I have discovered something ugly in Paris. Not that I was trying. It just kind of happened, somewhere around 1971, when a certifiably-insane architect built Forum des Halles. It was at this time that the city of Paris decided to demolish the traditional, wholesale marketplace Les Halles, and convert it into a massive underground shopping mall, which today is packed with cheap clothing stores, movie theaters and greasy fast food chains. Above ground, the Forum is a displeasing tangle of iron and steel. Below, it's a frightening tangle of teenagers wielding skateboards. Not only is the whole thing ugly to the eye, it's an utter mess of a design and a concept. Multiple levels, directional signs leading to nowhere... enter the great labyrinth at your own risk, and be prepared to fight for your escape. After-hours is particularly complicated, when the shops close, the teenagers go home, escalators and exits are sealed off, and the lost and confused (like me) get trapped inside. More than a few times, I have inadvertently exited the Metro into this underground horror, and have spent upwards of 20 minutes desperately trying to get out. I wish I were joking.
(I considered adding a photo of the Forum here, but it's just too ugly. Search online if you need a visual.)
In sum, Forum des Halles is a giant hell that doesn't belong in Paris. At least the fool who approved EuroDisney had enough sense to ensure the theme park was far from the city proper. How on earth did this mess of a shopping mall squeak past whatever government ministry is charged with preserving the city’s beauty?
There is another very ugly thing I have discovered in Paris: homelessness. Lots and lots of homelessness. I am not sure if it's gotten particularly worse in the past decade, or if summertime gives greater presence to people sleeping on the streets, but the amount of homelessness in the city right now seems almost relentless. It's certainly heartbreaking. I will leave social, political and economic theories aside for now. I just wanted to point this out as being a pretty major problem facing the city – and one that doesn't seem to be getting much attention from the local government or aid organizations. (But then again, I can't exactly understand the local news very easily. So maybe it is getting attention.)
As my 5-week moratorium on airplane travel comes to an end, and I begin to stuff my snazzy Spinner suitcase with shoes and French cosmetics, I reflect on the experiences I have had over the past several weeks, and some of the questions I have found answers to - at times, simply through the art of observation.
Just yesterday, almost to my great relief, I witnessed a small child having a tantrum at a playground. Granted, the tantrum didn’t last for more than a few seconds; his mother shut him down before he could take it any further. But it was a tantrum nonetheless. And the child was French.
I have discovered that a handful of pharmacies do in fact open their doors on Sunday. In the rarest of cases, there are even a few which remain open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. (The pharmacy at Place de la Republique comes to mind.)
I have learned that not all French men have or need multiple lovers. And if they do, the French women in their lives, upon discovery, are most likely to walk away – or come up with an arrangement that works in their favor. Because if there is one thing a French woman is born with, it’s a remarkable degree of self-possession. Limitless integrity. An inherent belief in self. The French woman, practically by birthright, respects herself too much to put up with a man’s blatant, philandering ways. And her man knows it.
As for the showers missing curtains and wall mounts? Well, this all remains a mystery. But worst case scenario, should you find yourself in a rental apartment with an impossible shower setup, just call dad back home and ask him to send over a removable wall mount for the shower hose. It worked for me. Kind of.
And with that, it's time for me to go. Paris, stay fabulous. I'll be back soon.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Bonjour!
"In Paris, one does not smile at a passer-by or in general acknowledge a stranger’s existence; this is considered unnecessary – even idiotic".
And so it is written in the Lonely Planet guide to Paris. Whether or not it’s true, I find it to be particularly funny. Ignoring passers-by in such a manner would never, ever fly in California – or in most parts of the U.S., for that matter, where greeting strangers on the street is practically part of the national religion. In Southern California, gleaming, sometimes-forced smiles are typically followed by exclamations of "Hi!" "Good evening!" "How are you?" (This last one? No, we don’t wait around for the answer, because honestly we really don’t care how you are doing.)
But Paris is an efficient place, and the French are an efficient people. Aimlessly greeting passers-by may seem friendly, but it is not an efficient thing to do, so it’s just not done here. Unless, of course, you are me. The girl from So Cal.
