rêve à la cannelle: quatre lunes en Paris

I am in Paris unexpectedly, or sooner than expected because, though I wanted to visit Christine anyway (whose resplendent rendition of her Paris life you should read at http://www.uneannee.blogspot.com/) , two friends came from ny, for only one weekend. A one time deal. So off I went, and here I find myself…here.


What can I even say? Paris is uniformly exquisite. Wrought balconies, finessed facades, everywhere you turn something just too refined. The people, like all the buildings and parks around them, are dressed up and made up with a certain attention to detail that makes for a more subtle beauty. It is pointed out to me that the men wear the collars of their black wool coats up around their ears. Anywhere else, this would look arrogant. Here, it is elegant. The delicate perfection is so thorough that I wonder a moment whether the homeless man sleeping against the cathedral side is just pretending. Even with his pants half way down in the frosty night.

The first night there is a full moon. There is a blackout in the labyrinthine 6th district, so bars revert to candlelight, and I find a small rickety shop with bonsai trees shelved on one side, and strings of pearls hanging opposite.

In Paris I am barely footing it…the bill that is. I stay with Alyssa, we change hotels, take cabs everywhere, try the best hot chocolate places, eat every kind of bread and croissant that the bakery offers… Perhaps I have gotten too used to broke Berlin, but I am in mild shock; this place is expensive.

Wandering around the second day we stop in the pantheon, it happens to be free. Inside, it looks at first as though the ceiling, having melted, is dripping over us. Really it is a sculptural installation.

Paris is mostly dusk to me. The sun is always just setting, the sky still holds some light and the buildings and sites are already being illuminated.
Jet lagged, or otherwise used to a different schedule, we walk around in the empty night, looking at closed doors, leaning buildings and forgetting the century. It is hard to find places open late enough.



We do do some big tourist things, and the city does not disappoint. I find out that the Eiffel tower is actually gorgeous in person. The day we go there, somewhat brouillard, turns out beautiful and my boots get heavy climbing the steps. So I take them off and trip the rest up barefoot. The metal is cold, it is November, I remember.
The view from the top is not as anti climactic as I’ve heard. It is gratifying to see the city stretched out under you, flat as a living map, and realize as you gaze at the maze of streets, why no one seems able to give directions around them.

The nice thing about traveling places off tourist season is that you don’t have to wait. At the Louvre we get in directly: no delay to ogle masterpieces. Moving through rooms, it is impossible to give works the time they deserve. Especially the paintings. Some we pass are massive. I like the feeling they give me, of being swallowed up.
We take our time idling at the front of the small crowd by la Jacond. We try to complain about the ridiculous way that the painting is displayed, about the entire cultural obsession around it, about the piece itself. But in the end, we can’t deny that it is a pretty picture after all. We move on; the people behind us were beginning to murmur.
Too many Watteaus, Caravaggios and [insert ninja turtle name]s later we emerge. I am left with the blurring impression of painted eyes and stone wings.