large and pink and white and not very fragrant but a lovely welcome as you walk in the door. I love fresh flowers. I kill houseplants easily, but fresh flowers, I love them. I'd decided on the way home tonight that I would buy myself some roses, which led to half a bottle of champagne and—but of course—a little foie gras.

            I went to the florists. Long lines of desperate men, buying overpriced roses to placate their ladies on Valentine's Day, that American celebration that has become part of the culture here. I thought I'd find some inexpensive roses for myself; instead, I found overpriced "Valentine's Day bouquets." I was disgusted enough to decide against roses, but I had to have flowers. I looked for orchids; I love them, though they don't have a fragrance. Not seeing any, I selected a bunch of freesia and entered the shop to pay for them, when I spotted the orchids—5 euros the bunch—and immediately changed what I had in my hands.

            Next, I waited on line at the charcuterie, the same one I knew so well 15 years ago, for a little "foie gras heart"—small, affordable, romantic. Just right for one (though made for two).

            Then I went to the wine shop. I'd decided I wanted a half bottle of champagne. Waiting on line, I overheard the owners of the shop joking with a customer. I don't know what had just taken place, but the owner said, "I no longer ask anybody anything," after the last time, he explained, when a regular customer came in with a woman and ordered a very expensive bottle of Cristal Roederer champagne. Two hours later the man came back, this time with his wife, and the wine shop man asked, politely, how Madame had enjoyed the Cristal Roederer. The man turned all shades of purple and green. Welcome to France.

            I said to the couple running the shop, as I chose my champagne—the lowest priced, though still good—"Just half a bottle, as I'm all alone to celebrate Valentine's Day. For the first time, I am celebrating it on my own."

          The woman sweetly said, "It will come," as if this were my first Valentine's Day ever and someday I'll have someone to celebrate it with. I was touched, thinking I must have looked so young. I later realized she would have said that to a 75-year-Old-Maid who'd never had a man to celebrate Valentine’s Day with. I paid for the half bottle of champagne, bought a bottle of average red wine, and put my flowers in the wine bag.

            "You are spoiling yourself," said the man, approvingly eyeing the flowers.

            "Yes! Absolutely," I replied with a touch of defiance. I felt like Julie Andrews in “The Sound of Music.”

            As I left the shop, the man called out, "And continue to spoil yourself."

            It made me feel good, hopeful. At the same time I felt like crying. On the one hand, how sad to buy flowers, champagne, and nice food and look forward to an evening spent with me, myself and I. But, on the other hand, what could be better? No disappointments, no expected behaviors. Just me, myself, and I. And all three of us like it that way.

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Laurie M. Lesser is a freelance writer and editor who recently relocated from Paris to Washington, D.C.
 

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