Craving Paris

Hemingway once wrote that Paris was "a movable feast".  It was a place so marvelously full of life that you need only think of it to evoke the wonder and essence of the city.

This morning I woke craving Paris.

This was a bit of a surprise.  You see, I don't like Paris all that much.  

The city is a bit of a madhouse, filled with French who for some reason think I'm French also (has to be the hair), it smells odd at moments, sweet at others, and I find myself too often overwhelmed.  So how is it possible after years of avoiding this city, that I suddenly crave it?

Sitting on my Toronto patio in the morning sunshine, a cup of coffee steaming between my fingertips, I close my eyes and remember winding streets and narrow alleys.  I remember my feet as they walked up cobblestone hills, thighs burning, talking too loudly to a friend so I could more effectively ignore the patisserie shop we passed. 

We’d just had breakfast, yet my mouth was watering. 

Even in the morning the air was hot, moved by a breeze too subtle for the summer heat.  I carried a bag over my shoulder that bumped my hip with every step, some of the contents fairly useless for the day, making the bag heavier than it should have been.  I didn’t notice the weight.  It was easy to forget incidental inconveniences when surrounded by this city.

We had already seen the Eiffel Tower, so much bigger that I had expected, and strolled through the Gothic grandeur that is Notre Dame.  The Louvre we had gone to the first day at dawn, following a line of tourists in before hurrying to see the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo before the crowds made them impossible goals.  We had shopped on the Champs Elysees, stood atop the Arch de Triumph, and watched a movie in one of the thousands of small theaters that are so easy to find in Paris.  Though we hadn’t done it all, we had done what we wanted and were happy.

Yet years later I don’t crave the moments of Paris.  I have no desire to revisit The Eiffel Tower, nor wish to walk the halls of Notre Dame a second time.  Even the Louvre, though fascinating, is not what draws me to the city. 

I crave the less tangible side, the romantic heartbeat beneath the cobblestone streets.

Imagine yourself there, no goal in mind, just wandering.  Old buildings rise on either side and arguments can be heard in the distance.  Ahead, there’s a break and you see the river, a houseboat parked to one side.  The curtains are frilly lace, drawn to one side so you can see a light flickering within.  A couple walk towards you dressed in black coats, conversing in serious tones until one of them laughs and you think perhaps the other make a silly comment.  They are holding hands, touching shoulders, and like you they are just wandering.

Years ago when a good friend of mine graduated boarding school her parents asked her what she wanted as a gift.  They were so proud, they told her she could have anything.  She asked them to take her to Paris for a cup of coffee on the Champs Elysees.  I always thought her story was wonderfully romantic.  It reminded me of how grand travel could be, and yet at the same time how frivolous. 

Both her image of Paris and mine today are so cliché.   Even having walked those streets, I find it hard to convince myself that it is memory and not media that entice me now.

Originally it was the cliché that turned me off of Paris.  It made it seem surprisingly unoriginal.  There were no surprises, no moments of revelation or astonishment.  Paris is said to be spectacular and it was.  It completely deserves its fame, and I was disappointed because I had somehow expected more. 

I think now that I didn’t appreciate its subtlety.  Perhaps that’s what I crave about Paris today.

Though I won’t book a flight this moment, I know that someday soon I'll go back.  Not with a plan in mind, but just a good pair of shoes, a camera, a notebook and a pen, and a romantic ideal.  I agree with Hemingway, some places are just as wonderful in memory as in life, however others are like a good patisserie shop that need to be sampled again and again.