Paris

I have read that Paris is never what one expects. And also that everyone has their own private Paris. While this is true of many places, I think it is especially true of Paris.
I'm writing this because ever since I traveled to Paris, I've been looking for someone to tell all about it but no one has the patience to listen to all I have to say. Going there was a life changing experience for me, and I have traveled to many cities. New York is exhillerating, Chicago is home and my true lifelong love, San Francisco is ultimately boring and pretentious, Washington D.C. surprised me and is a new love, and Boston is the most European and American of American cities. LA is a grind. Enough.

There are moments in life that stay with you. The birth of a child, the death of a parent, the snowstorm of '67, the last day of high school. Landing in Paris was not one of these moments.

Paris came to me slowly. The graffiti on the way into the city by train was depressing, the kids dancing their hearts out for a few bucks was sad. The treck to meet my daughter at Gare du Nord was stressful, and the trip on the Metro to our hotel in Montmartre was noisy. Obviously, I was not travelling first class. Paris looked at first site like some of the less desireable parts of Chicago, gritty, poor, overcrowded. I was not impressed.

We had decided before we left for Paris to see the neighborhoods and skip the posh spots. It was March, in the 50's, not raining. The bare trees and cloudy skies made Paris, like all large northern cities in March, look tired, ready for spring, the dead end of winter.

Never had a trip to a new city left me so disappointed; never had one ended with so much joy.

When did the magic take hold? Maybe on the Ile de la Cite at Notre Dame, maybe passing the shoe store in Montmartre with it's impossibly whorish shoes and the bridal store two shops down with dresses right out of a French fairy tale, maybe the Marais, maybe the Latin Quarter, maybe the fomage and vin ordnaire in the cafes, maybe every hour that revealed this magic city to me bit by bit. Paris didn't blow me over like London. London was love at first sight, literally. But now I have been to Paris and what, oh what could be better.

I never made it to the Louvre because I wanted to see the D'Orsay. I didn't make it to Pere LaChaise. I missed the Conciegerie, St. Denis, and the Arche de Triumph. The streets of Paris pulled us in, the cafes beckoned, the hidden treasures and strange streets, the ancient doorways, the LIFE of the streets was my magic.

When I daydream about Paris I see the Seine running through the city, grey in the early spring light, the intense life of the streets and cafes, the miles of avenues, the tiny streets, the little boy walking home with his baguette for mama. The tourist shops in Montmartre, the schoolyard full of children chattering in French, the beautifully rude caffe owners, the arrogant waiters in the cafes, the feel of a city that is lived in, owned, occupied by it's citizens.

Versaille: That is a subject for consideration. What was best? The Roman aqueduct we sped under on the train that spanned the downtown of a suburban town. What was worst: The Palace. Second class paintings of cherubs, a "chapel" where the king was obviously God with his sun where the cross should be, the overuse of red wallpaper, the gold gilt everywhere. It irritated me. All that money and the place reminded me of the mythical French whorehouse I'd heard about so often. It felt wrong. It felt bad. It felt unreal. It felt like I had to get out of there fast. The horrible open bedroom where queens gave birth in crowds of nobles, the cold, cold marble corridors, the "magnificent" hall of mirrors like a crazy house.

Versailles had it's secrets though and those made it all sublime. It was the Petite Hameau, the Petite Trianon, and the eight miles of beautiful grounds. The canal. The fountains.

But to return to the Petite Hameau. We took the trolley and got off at the Petite Trianon. That place told a story. We started our stroll there. In the Petite Trianon was one single bed and rooms small enough to disappoint anyone looking for grandeur. That single bed told the story of Marie Antoinette's life more than anything in the grand palace. A bed for one. A room for eight. A baby buggy, tiny bedroom, too small to be shared.

That was the prelude. The Petite Hameau. A short walk, a swan guarding the walk to the Hameau, feathers ruffled, eyeing us suspiciously. The emptiness of the place after the crowded Palace. Maybe one or two people there. I had heard it was haunted. I'd been to many haunted sites in England. Nothing. Then, walking around Marie Antoinette's little play farm, peeking in windows, taking in the incredible charm of the magicly beautiful place,and quite suddenly, black, black clouds moving in over that one spot, a chill, a change of atmosphere. Intense sadness. Intense presence of something, somone. A chill in the air. I shivered. Chris started snapping pictures like crazy. We both felt the same unease and pall surrounding us.

A moment where I felt certain we had touched something unearthly.

A moment caught on film and as dramatic on film as it had been at the moment.

Then the other Paris, the Eiffel Tower bigger than we expected, exploding with light, iron turned to poetry and grace. The breathtaking tapestries at the Cluny Museum, gorgeous, shining, mysterious, breathtaking. The Musee D'orsay and the amazing paintings I'd only seen in art books, the wonderful streets of the Latin Quarter, the ancient doorways of the Marais, hiding the real Paris that doesn't give up it's secrets easily, the Place de la Concorde, empty of cars on Sunday, the cement covering where the heads rolled during the revolution, the lace like structure of Notre Dame, poetry in stone. Poetry everywhere. In the buildings, the streets, the people, the moment by moment unfolding of this intensely satisying city.

Everyone has their own private Paris. I found mine in the tase of cheese that was like ambrosia, bread that satisfied the soul, wine that inspired conversation, noisy cafes that held me captive with the life burgeoning around us.

Oh, Paris. You got me finally. I came home, read Balzac, read the history of Paris, read Suite Francais, read old travel accounts of Paris found in dusty bookstores, Paris became a passion. I think about it a lot. The ex pat dinner we paid $25 to attend, to talk to people who knew Paris and came and couldnt' go home.

I want to go back. I want to go back. Maybe I could even learn a little French, take more buses to see the city streets, make it to St. Denis, Pere Lachaise, the Louvre, stay in an apartment in a neighborhood with it's own shops and pretend I live there for a few days. Paris made me dream.