Paris: An affair to remember...and repeat

Amazingly, a little over two weeks have passed since I first stepped out of a cab onto Rue Chaptal in Paris. Missing many essential worldly goods, slightly disoriented, and desperate to make a good impression in the city I had idealized after eight years of absence, no one could have convinced me that I would feel completely at home there after seven days. Doing a vacation’s-worth of laundry last Friday afternoon in the laverie at the end of my street, I was struck with melancholy about leaving the next day. I felt an incredible sense of belonging, fondness and attachment to Pigalle, the same kind of anxiety experienced before pangs of homesickness. Being so alone that first day, so uncertain and feeling so foreign, I forced myself to make something more than an “exciting” vacation out of Paris: I made a home.

What’s more, I felt older. Not tired, but wiser, with a more sophisticated view of reality and yet therefore more appreciative of everything in it. Being without my own things for four days, completely alone, in – initially – a very foreign city, literally gave me a new lease on life. All at once, I toughened up, yet strengthened my sense of affection for people. I found myself embracing the French, both the negative and positive. I found myself completely content to let the world be as it was at the moment, complete submission to a live-and-let-live philosophy. It was immensely liberating.

Why? To me, there is one particular cultural trait – absolutely including Parisians – that sets France apart from so much of the America I left behind: sincerity. So often misunderstood as coolness or hauteur – which exist in absolutely every culture and country, and are therefore human traits rather than national ones – I continue to find that the French mean exactly what they say and support it with values and actions. The cashier at the tabac isn’t being rude when he says it’s impossible to buy the international calling ticket you ask for instead of a rechargeable card; rather, he’s simply adamant that you not buy the wrong thing. The simple markers of politesse go a VERY long way here, and “please” and “thank you” are genuinely appreciated. Smiles are reserved for moments of true affection, gratitude and pleasure. Is it better than the American way? I can’t say. But at the moment I prefer it.

This is why the several Parisians I befriended over my two weeks mean SO much to me. I know it was no small deed to make me a part of their circle. They let me speak their language with them, and even allowed me the pleasure of helping them speak mine. I listened to their childhood stories and the realities of their lives in one of the most lusted-after cities in the world. They, without hesitation, took me in with open arms and not only showed me their city, they made me a part of it. I feel like I finally carved my own space in my favorite spot on the globe. I’m forever grateful for that.

Last Friday, I went on one of my habitual and famously exhausting café hunts, straining to find a place with precisely the right tone for my final night in the city. Who knows if I found it, but it was irresistible nonetheless.  I went to Ma Bourgogne, installed in one of the four elegant corner arcades of the splendid Place des Vosges. Rated at some point as one of the most extraordinary public squares in the world, it seemed fitting. The weather was perfect. A dramatic sky, scattered with luscious clouds, sported a gold sunset that formed a halo around the steep rooftops of the park’s 17^th century mansions, uniformly aristocratic. I ate most of my steak tar-tar, relaxed with a Stella, and ended with a frothy black espresso after a bowl of DIVINE Berthillon ice cream.

I brought a book to keep me company, but as always, abandoned it in favor of the sweet music of velvety French voices. I knew I could never be alone in Paris. 

Château de Versailles: A palace, a museum, a theme park

I have been to the Palace of Versailles twice prior to this stay in France, and it has absolutely met my expectations as a national monument, fabulously preserved and restored to its former splendor as proof of France’s royal past. Both times, the crowds seemed normal, the occasional construction and renovation efforts understandable. I always had time and space to contemplate and imagine the thousands of souls who once lived there and reigned over the grandest kingdom in Europe. A lot can happen in eight years…

Sadly, Versailles has somewhat lost the magisterial air it once held for me. Much has been beautifully restored in recent years, but with that restoration have come additions, most of which cheapened the historical experience during my visit last Tuesday.

In contrast to the glorious re-gilding of the palace roofline, and the painstaking reconstruction of the original gate separating the Cour d’honneur from the Cour royale, a large security checkpoint has been erected in the middle of the forecourt. Security is an obvious necessity in such an environment, but the checkpoint is a monstrosity of wood planks and glass, marring the order of the space, reminding all who enter that, yes, you are entering one of the largest tourist draws on the planet.

A number of new, wildly overpriced chain cafés and restaurants have appeared in the main palace and upon the grounds. The gift shops have multiplied. Perhaps it’s possible I never noticed some of them before, but there appear now to be so many that they honestly get in the way of simply navigating the museum. Add this to the indescribably large hordes of visitors (every school group in Europe was touring the château that day), titanic cameras flailing above a horizon of heads, and it’s virtually impossible to really see the place.

