I've noticed, for
the most part, Parisians are detached, unsmiling and relatively
efficient. I was at the Post Office this morning, wondering how the
hell to mail a big item in a small envelope, the most for the least,
which is my personal motto, and the two young men who helped me were
amiable and never even weighed the package, which was way overstuffed
with expensive and luxurious Christmas gifts for my family.
I now
dig the way the French respond negatively to everything. The first
answer, to every question, is “No.” That's cool. I was once a
civil servant and I understand that the culture of “Yes” usually
leads to more work. But once you break through the “No” barrier
clerks and shop keepers are helpful. I do this by either acting
completely stupid (not impossible), aggressive (easier), or friendly
(a new and effective solution).
I have
coffee several times a week at a boulangerie on rue St. Antoine. Nice
place, crowded and overheated, like much of the city, and the biggest
goddamn croissants on earth. As big as my foot, but tastier. I enter,
find a table, and the same young waiter asks for my order. After six
weeks he began to interact, ask a few impersonal questions, toss off
a joke. I figure, six weeks, that's a good time-frame. Now, most of
his co-workers are pleasant, treat us like regulars and look us in
the eye during short conversations. However, the cashier is a young
woman, average to pretty in appearance, fashionable with black hair
and fake-tanned red/orange skin, and she is completely self involved
and dismissive and has never even been slightly affable. Huge
croissants, though.
Young
people are loud, silly, attention-seeking and don't consider anyone
over 40 of any importance whatsoever; old people talk to themselves,
a lot, and clog up the line at the grocery store while middle-aged
men and women watch each other with urban suspicion and distrust.
At
lunch yesterday on Rue de Turenne, our waitress asked us where we
were from. We answered and she engaged and by the time we were
finished with our meal, two hours later, we were exchanging Facebook
info. I've done this before and I usually expect to have my bank
account drained by Corsican cyber-pirates, but, so far, no one has
asked me to sponsor their families for immigration or buy Amway
products or save the Nigerian royal prince. I think they look at my
Facebook page and decide not to pursue the relationship.
I'm
pretty comfortable with that.
The
weather. Today it's chilly and cloudy with a light rain. There was a
little snow last week but I've only opened my umbrella about a dozen
times in the past two months. I enjoy the cold and the dark, so the
weather isn't much of a problem and I've learned to appreciate rain.
There are less people out when it rains, so walking around the city
is easier, not as much contact on the street and when the lights
reflect off of the pavement at night it looks mysterious and appealing;
it could be anytime in the city's distant past.
Additionally,
if it wasn’t for the rain, there would be no puddles for people to
dip their shoes into and wash off the dog doo. It's a real urban
challenge and test of agility, striding down the pavement, making
sure to look up at the oncoming crowd, ahead to my destination, and
down, to avoid the large amounts of excrement. A couple times a day I
watch as a fashion plate shouts, “Oh, la la,” (which they do),
and then sidles over to the nearest gutter and dips her overpriced
shoes into the rainwater, soaking off the inescapable dogcrap. The
great equalizer. The circle of life. Hakuna Scatata
Dog
owners are encouraged to clean up after their pets, but they don't.
The droppings remain where they are deposited until an unaware
pedestrian strides through. When I walk along the Rue de Rivoli, I
see the stamp of a Gucci in the excrement and then, treading
carefully, I notice the smudge becomes smaller and smaller as it
disappears up the street. Sad that he never knew. Embarrassing and I
hope I don't sit next to him at lunch.
More
people equal more dogs equal more merde. It's one of the universal truths of existence, like the overcrowded metro, and it's a good argument
for birth control, both canine and human.
So, why do I keep coming back to Paris? I was in a
pharmacy last week, buying some much needed aspirin with codeine,
(honestly, believe me, undetectable, no buzz, simple pain relief for
a forty-year-old back injury, maybe a slight nodding, early to bed,
but no bad behavior, or spilled drinks), and the helpful pharmacist
asked why I was in Paris and not another big city.
I told her that, for me, Paris was a large package;
history, culture, literature, art. The fact is I can't exactly
pinpoint why I love it here. I could be in Rome or London, but Paris
has an important history: monarchy, revolution, empire, republic,
world wars, student rebellion. The desire to understand the world in
relation to history and politics continues, too.
There
is a show at Musée
d'Art Moderne de
la Ville de
Paris at the Palais de Tokyo called “L'Art en Guerre”. It covers
the art and artists of Paris before, during and after WWII and shows,
through the art that was produced at the time, how the world changed.
There are drawings and paintings from the concentration camps which
are sad, alarming and, sometimes, beautiful. I wasn't that interested
at first. As an American, born after the war, I am distant from it.
America won, right? Too simple. Most of the whole goddamned World was
involved and a lot of people, while they appreciated the peace
accord, can never say they “won”. I was amazed by the painting,
the cruelty and horror. The show impressed me deeply and I've begun
reading about the war from the European point of view, which tells
different stories than the ones we learned in school.
Where else is there this much art? Impressionists,
Renaissance geniuses,abstract art, mindblowing landscapes, still
lifes and graffiti are everywhere. Wandering around the Louvre
yesterday I eventually came across the paintings of Camille Corot, a
painter about whom I know little. He is a link between neoclassicism
and the impressionists and as I looked at his landscapes I felt like
I was going to cry. Man, that is a very strange feeling for me, to
want to weep when in the presence of beauty; to feel like weeping for
any reason. It's one of the definitions of an aesthetic experience;
people have been known to pass out or have seizures when overtaken by
extreme sensual stimulation. Part of my reaction was that of an
appreciative observer, of course, but I was also drawn into the
pictorial representation of what I would like in my own life;
serenity, purity, calm, nature, quiet, solitude. And I also realized
that I already have that, if I want it, if I recognize it. So, my
repressed tears were for beauty, desire and gratitude, which is a
complicated cycle of feeling and something that I appreciate and
haven't really experienced until I started traveling to Paris.
The
French writers of the Nineteenth century own the epic historical
novel. If I had not read Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, Emile Zola I
would have missed some of the greatest reading experiences of my
life. The 20th
century giants, Jean-Paul Sartre,Claude Simon, Albert Camus, Simone
de Beauvoir, Alain Robbe-Grillet, are stylists and scholars who have
changed the way I write, read and think. My life is better and I am
happier since I've been introduced to these authors and I don't
believe I would have taken the chance to read them if I hadn't spent
lots of time in the environment that has inspired discontent with the
status quo, extraordinary stylistic experimentation, and the
establishment of absurdity as an acceptable adaptation to the modern
world.
Oh yeah, and cheese. There is nothing like ripe
Camembert. I don't think I'd ever experienced it until I came to
Paris for the first time. I can tell when I'm within 30 feet of a
decent round of real Camembert. It has the aromatic decay chain of
Uranium-235 and even though it is sealed in waxed paper, tightly
seated in a form-fitting wooden box, wrapped in plastic, stored at
the bottom of the refrigerator, in a separate drawer, the fridge
snugly closed and the kitchen shut and locked, I can still tell if I
have any fresh Camembert on the menu when I walk in the front door. I
love that. I will miss that.
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