Perhaps I was spoiled in NYC with the extravagance of Halloween. A parade followed by days and nights of costumed celebrations in every corner of the city. There is no such display in Paris. Several bars took pride in the festivities, mainly those trusted Irish ex-pat locales, and a random bar or two in the Marais. Though I’m not certain the clientele was dressed in costume or preparing for a regular night of revelry. Needless to say I was not inspired to wear anything other than the garb of a Parisian girl, for me, a costume in itself.
A walk on the esteemed avenue of the Champs-Elysées makes me feel entirely like a tourist. I’m not exactly sure when I will give up this status and become a local, perhaps when I stop looking up at the sky and pardoning those who ask me for directions that I am lost myself. In all honestly, I hope to forever live my Parisian life as a visitor. To appreciate the grandeur within and upon each architecturally inconceivable structure. To smile at the encounter of every hidden alleyway and secret garden. To always carouse the streets with curious eyes and a mind eager to learn. It is after all the most fascinating and serendipitous encounters we find upon the streets. Here in Paris this is where art is discovered in it’s many forms.
A display of Vogue magazine covers, beauty captured through time, caught my eye amidst the golden hues of falling leaves…
A lesson in history. One day in 1616 Marie de Medicis decided to create a long tree-lined pathway within a space that held nothing but fields (Elysian fields). This quickly became a very fashionable place to walk. In years to follow (namely 1724) the avenue was extended up to Chaillot hill, now the site of the Arc de Triomphe and the Etoile. In 1828 the avenue became city property with the addition of footpaths, fountains and gas lighting. It is now a haven for tourists, filled with cinemas, cafés, and luxury shops. And for those who crave the energy such a street possesses.
Sundays in the Marais are enchanting. While the rest of Paris sleeps, the Marais is filled with the flow of life. Following an impromptu path led only by the sun, we float like a pair of doves amidst the harmonious mélange of voyagers and inhabitants. No sounds of engines are heard as the streets are entitled only to pedestrians. Time ceases to exist. We find our way into a world of secret gardens and not-so-secret cafés. Our most favored treasure is the Village Saint Paul. This clandestine paradise is accessible only via arched passageways, to those who are lucky enough to find it. Within these walls lies a self-contained world of antique shops and one particular café which has captured our hearts, or more fittingly, our appetites. Seldom does a Sunday pass without a taste of the homemade quiche or creative confections.
Days like these help me to remember why I am in Paris: love. A ‘raison d’être’ in itself. I temporarily forget that the other key elements composing a life are so far away: family, friends, work, etc. Is it possible to create a life combining all of that which brings one a sense of fulfillment? Or are we meant to perpetually lack in order to feed the mind and body with desire? Perhaps, for the sake of feeling alive. Regardless of the whims and desires that reside in my mind, I feel deeply content.
A large part of the Parisian culture involves sitting in cafés. This ‘art of café and observation’ has become one of my most revered past times, allowing me access to an interior world of secret encounters and animated conversations, and an exterior world much akin to innocent voyeurism. From a strategic yet secluded position I observe the dexterous formation of the lips when words are spoken, the vivacious gestures of the body, the smiles expressed by both eyes and lips. It is here, in the confines of a neighborhood café that the French come to life. A contradiction to the formality found in passing on the street. It is from here too, where the greatest show takes place, upon the surrounding streets. For the mere cost of a cup of coffee you can sit for hours and observe the acts of time.
Whilst sitting in cafés I have learned much about coffee, namely the variations so common to the French. A café is essentially an espresso: short, strong and sincere. A café au lait is a coffee that has been popularized in America, simply a coffee served with a separate pot of steamed milk, not so French in fact. A very common type of coffee is the café creme, a large coffee served with hot cream. Café noisette is a favorite of mine, espresso with a dash of cream. Perhaps the name particularly appeals as it technically means hazelnut, hinting at a coffee delicacy. Café leger is espresso with double the water, bringing us closer to the café Americain, simply put, filtered coffee. Less than appealing after indulging in dozens of French style cafés. A cappuccino does actually exist in Paris, though it should not. The French, much like any nation other than Italy, cannot create a proper cappuccino. Not to mention this inaccurate version of a café au lait costs upwards of 5 euros.
Needless to say, as the days pass I feel a growing urge for a large seemingly bottomless cup of coffee served in a classy paper cup marked ‘Grande Caramel Skim Latte’. Thankfully, this is found all over the world.
My preferred mode of transport amidst these cobbled streets is the Vélib’, a public bicycle system which was successfully launched on July 15th 2007, currently the largest of its kind in the world, consisting of 20,000 bikes. Every 300 meters throughout the city center lies a station, appearing much like an oasis to those weary of walking (no doubt the stiletto laden fashionistas are great fans of the Vélib’). For merely 1 euro I pick up a bike, navigate my way through the maze of the Marais, return the bike to one of the 1,450 stations, and continue my adventures via foot. Countless hours are spent circling Paris in this manner. Perhaps the greatest sensation is flying over one of the enchanting bridges via Vélib’ at sunset, following only the direction of the stars.
Learning a language is not merely a lesson in the linguistic nuances of a culture, it is a lesson in humility. This I have learned quickly through my expansive collection of children’s books (Babar and Martine being my favorites). I have tried several times in my life to learn French. Convinced that I was once French, it should not be such a difficult task. Somehow all of my many attempts proved unsuccessful. Perhaps complete immersion is the only answer. So here I am, completely immersed. The entire city of Paris is my classroom.
I breath French air, drink French wine (often I must admit), listen to countless hours of French songs…I even sometimes adopt a French attitude which entails less speaking and more gesticulating. This is all in addition to my studies of course, my self-motivated, highly optimistic, “study-in-the-comfort-of-your-own-home” approach. Also known as Rosetta Stone. This method is as effective as I choose it to be. So far so good. I have almost devised a morning routine. Almost. More effective than computer courses or classes even, is speaking with my live-in tutor. He has gone through the travails of learning French, has many tips to share and much compassion to offer. Did I think it would be easy? Did I think I would inhale the sounds emanating from the voices surrounding me and thus gain proficiency? Maybe.