Story and photos by Pete Shaw
October 6, 2025
Dear Dad,
Our numbers have dwindled. We arrived at Paris Gare de Lyon early on Friday afternoon. And then it was time to bid farewell to Howard. He will spend two nights here in Paris before heading Home. He has been a fine traveling companion, and my and Jessica’s time with him unequivocally made for a better trip. He is my good Friend. As he walked away from us toward the station exit, Jessica gave one last goodbye. Waving and smiling, she shouted, “Good luck at your sodomy trial!”
Okay, let’s dispense with a grim if meaningless truth: Luxembourg City is boring. And I suppose that makes sense. It is a city dedicated to banking, which is to say its tax gathering is favorable to the banking industry. According to Luxembourg For Finance, which advertises the Grand Duchy as “a pan European banking center with global reach,” 115 banks from 25 different countries call Luxembourg their corporate home, or at least it is one of their operating bases. A place dedicated to such pursuits is going to be boring by definition, at least by my standards.
But at least four people there are not. We met Marc in 2009 when we were in Brugges, Belgium. I think it was Holy Thursday. He and his Friend Sverker were sitting on a bench in a church courtyard, drinking wine and eating some cheese and meats. In front of them, recessed into a side wall of the church, was a large crucifixion scene with Mary and Mary Magdalene on each side of the cross. The lines from the top of the carving ran straight through Jesus’s hands and along the women, with Marc and Sverker perfectly aligned. A wonderful photo awaiting taking, and I took out my camera. They turned to me and asked if I wanted them to move. I almost yelled, “No!” I told them they were in perfect position, took the photo, and then went over to yammer with them.
They were from Sweden and had clearly been on many adventures together. For a short spell, Marc lived in Manhattan, same street the Marx Brothers grew up on. He found everyone there nice. Except for the Germans, who did not laugh at his jokes. I told them I would send them the photo, and a Friendship was struck. The other day, when Marc picked us up at the train station, I gave him a copy of the Harpo Marx memoir I once gave you and Aunt Dorothy, Harpo Speaks!
I also had with me three mounted photos featuring Marc, his wife Marta, and their newborn son Conrad. We met Marta and Conrad in 2014 when we visited here. Marta was everything Marc had told me, speaking of her the same golden tones I speak of Jessica. Conrad was tiny, and he was clearly Loved. When Marta opened the package, she was excited seeing the photos.
Conrad is no longer tiny, and he now has a sister, Estelle. They are Lovely children, and the clarity of that Love from Marc and Marta remains, doubled. Conrad speaks five or six languages. He is a curious young person, peppering me with questions about the United States, the Republican shutdown of the US government (yeah, again), and so on. On Sunday night I taught him a few things on guitar. Which is to say he is just starting out. It’s great to see.
The new kid on the block is shy. Estelle is also remarkably well-mannered and respectful for her young age: not once within my earshot does she ask Marc or Marta, “Who is that guy?,” or “Where did you find that?,” or “The fuck is wrong with you??!!”
Jessica and I had a bit of Saturday to ourselves. Walking down the street toward the art museum, we saw a sticker on a lamp post reading in Luxembourgian white supremish, Keep Luxembourg White. A stark reminder that white supremacy knows no boundaries. But also, neither does resistance: the sticker is covered with anti-fascist ones.
The art museum was fine. After an espresso, we wandered more, finding ourselves wandering along the Petrussa River. It began raining heavily, and we were without umbrellas. Using the canopy of the many trees whose leaves are changing color, and an occasional quickened pace, we were not drenched when we found shelter on the pedestrian and bike path that is the second and bottom level of the Adolphe-Bréck, the Pont Adolphe, the Adolphe Bridge, and I could give you a few other names had I consulted Conrad. The rain soon let up. We ended up at an expansive outdoor shopping plaza, and Jessica got a croissant.
When we got back to Marc and Marta‘s place, the excitement began. To be fair to the story, Luxembourg City could have been as enticing as Paris or Barcelona or Wherever, and it would have paled in comparison to the thrill of spending time with Friends. What did we eat? Was it the great Indian food? Was it Marc‘s delicious homemade pizza? Does it matter? Not at all. It was truly a reminder, as much of this trip has been, that food is probably the least of the pleasures of the table.
Sunday found all of us walking around the remains of an old castle that guarded some part of the city. It overlooked the Petrussa and afforded great views. We then ate Middle Eastern food outside the nearby modern art museum. Marta lamented that the weather was colder than usual. Jessica and I would be leaving the next day, and Marta said, “It will be nice in Paris. This is all that matters.” I joked something like, “Well, I fell off the roof, broke my leg, and ruptured a testicle. But the weather was nice in Paris.”
Soon we were off to what Marc often refers to as The Enemy, or as the rest of us in the car called it, Germany. We crossed the Moselle River and went to a winery’s restaurant. I had a glass of grape juice and an espresso, utterly content among such fine people that I have the privilege to call my Friends. I began thinking about how lucky I‘ve been in this life to know Good people like these. The thought overwhelmed me and I had to go outside.
When we got back to Marc and Marta‘s, I gave my guitar lesson to Conrad, teaching him a few chords, but hopefully more expressing how much joy playing music has given me in life. We had dinner, and I am smiling as I think of it, as I do when I think of all fine times. One among many; however, each unique.
Later, before they went to bed, Conrad told us he hoped the US government shutdown meant we’d be stuck in town. He then thanked us for coming and hoped we could meet again soon. I told him I would do my best to make it so. Estelle approached Jessica and gave her a card she had made, a pink heart on its front. I turned away as if occupied with something else, and I heard her tell Jessica she hoped to see us again.
We were not in a rush this morning. Our train for Paris left around 14:00. Jessica and I were up early enough to see Conrad and Estelle leave for school. We warmly embraced Marta before she fled. Jessica and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. We passed a large community garden, as well as a swimming center. We also met a beautiful gray cat who for about 15 seconds deigned me worthy of holding her. When we got back, Marc took us to the station. I was sad to see him leave. But I was happy I was there to see it.
When I wrote you from Barcelona, Spain 7 years ago, I wrote about how much I enjoyed establishing relationships while traveling, no matter how short the time spent together. And that maybe one day, if as Hunter S. Thompson put it, the Right gods fall in Love with you, you will have more time together. You will get to know them a little more, see more sides of them. You will share life. Zahia and Marc, Marc and Marta: we proudly call them Friends. And through them, we have new ones: Edoard, Oliver, Conrad, and Estelle.
I know you would have liked them.
Unlike the ride from Paris, which entails a transfer in Metz, this train is non-stop. We‘ll soon be in Gare d‘Est. A couple of quick Metro rides from there, and we‘ll be up in Belleville.
Love,
Peter
