They call it the City of Light.
Whether you subscribe to the theory that it was named so because it
was the epicenter of learning during the Age of Enlightenment, or
because it filled the night sky with light, is immaterial. Both have
meaning; both tell us something about the character of this place.
For me, there is another meaning of “light” for this wondrous
place: it has a levity to it, a lightness of being, a certain
buoyancy to it. I'm sure there is a certain amount of self-induced
imagery playing with me here, but it is hard to deny the beauty, the
elegance, the energy, and the gaiety of Paris. It is hard to know
where to begin.
Paris is Sundays at the Jardin du
Luxembourg where the feast for your eyes includes glimpses of a
variety of exercise classes like tai chi or kick boxing, people
picnicking on the grass, impossibly cute kids using long sticks to
push their sailboats around the central man made pond. Or, folks
just settling back in the many chairs and benches that dot the scene
taking in the sun after a long, chilly winter.
Paris is the hot chocolate at Angelina.
To be fair, it is almost an insult to call it that because the label
of hot chocolate conjures up images all of which are woefully
inadequate to describe what it is that is served there. It is far
better to think of it as molten chocolate – a rich, thick, hot,
sweet, aromatic concoction that explodes with chocolateness as you
let it swirl in your mouth now replete with a dollop of fresh whipped
cream. They call it Le Chocolat Chaud d'Africain. I call it heaven.
Paris is Rue Mouffetarde, or, as some
smilingly call it, The Mouff. It is a street that dates back to
Roman times as the beginnings of the pathway back to Rome from
Lutecia, as Paris was called then. It is a narrow street that wends
its way down a gentle slope from La Place de la Contrescarpe to the
Square Saint Medard at the bottom. In between is a narrow street
often blocked off to car traffic that is lined with open markets,
cafes and small shops. On weekends, it must appear from a height as
we view an ant colony: a narrow path ablaze with chaotic pedestrian
traffic that darts from market to market, shopping bags overflowing
with baguettes, cheese, produce and wine. It was also the location
of the apartment we rented, a small but amazingly charming place in a
400 year old building overlooking the Mouff. A pied a terre in the
truest sense of that phrase.
Paris is Saint Sulpice, the city's
second largest church where on Sundays one is treated to an organ
recital that fills the chambers of that edifice with music so full
and so rich it seems to take on its own shape, its own visceral
identity. Close your eyes and swim in it.
Paris is fashion. The women in their
tight jeans, tall boots, Hollywood-esque sunglasses, and scarves
perfectly looped and knotted. And the men? Tight jeans, pointed
shoes, Hollywood-esque sunglasses and scarves perfectly looped and
knotted. I'm telling you, if you're looking for a wise investment,
think scarf industry. Don't say I didn't tell you.
Paris is where Lily's heart lies.
Paris is the Ile de la
Cite and Ile St. Louis, the beating heart of this city. It is where
it all began here more than 2,000 years ago. One is dominated by
Notre Dame, allegedly visited by more than 14 million persons each
year. It is grand; it is imposing; and it has a
wonderful park behind it where one can pass the time reading, people
watching, listening to street musicians, or just leaning back and
taking in the periodic chimes from the towers. The other is a far
quieter universe marked by narrow streets, beautiful residences,
epically good ice cream, and one of our favorite restaurants, La
Reine Blanche.
Paris is, of course, the
Eiffel Tower. As touristy a spot as it is, it is nevertheless as awe
inspiring now up close as it was when first erected a hundred and
twenty-five years ago. It stretches up over a thousand feet and,
with the vast clearances around it, it stands alone eagerly accepting
its role as an icon of the city. As we dined at a nearby bistro, we
were entertained by the tower as it came to life with thousands of
blinking lights that seemed to fill the night sky with a silent
fireworks display. The blinkies, as our friend Wayne calls it.
Paris is baguettes,
croissants, cheese, wine, creme brulee, mussels, croque monsieur,
salmon terrines, truffles, falafel, escargot, onion soup, steak
tartare, cassoulet, crepes, and soufflés.
Paris is Blue Bike
Tours, which, as the name implies, takes you around the city on two
wheels. Having started riding a bike barely five weeks earlier, I
embraced (potentially foolishly) the chance to take on the craziness
of this city when my only prior experience was on the deserted
streets of the Isle of Palms. It was as if I subliminally thought
that when you're on vacation, nothing counts – not the calories,
nor the possibility of getting steamrolled by a Citroen at a
particularly busy intersection. But, on we went on a four hour
journey through the Latin Quarter, Le Marais and delightful points in
between. All seen before, but never quite this way. As luck would
have it (and I can't emphasize that enough), my ride was mostly
error-free, crashing only once. In between, however, it was hard to
avoid the conclusion that Parisian motorists and pedestrians alike
have a very firm
grip on who has the right of way, and it was almost never me.
Paris is the Place
des Vosges, as elegant and picturesque a town square as ever was. As
you scan the early 15th
century architecture, once home to Victor Hugo and Cardinal
Richelieu, it is impossible not to want to stop and just gaze. Maybe
sit on the grass nibbling on your falafel letting it all seep in.
Slowly.
In Woody Allen's
"Midnight in Paris," the Owen Wilson character, Gil,
says it all.....
You know, I
sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a
painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great
city. You can’t. Because you look around and every street, every
boulevard, is its own special art form and when you think that in the
cold, violent, meaningless universe that Paris exists, these lights.
I mean come on, there’s nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune,
but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés,
people drinking and singing. For all we know, Paris is the hottest
spot in the universe.
Well said, Gil. Well said.