The carriage rides throughout the royal gardens have always existed, but instead of the somewhat more elegant bicycles for rent in the past (I didn’t see them this time), massive, vulgar people-movers shuttle between the palace and the Grand Trianon. (Of course, this costs 3,70€.) Large, yellow floating dividers have been placed along the Grand Canal, marking boundaries for rentable canoes. Sigh. 

That aside, I marveled at le domaine de Marie Antoinette in its entirety that day. Passing beyond the pomp and formality of Louis XIV’s fountains and parterres, I entered the mazelike park that composes the rest of the château’s grounds. Fashioned to look like a natural, untamed Eden – according to the aristocratic tastes of the 18^th century – it really takes seeing this space in person to comprehend how the French court existed in its own realm, geographically and psychologically detached from its own people, in a fantasy land of privilege.

The Petit Trianon is a wonder of neo-classical restraint and elegance, and it would hard to describe it as anything other than an escape. The faux “hamlet” is every bit the stage-like assemblage of quaint cottages it was intended to be. The mix of artifice and function lend a dream-like quality to everything.

In this space, Versailles’ spirits still linger, and I left Marie Antoinette’s “estate” on a solemn note. Her mark was still present in every room, the personality and tastes of a former queen who loved her intimate company, and the comforts her station afforded her.

One can’t help but leave judgments about Marie Antoinette, so reviled by history, at the door to this intimate paradise. 

You can find me at Silencio

Post misdirection on my way
to Chez Julien, in the Marais...

Last Thursday, I received my first dinner invitation in Paris.

I had plans in the Marais at eight with William, a French friend of my friend Peter from Ann Arbor. Pete had – completely unrequested – generously reached out to his Paris connections to show yours truly a lovely time in the City of Light. We met at Chez Julien on rue Louis-Philippe – one of the Marais’ most elegant restaurants on the Seine – most famous as a location for Carrie Bradshaw’s Parisian experience in the final season of Sex and the City (where she feeds her neighboring bulldog pastries). I had carefully planned the extensive métro route there, and yet, despite my efforts, was easily confused upon arrival by the maze of streets that compose Paris’ large 17^th century quartier. I hurried across Pont Marie, surrounded by urban homes built proudly under the ancien régime, including Église Saint Paul, where – a guide told me years ago – Louis XIV was baptized.  

William works in fashion PR – his clients include some significant luxury brands like the Row – and had studied a bit in the U.S., so breaking the ice was hardly an effort. After a glass of mild white wine at our breezy sidewalk table, we laughed about trashy American reality shows – a guilty pleasure for both of us – and how typically “Paree-jahn” the snobby hostess was, regardless of who approached the door or how impeccable the ensemble (such Parisians, I learned, do this to everyone). I also received an enthusiastic compliment on my French, satisfying a MUCH-needed vote of confidence from a chic native-speaker. From then on, decreasingly inhibited on my second verre of Bordeaux Graves, I played up my pronunciation, punctuating my English with French expressions and exaggerating the seductive lilt of street names and words we gabbed about: Boulevard Rochechouart…Rue Montorgeuil…brioche perdue (“lost bread” – what we call French toast). Aside from half-blushing as I ordered my lamb très bien cuit (definitely anxious about a plate of gushing animal fluid), I felt totally at ease.

It was amazing how connected I felt to France all of a sudden, how familiar and welcoming its entire capital had become after less than a week. The distance from home and initial hesitancy surrounding language and people drifted further away. The world seemed smaller talking to William in both English and French, realizing – arguments about cultural imperialism aside – how incredibly popular many American things are in this place so often scorned as anti-American. The likes of Nikki Minaj are often heard near the Eiffel Tower. Whitney Houston and Britney Spears blast on weekends from either a bar or an apartment party at the end of my street in Pigalle. As my friend Peter told me: “People love America in France.”

We switched continents for a bit and talked about French cinema, which I obviously adore.  It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that fabulous French actresses like Audrey Tautou and Marion Cotillard might not be popular in their homeland just by virtue of being French. As a foreigner in another powerful first-world nation, it’s surprisingly easy to slip into this kind of thinking. William looked slightly nauseous at the mention of Audrey Tautou.

“I AY-TED Amélie Poulain,” he said, swiftly condemning her debut film, beloved in high-school French classes across America, “Eet was rideeculous…”

I burst out laughing. No luck for Audrey Tautou. Coco Before Chanel just might have been better with someone else. And Marion Cotillard in La vie en rose? A long pause ensued…

  

“I was moved,” he began, “But she eez so orriball in interviews…”

We had better luck with our favorite designers. But the more we talked about Phoebe Philo, Riccardo Tisci, and Sarah Burton, the more I lamented having to miss the upcoming menswear shows while studying in Grenoble.

