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appears to be outdated.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?
