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.