When I was certain the evening with my new French friend was over and William had more than done me a favor entertaining the American in Paris at a fancy dinner, he asked me what we were doing next. I heard “Silencio”, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Yes. Yes, I have heard of Silencio. And how are we getting in?”

Should you need an FYI, here’s a link to a New York Times review of the most exclusive club in Paris, and one of the best nightspots in the world:

The height of fashion, six floors under

William attended a work party the same night the review describes, and – as luck would have it – thus knew the door manager. The impossible was suddenly happening, and I descended a soundproof, floor-lit staircase to the glistening underground world that is Silencio. Many euros later, we were sipping devastatingly sublime house cocktails and listening to dance remixes I’d never heard before. Why don’t I have photos? They’re not allowed inside :)

I have only one ENORMOUS problem with all of this: How the hell am I supposed to go to Grenoble on Saturday? Life here is getting way too delicious to leave...

How to make a home in Pigalle

On Tuesday, with clothing at last in the armoire, I felt prepared to take the métro to rue du Bac, where I walked along bustling Blvd Saint Germain to the imposing Assemblée nationale. Everything seemed monumental, fast and exposed. Squares extended into rotaries jammed with vehicles weaving throughout traffic and careening around corners. Horns echoed in competition with sirens and deafening mopeds. I found myself at pont de la Concorde, a wide bridge that leads to the massive square where tens of thousands of executions took place during the Revolution. Crossing northward, I caught a fabulous view of several bateaux mouches heading for Île de la Cité to the right, the horizon punctuated by the iconic belltowers of Notre-Dame. This was the Paris I remembered from eight years ago. After almost four days in Pigalle, I felt like I was in a different city.

On Pont de la Concorde

Before FINALLY receiving my luggage, it certainly crossed my mind that I was losing serious Parisian vacation time waiting in my neighborhood. But that’s just the thing: By the time I ventured into the fabulous, iconic Paris I last saw at 16, I realized I had already gotten so used to the streets, sounds, and feel of Pigalle, that I had successfully claimed by own little area of the city. It seemed so foreign upon arrival, so indifferent to my presence…so isolating. Yet in my desperation over not having my own things about me – thousands of miles from home, feeling so unprepared to just be here – it took me in and comforted me. I got to know the faces coming in and out of the gate to my little immeuble. Every time I returned at the end of the day, I looked about my familiar bedroom, out the window at my charming rooftop view, and found I had a home in Pigalle.

For four days, I traded my luggage for the most intimate and coddling of Parisian neighborhoods. 

Les mêmes vêtements.

Little in life – VERY little – happens as you expect it. Have a seat and grab a drink…this will require some time to read.

Sitting by my bedroom window above one of the most tranquil courtyards in Paris – or so it was described by my landlady, Marion – I’m still taking in the fact that I’m thousands of miles from home, in a place so storied, famous and great that it’s hard to believe it actually exists as a real city where people live day-to-day. Despite two brief trips to France in the past, it was still mind-boggling to hear only fluid French as I stepped out of my taxi onto Rue Chaptal in the 9^th arrondissement. (This is the language here.) I’ve been here 72 hours, in one quartier, and yet I’ve born witness to so much of life’s great pageant that to try and communicate it properly would take hours of writing. I’ll just begin with tales of my journey here. 

It alone is a long story.

Getting here was not easy. I now realize how incredibly fortunate I’ve been in the past while traveling, avoiding any real horror stories aside from waiting with a stand-by ticket for 12 hours in an American airport years ago. Long-delayed flights and lost baggage are common tales, I know, but both happened to me for the first time between the U.S. and France last weekend. Chicago O’Hare was madness – no surprise there – and it took me an hour and a half to get through check-in and security. The city was wretchedly hot on Friday, and my suitcase followed with all the lightness of a boat anchor, despite my leviathan efforts to pack minimally. I was very much looking forward to spending my final hour on American soil sitting in air conditioning and refreshing myself with a tuna sandwich and crisp Pellegrino. My flight was on time and I was giddy to depart for Europe. My calm is laughable in hindsight…

My United flight to Toronto was suddenly delayed for an “incoming aircraft”. Not the usual half hour, of course. My 4.07pm departure was pushed to 5.25. Then boosted to 5.16 and 5.15. Then back to 5.20. It was finally decided that I should fly out at 5.30. My arrival time had thus been officially moved to the precise boarding time of my Air Canada connection in Toronto. The O’Hare rep assured me that my baggage would make it to the next plane, and that all Air Canada representatives knew who I was and that I’d be late…along with numerous other passengers destined for Charles de Gaulle. This guy also told me I could skip any Canadian border inspection since I was just connecting for mere minutes and I had to catch a flight. I’ve come to the conclusion that the word of these people is worth about as much as one finds in the morning toilet.

