Paris has a funny way about her and yes, I’m sure she’s a her. She’s all the things a her can be: beautiful, moody, complex, dynamic, essential, turbulent, pensive, fashionable, delicious and vivacious.
I’ve been meandering through her alleys, eating her crepes and sipping her coffee every December for years now. I’ve never shied away from her nor have I ever rejected her….she has that way about her of pulling you in like gravity, the force of which is so powerful you find yourself agreeing with her even if she toys with your patience from time-to-time.
This year, as I thought about her brittle wet days and nights, as she is every December, I realized I was hesitant to go. She wasn’t egging me on and part of me feared: Am I done with Paris? Is she done with me? I contemplated the thought but only briefly as I realized my dismissal of her was only because I was so preoccupied with the year 2012 and seeing it come to an end.
Far too many heady reflective messages this year…the ones that call you to challenge things you once believed were crystal clear only to discover they were muddier and murkier than a pond on Detroit’s south side during a lightening storm.
It’s not as if I needed a ‘soulful’ place to visit…not that Paris doesn’t have its fair share of soul. More than a soulful city however, Paris is an invigorating one, one which re-ignites lost creativity and inspires the artist within. Who doesn’t need a creative light and inspiration regardless of what stage in life they’re in I thought? And yet, I reflected on one insightful early December night before I boarded the plane, I want silence, not noise, warm balmy nights, not icy windy ones, clear blue skies that hurt my eyes from their brightness, not gray cloudy ones, and warm brothy soups, not sizzling duck with a glass of Bordeaux.
But then I remembered all the drizzly rainy cold days and nights with Paris below my feet and how many of them I spent with her alone. Ahhh yes, Paris alone. Most people don’t think about her that way – they head there when they want to propose to a loved one, take in a romantic weekend away, surprise someone with an anniversary present, or simply to experience the allure of her magnificence, the allure Hemingway and other greats have written novels about since anyone could.
Alone is when Paris really shines, I thought to myself and I’ve more often had her to myself than not, so why would this year be any different? She’ll surprise me in a different way like she always does, I told myself. It will rain since she’s rarely given me sunshine and I will hover under some broken umbrella on a corner somewhere savoring a piece of dark chocolate that was beautifully wrapped in 3 colored foil with a golden blue ribbon.
I knew the shop, the many shops I could go to for such a delight and marvel in its decadence the moment I stepped back out onto the wet pavement. I knew Paris would be good for that or for a plate of mussels near Saint Germain des Pres. Or for her lights. Her beauty. Her mystery. Her endless cafes where you could sit for hours over a dark roasted coffee in a cup the size of a thumb nail or one large enough to be a soup cup.
I wondered about the latest boot and shoe fashion and what St. Paul’s window displays would bring me, or the beer I’d have with a journalist friend who always insists on meeting near the Republique and I always say yes even though I’d take grapes over hops any day. I considered a couple business colleagues who would roll their eyes when I pleaded for old world charm when they simply wanted to take in a modern brasserie or cafe. Then, there is my friend who has lived there for nearly thirty years, who remains as enthusiastic and endearing about life itself as he was when I first met him on that Eastern African island where we were stuck for weeks because there was no boat, rig or plane that could bring us back to the mainland.
I remembered one year where I had more time than most and walked ten miles of her wet cold streets every day for two weeks. At the end of each day after I had killed two or three of those $5 umbrellas because the wind blew them apart, I’d trek back to the apartment where I was staying, which had an unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower from its kitchen. Every night, the Tower was magnificent and looked like it was close enough to touch from my balcony, the vibrancy of its lights rightfully overpowering anything else near it. Waiting for me was either a graceful or complex Bordeaux (I never knew which one I’d get) and some dark chocolate.
On the way, I’d stop at a corner near La Motte Picquet Grenelle’s metro station and order a crepe with ham and mushrooms and because I was there so often, I didn’t have to explain daily why I didn’t want cheese, something that confuses anyone who lives in Paris, French or not. I wondered if the same man was there, the same man who’d smile every time I ordered the same thing night after night.
“Poivre?” he asked the first time. “Beaucoup, beaucoup,” I responded. As he was about to fold the crepe from the piping hot skillet and scoop into a paper plate, I stopped him and said, “plus de poivre s’il vous plait.” He looked at me in disbelief as if to say that any more pepper atop his perfectly crafted crepe would destroy the flavors inside. Perhaps he thought, “damn yank, she doesn’t have a clue,” on that one cold December night, the first time I bought a crepe from him. Over time, the smiles increased and he even helped me navigate a very long walking route one day on my crumpled damp paper map and although he kept reinforcing that it was too far to walk and why wouldn’t I take the metro, he gave me advice anyway. And, we never had to talk about “poivre” again for he sprinkled the perfect amount on my ham and mushroom crepe with no cheese every day until I left.
Why was I fighting her I thought? Reflection time aside, doesn’t Paris always take me in whether I am in a state of chaos, glory, beauty or solitude? Doesn’t she always give back even if there are some cuts and bruises along the way? You know, the side that many foreigners complain about. The French “attitude,” they receive because they aren’t sophisticated enough, cultured enough, educated enough, polished enough, fashionable enough, French enough or French at all.
We’ve all been there and yet, a variation of it exists in many cultures, albeit more common in cosmopolitan cities. Yet, with the exception of Buenos Aires and Tokyo, I’ve been to all the other major cities around the world and truth be told, Paris does have more attitude. It’s France’s New York, posing the same directness and attitude but with more charm unless of course if you happen to be British or American.
New Yorkers feel the same way about their city, as if there is no other city greater in the world and why would you go anywhere else, even for a weekend for crying out loud?
I was no longer worried about why I brushed Paris aside this year. Once my flight was booked, the hesitation went away and even after looking at the 70% rain weather report, I moved forward packing warm socks, waterproof boots, mittens, hats and scarves and one of those many mini $5 umbrellas I was due to destroy in the coming days ahead. I wondered as I thought about the cloudy gray skies that would meet my gaze when I landed at Charles De Gaulle, what she had in store for me at the end of this very long year.