Sunday in Paris
I arrived to a grey, wet Paris on a wave of humanity flowing through Charles de Gaulle airport on Sunday morning. We spilled out onto taxi stands and bus stops, docile from lack of sleep on our overnight flights, and easily maneuvered through an unintelligible tide of rapid negotiations for fares and destinations. I was too early to check in at my hotel, a tiny semi-boutique sandwiched between towering stone buildings in the 14th arrondissement. I left my pack behind the counter—noting that mine was not the only one and thus confirming the hostel-like vibe of the place. And I then stepped out into a drowsy Sunday afternoon in Paris.
Over the last few months I’ve listened to a lot of advice about visiting Paris. A ridiculous amount of advice, really, since my stay here is so brief. Americans have strong opinions about the French—in particular, about Parisians. One friend opined that France would be fabulous if it wasn’t for the French. Others warned me that I should try not to smile (if you know me, you know that this is an impossible expectation, and I actually wasted about 10 minutes of my life truly worried about this). Some were shocked that I would be experiencing Paris by myself. I was told that Parisians don’t tolerate Americans trying to speak French, but that that they also resent the expectation that they will speak English. About a month ago, I turned it all off. I started, instead to imagine how I like to experience a new place. We all have unique interests and tolerances. Our own way of moving through the world. Your way is not my way, and vice/versa. it was then that an itinerary started to take shape. For me, this turned out to be a non-itinerary. I resolved to watch, and listen, and go where my two feet led me.
My first stop was lunch. I walked east on Rue d’Alesia, then north on Avenue du Maine until a line waiting outside a bakery blocked my way. This is not a very touristy area, so I figured if there were Parisians waiting in line for bread and pastry, it was worth stopping. I waited with them—congenially, and not long—until a speedy transaction resulted in a croissant and a baguette with ham and Gruyère and butter. I ate at a sidewalk table, pigeons circling me with gentle patience, people bustling by with baguettes, and market produce, walking or on bicycles, in pairs or alone.
Fortified, I meandered along the avenues and cobbled side streets of the 14th. Tall stone buildings lining narrow streets, materials and centuries sandwiched together like layers in a mille feuille. I admired the produce in the sidewalk markets, flower displays spilling out into the walkways, old men in white aprons standing in the sidewalks outside of their cafes, smoking, waiting for Sunday diners.
At 2pm sharp, I was back at my hotel with my pack, risking life and limb on the ancient one-person lift to my 5th floor room. Once safely out into the hallway, I resolved not to take it again.
I entered a room the size of a closet, opened the French windows (are they called French windows in France?) wide to the rooftops and the trees, collapsed on the single bed and slept soundly until 5.
I met my friend Kathy Gunst for dinner at Le Vieux Bistrot, a 50 minute walk from my hotel which I took in loose, long strides that shook out the last of the airplane seat kinks. I made my way into the 7th arrondissement along the wide boulevards, made dark and cool by generous rows of giant chestnut trees. For dinner, we ate a salad of vinegary greens with thick discs of gooey aged chèvre, followed by cheese and mushroom fondue (or as our waiter put it, a dinner of cheese, then more cheese). A plate of buttery boiled potatoes, sliced radishes, mâche with truffle oil, and paper-thin slices of ham accompanied the bubbling cheese, as well as a basket of chunked day-old baguette. I hadn’t seen Kathy in years, and we spent the evening catching up on the meat of our lives, salted liberally with a good dose of old-fashioned, harmless gossip. It was a visit as satisfying as the meal.
As I made my meandering way home in the not-quite-dark of a May night. I breathed in the city—scented chestnut blooms, humming with traffic, undulating on the dying waves of the weekend.
