J'adore cette ville!

Walking home from my yoga class on the Right Bank on a perfect summer evening, I exulted yet again in the magnificence of this city.  My route took me through the Jardin de Tuileries and past the Louvre where young adults gamboled among the Maillol statuary and picnicked on the grass in a modern version of Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe.   I paused on the Axe historique, almost breathless: the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, and Pei’s pyramid in one direction; and in the other, the golden-tipped Luxor Obelisque, setting sun glinting on the cars lined up the Champs Élysée, the imposing Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile.  Continuing on my way, the Tour Eiffel was visible above the treetops, and crossing the Seine on the Pont Royal I had a view of Notre-Dame and L’Institut de France to the east, Musée d’Orsay and Grand Palais to the west.  

 

 

 

The proportional perfection of the Parisian edifices, bridges, squares, avenues and quais is indisputable.  Even the egotistical excesses of presidents past that cause(d) controversy (Centre Pompidou, Tour Montparnasse, L’Arche de la Défense) have their advantages and supporters. 

Of course I am by far not the first to have a love affair with Paris but as in all matters of the heart, one’s own experience is singular.  Though the bloom may be somewhat off after my tedious excursion to Versailles, I am still reveling in the romance of popping down to the boulangerie for brioche and baguette in the morning; lingering over coffee at the sidewalk café – which one today?; reading, people-watching, musing in the gardens; and biking down the boulevards. 

And I am delighted to report that, to a large extent, the reputation of the French as haughty and rude appears to be outdated.  I have encountered almost only friendliness and helpfulness, and most of them even humor me by switching less and less often to English.  Et le francais -- quelle belle langue!  Used with such finesse and politesse that it has engendered a new respect for those linguistic sticklers fighting against the encroachment of Franglais; I even get why the French insist on “ordinateur” when the rest of the world says a variation of “computer”….

Lest the reader consider me trop naïve, let me assure you that I recognize plenty of contrasts and dark shadows in the City of Light:  a romantic stroll along the Seine tainted by the stench of piss; the view of a world-famous landmark marred by the sight of beggars and homeless;  

for every perfectly prepared stalk of asperges blanches, there’s a plate of overcooked haricots verts; for each delectable oyster tasting of sea and salt, there’s an equally flavorless omelette; for each drop of precious, unique grand cru, there is a generic, sulfite-laden, le vin en carafe. 

Mais c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?