My stroll to class each morning, from chez moi to Lutece Langue language school on Boulevard de Sebastopol, takes approximately 20 minutes each way. I could hop on a Velib bike to get there, or perhaps even take the Metro. But the walk itself is lovely, and it’s something I look forward to every day. At 8:30 in the morning, Paris isn’t really awake yet. The sun is inching high into the sky, yet the streets remain calm, and traffic remains light. There is a gentle quiet at this time of day, a softness that allows you to hear and feel a different side of the city that you might otherwise miss. Down rue des Archives, turning right onto rue Rambuteau and heading straight past the imposingly magnificent Centre Pompidou museum, the pigeons and street cleaners are in charge of Paris at this time of day. Cafes are sprinkled with the particularly eager early-risers, seated outdoors and taking in the daily paper, a smoke and a coffee before their workday begins. The smell of freshly-baked heaven pours from the upscale boulangerie-patisserie Huré, at 18 rue Rambuteau, where a line has already begun to snake its way through the door. The stunning produce market Aux 4 Saisons at 24 rue Rambuteau is busily setting out its magnificent assortment of fruits and vegetables, splashing the street with colors in every shade of yummy. This walk is so charming, so quaint, I practically skip all the way to school.
These produce vendors, the café owners... I see the same faces every morning, and although I know none of their names – although they remain strangers – I greet each one nonetheless with an effervescent, California style "bonjour!" I can’t help myself.
My smiles and greetings are eagerly returned, and the chorus of bonjour!s and bonne journee!s which follows is so melodic, so borderline movie-like, that I half-expect the entire street to break out into a lively rendition of "Be Our Guest" from Beauty and The Beast – costumes and all. Or at least, for a director somewhere to call out "CUT!".
But neither happens, because this isn’t a movie set. Nor is it a stage on Broadway. There is no director making this all happen, laying out this scene. It’s just... Paris. Simply, naturally, beautifully Paris. I know, kind of nauseating. But I love it nonetheless.
And so it is written in the Lonely Planet guide to Paris. Whether or not it’s true, I find it to be particularly funny. Ignoring passers-by in such a manner would never, ever fly in California – or in most parts of the U.S., for that matter, where greeting strangers on the street is practically part of the national religion. In Southern California, gleaming, sometimes-forced smiles are typically followed by exclamations of "Hi!" "Good evening!" "How are you?" (This last one? No, we don’t wait around for the answer, because honestly we really don’t care how you are doing.)
But Paris is an efficient place, and the French are an efficient people. Aimlessly greeting passers-by may seem friendly, but it is not an efficient thing to do, so it’s just not done here. Unless, of course, you are me. The girl from So Cal.
My stroll to class each morning, from chez moi to Lutece Langue language school on Boulevard de Sebastopol, takes approximately 20 minutes each way. I could hop on a Velib bike to get there, or perhaps even take the Metro. But the walk itself is lovely, and it’s something I look forward to every day. At 8:30 in the morning, Paris isn’t really awake yet. The sun is inching high into the sky, yet the streets remain calm, and traffic remains light. There is a gentle quiet at this time of day, a softness that allows you to hear and feel a different side of the city that you might otherwise miss. Down rue des Archives, turning right onto rue Rambuteau and heading straight past the imposingly magnificent Centre Pompidou museum, the pigeons and street cleaners are in charge of Paris at this time of day. Cafes are sprinkled with the particularly eager early-risers, seated outdoors and taking in the daily paper, a smoke and a coffee before their workday begins. The smell of freshly-baked heaven pours from the upscale boulangerie-patisserie Huré, at 18 rue Rambuteau, where a line has already begun to snake its way through the door. The stunning produce market Aux 4 Saisons at 24 rue Rambuteau is busily setting out its magnificent assortment of fruits and vegetables, splashing the street with colors in every shade of yummy. This walk is so charming, so quaint, I practically skip all the way to school.
These produce vendors, the café owners... I see the same faces every morning, and although I know none of their names – although they remain strangers – I greet each one nonetheless with an effervescent, California style "bonjour!" I can’t help myself.
My smiles and greetings are eagerly returned, and the chorus of bonjour!s and bonne journee!s which follows is so melodic, so borderline movie-like, that I half-expect the entire street to break out into a lively rendition of "Be Our Guest" from Beauty and The Beast – costumes and all. Or at least, for a director somewhere to call out "CUT!".
But neither happens, because this isn’t a movie set. Nor is it a stage on Broadway. There is no director making this all happen, laying out this scene. It’s just... Paris. Simply, naturally, beautifully Paris. I know, kind of nauseating. But I love it nonetheless.
 |
| rue des Archives, before the rush. (This would be my form of transpo if I lived here. Who said I don't like pink?) |
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| Morning light over Cafe Le Comptoir des Archives. |
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| Breakfast, of course. |
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| All things colorful and tempting at Aux 4 Saisons. Just wait 'til the sliced watermelon comes out! |
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| Metro station Rambuteau. |
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| Centre Pompidou, before the crowds descend. |
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