Have you been to Paris lately? Don’t
worry if you haven’t. It’s still there. Nothing’s changed. City of Lights. And bridges
and crepes. And those woven plastic café chairs and waiters who are slightly
more friendly than they were twenty odd years ago. Honestly, there have been
only one or two notable changes to the activity roster that I’ve noticed since
I lived there for my junior year in college, after I first visited with my
French class in high school. There’s also a fascinating public art installation
phenomenon, which we stumbled upon. The rest is exactly the same. Exactly. It’s
sort of astonishing how little changes.
My son and I were just there for Spring
Break. We had a grand time. I could write this piece and sprinkle French words
throughout it but you’d think I was a pretentious pain in the neck. Not so much
if I’d gone to Mexico and sprinkled Spanish. Or Miami. There’s something about
Paris that gets everyone’s hackles up, it’s funny. Tell folks you’re going to California
or Florida and they say, “Have a good time!” Tell them you’re going to Paris
and they say, “Ohh, Paris. Well, la di da” as if it’s some fancy private club.
But it’s not. It’s open to the public. And like Bergdorf’s, anyone can go and
just browse. You don’t have to shop along the Champs Elysee or stay in fine
hotels. There are dumps in Paris, too. It’s cheaper than Disney and you don’t
have to be a young couple in love, or a high school kid on a French class trip.
You just have to give yourself permission to go.
I choose our travel destinations by the
food they serve since I’m traveling with a kid. I don’t want to spend an iota
of time hearing complaints about the weird food while I’m on vacation. Needing
a rest from all the walking and time spent in yet another museum I can
negotiate, but not meals. A full-bellied kid is a complacent kid. I didn’t
think I could go wrong with crepes and gelati and French fries galore and I was
right. The mass transit is also superb and the entire city upstairs and down,
inside and out is clean as can be and safe, as long as you stick to the
obvious, which we mostly did.
You name the cliché Parisian highlight
and we did it—bateau mouche ride, Sacre Coeur, Musee d’Orsay: check, check,
check, plus umpteen more. Though the line at Notre Dame was too long as was the
Eiffel Tower’s. But we were happy to toss a tennis ball in the park just below
it’s shadow and play a little two square in the plaza in front of the
cathedral. I told him he can always visit when he returns one day. Both icons
will be there and it’s good to leave something left undone. He nodded and asked
to keep playing. As long as we have a tennis ball, there is fun to be had for
this boy, a welcome break from the onslaught of cultural enrichment. I never
travel without one.
We did have a few new and unusual
pleasures along the way. There was the recently opened museum for non-European
art and culture—the Quay Branly—that we checked out, very cool. And there was
the chic new Marais district that’s blossomed out of the old Jewish quarter
since I was there last. We also picnicked and played hide-and-seek in the
exquisite Pere la Chaise cemetery and visited the modest yet incredibly
comprehensive Musee du Chocolat. We stumbled upon a year old initiative, Les
Berges, along the banks of the Siene, which offers free badminton, tetherball,
a climbing wall and tabletop games to all who wander up. There was also the
astonishing pedestrian bridge behind Notre Dame, which is has been completely
covered with ordinary padlocks—thousands of them—inscribed with the names of
couples, families and friends from all over the world, who have locked these
mementos to the railing of the bridge, or to another padlock. Their brushed
brass glistens a dull golden hue from afar, but up close, the locks crowd the
railing 5 inches deep, top to bottom and on both sides. One wonders if the
bridge will be able to sustain the unexpected weight—and if this charming new
tradition was started by a savvy locksmith or hardware store salesman.
The French, bless their arrogant little
hearts, are not as crushingly and boarder-line hilariously rude as they used to
be. Someone must have wrapped them on the knuckles and told them to shape up or
else lose their bread and beurre—wups, slipped—tourists. They are everywhere in
Paris, from all over. It’s a constant barrage for Parisians, so it’s a real
treat when they make you feel special, as one waiter did for us. It was a
simple thing, really. On our third night returning to the same St. Michel café
after dinner and a long day of walking and looking, we settled into our
favorite sidewalk table in the second row. I sat where a shaft of the day’s
last twenty minutes of clear, waning sunlight warmed my face. My son eagerly reached
for the Kindle, then dug in, oblivious. Before I could order our usual, the
same waiter caught my eye and made a swift pointing gesture to our table with a
knowing smirk. I smiled and said, “Oui.” In a moment he returned with our usual
order of a panache—beer and lemon soda mixed—and a lemon soda for my son,
served each time, curiously, with a long spoon.
I forgot to ask about the long spoon in
the tall soda glass. I’m sure he would have responded kindly. I’ll have to
remember to ask what it’s for when I return.