The Canadian immigration agent glared at me as he asked for my passport and declaration card, hamming up the intimidation (obviously I took the time to pack my .35 in my carry-on…American airport security just misses these things, you know?). In my opinion, this is just Canada compensating for decades of border-patrol laxity, and since I was obviously powerless anyway, I played along and was soon running to the boarding gate.

Thank God the jet was nice. International flights are, as all of you must know, the last bastion of hospitable airline service. Remember when you could get a complimentary dinner – and drinks – in Economy to San Francisco or Florida circa 1996? Well, now you need to fly abroad for that. But the service really was wonderful on Air Canada. Two little bottles of French Syrah was all I needed, people, and I finally…FINALLY…calmed down and napped. I was amazed at how soon it was morning as we descended over the patchwork of green fields around CdG.

“GOD, this is taking a long time,” I mumbled, watching the dregs of my plane’s luggage roll out at Baggage Claim. The thought had crossed my mind that it’s always possible for airlines to lose luggage on international flights, but because it had never occurred in my relatively dense flight history, I always brushed it off as mere possibility…not a regular occurrence. With looming dread, I tried ignoring my naïveté: It was clear my only checked suitcase was not on the carousel. Like a lost puppy, I followed a few outraged and bag-less Americans to Service Bagages. Hoping that my usual charm would be a pleasing contrast to the angry sweatsuits before me, I mustered my most polite if simple French and started to feel pretty good about my reception from a French customer service rep.

“Votre ticket, s’il vous plait,” she chimed while typing my various codes and name. The penciled brows arched. The bedroom eyes flew open. She emitted an “oh la la” before reaching for the phone.

“But how bad coud this be?” I thought. Pretty bad.

“C’est encore à Toronto…” she responded, with a shrug and pouted lips, “It’s still in Toronto.” SHIT.

Surprisingly, I didn’t cry, grimace, or even glare. She immediately told me that it would arrive, by personal delivery to my Pigalle apartment, the next day. Always sweet and eager to please, I figured that would be a cinch, and I’d be donning all my favorite outfits at Café de la Paix the next afternoon.

It is my third day in France. I am still wearing the same clothes, and have bathed with nothing but water and handsoap. And yet, though I’m still in survival mode (and sans bagages), I still find myself falling back in love with the place. Next time, when I’m well-dressed and content, I’ll tell you why.

Here are the past 4 days in third-person:

Samedi (Saturday)

Eamonn pleasantly leaves Baggage Services and nabs cab at Charles de Gaulles. 

E has lovely chat with Senegalese driver Milo until he remembers he stupidly forgot other expensive bag full of thousands of dollars in cash and electronics at Baggage Services.

E returns to CdG lobby to find that he is forbidden re-entry to baggage area, and desperately begs man with employee badge to help him re-enter. No dice. Adorable Greek girl also missing baggage helps him re-enter with special pass. Staff members amusedly hand back vacation-in-a-bag.

E steps onto streets of Pigalle for first time in 8 years. Holy-Fucking-Shit Moment 1: “I’m in FRANCE!!!” HFSM 2: “OH GOOD GOD. I’m completely alone in a foreign country and there’s no going back."

E timidly starts speaking French, because every social interaction from arrival on is a source of anxiety. E realizes his IQ will appear to drop many points from a French perspective. E tries to cope with humiliation by not smiling at anyone on street.

E meets landlady, Marion Binoche Stalens – Juliette Binoche’s sister. E decides not to discuss this fabulous connection, since Marion is wonderfully sweet but understandably busy as a photographer/cinematographer/actress. Marion prepares E’s apartment gloriously. And duh, Marion also looks SO much like her sister.

E finds quintessentially Parisian apartment with rooftop views even more adorable than the photos. E is in a daze and wishes he had the rest of his clothes to make the moment perfect.

E realizes he can’t even get a cell connection while roaming internationally, and finds that wireless in apartment doesn’t work. E is sad because he can’t communicate with anyone at home until he finds shop selling phone cards. Internet cafés are hard to come by and E accepts that there is no even remotely reliable, free Wi-Fi in Paris. E wants to die because there is so much Facebooking and blogging to do.

E walks feet raw on miles of winding streets and takes in all he remembers of his previous visit to Paris…and how the clichés really do apply here.

