I miss Paris Métro. I miss our futile attempts to read the Métro map. I miss Parisians' effortlessly chic outfits and modernistic ads that oddly harmonize with dim, historic stations. I miss taking photos of approaching trains. I miss the feel of déjà vu in old, metallic trains. I miss the amicable chuckles as we mispronounced the stations. I miss the days when my biggest troubles were figuring out where, when and what to explore at Paris. I miss myself.
As Inge buries her husband Olaf on their Minnesota farm in 1968, we relive her life story as she tells her grown grandson about how she arrived from Norway in 1920 as Olaf's postal bride and of the epic obstacles they overcame in order to marry