E naps.

E is terribly happy his travel outfit was carefully selected, because it’s all he has to wear and is getting a good reception: People never address him in English unless he speaks it first. Score. E also realizes that single outfit, appearing for hours and hours on the same streets, makes him highly conspicuous in Pigalle and Montmartre.

E buys international calling card and calls friends at home to let them know he’s not dead. E uses payphone on noisy rue de Lafayette.

E loves how sun shines until 10.30pm (22h30) in France.

E bathes in hot water and handsoap, and slumbers beautifully.

Dimanche (Sunday)

E wakes up to a rainy day (far earlier than EVER in Ann Arbor) and seeks out Orange (major French TV/Internet/phone carrier) store or tabac (typical liquor/lotto shop) to buy cellphone minutes for little French phone, generously lent by biffle Francophone Dana Sasinowski. Remembers that all such establishments close on Sunday. (Fuck.)

E ventures to payphone to call Service Bagages de Charles de Gaulles to check luggage return status. Incoherent and typically indifferent Frenchman tells him it’s already at CdG and will be delivered same-day as specified. E tries to tell him (in English – ugh) that his American phone number doesn’t work in France and that he needs to give other instructions to deliveryman. Frenchman hangs up. 

E spends morning taking métro rides around his neighborhood, buying baguettes and red wine at market, and sampling French TV in his apartment. E also buys groceries at Carrefour (which E decides is the French/Parisian equivalent of Kroger). 

E waits at apartment for luggage to arrive. Falls asleep for 2 hours, and takes quick walks, but no delivery seems to happen…for 10 hours.

E wants to cry, but instead makes hilarious little pasta supper with sliced gouda and arugula and listens to Edith Piaf.

E takes another pathetic water-and-handsoap bath in a cute tub pretending to double as shower. 

E sleeps another great sleep.

Lundi (Monday)

E wakes up to more rain.

E walks to Orange store on Boulevard Haussmann to buy new SIM card for French phone and lots of minutes/texts for official communication in France.

E is only foreign customer at Orange who arranges his affairs entirely in French. E receives first French cell number. E is totally thrilled.

E returns to apartment and calls CdG again to see if bag was even driven to address previous day. Agent says yes, his computer says it was. E thinks that deliveryman couldn’t get through gate to apartment building and left suitcase on street to let it be stolen, or perhaps – as agent thinks – it was given to the building concierge. But E currently doesn’t know if concierge is even home.

E awaits call back from Marion to see if the above situation is even possible.

E gets tipsy on Beaujolais in apartment listening to Délibes and ventures to internet café to publish blog post.

E realizes how unbelievable it is to be in Paris, on his own, living in 3 of his own French rooms.

Mardi (Tuesday)

E awakes to...more rain!! There are also adorable screaming voices coming from the little school two doors down.

E reaches darling Marion, who calls indifferent CdG services agents and deals with them as only the French can. E wants to kiss Marion over the phone.

E waits for word on luggage at "Aussie" coffee shop a stone's throw away from apartment, le Kooka Boora, which is really just a fabulously American hipster-style place that would make Ann Arbor proud. FULL of Americans studying abroad or living here. The latter make E highly envious. 

72 hours...

For the one or two of you who don't know, I'm leaving for a two-month stay in France on Friday. 

The first two weeks will be spent in Paris, courtesy of my fabulous mother, where I'll have my own apartment in Pigalle, drink café au laits, and indulge in all manner of Parisian diversions, both tourist and unexpected alike. I have absolutely NO itinerary, and wouldn't have it any other way. What's more, I know almost no one in the city, which may or may not be a pleasant scenario. We'll just have to see. Will Eamonn find love and a new life in the City of Light? Will he go for long walks and discover himself in the Tuileries? At the very least, I anticipate an ample amount of awkward social situations and, hopefully, will later exchange bises with some new French friends in the city. 

The bulk of my time abroad will be spent in the old university city of Grenoble. There, I'll study under U of M Prof. Mark Burde and take French courses at the Centre universitaire d'études françaises (CUEF) in the université Stendhal, an excellent school specializing in French as a second language, hosting scads of foreign students from across the globe. I'm staying with a host family, or at the very least a host "mom" named Laurence, who seems wonderfully sweet from just our first email exchange. Weekend trips to Italy, hopefully Germany, etc., will ensue. I'll be America-bound on August 3rd. 

I hope to update this little blog daily, a means of motivating myself to make the most of every day in France, drawing myself out of my comfort zone to provide my few readers with fun or even thought-provoking stories and experiences from this glorious little region of the world. 

Of course, I've still 72 hours before the story-telling begins...