There’s a dirty, dark secret that lurks beneath the stunning photos you see in the glossy travel publications about Paris, France (in case you could possibly confuse the French city with Paris, Texas).
They suck you in, those articles, those photos. They did me. The Hemingway mystique. Josephine Baker. Even the Doors’ Jim Morrison lies buried in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. How I wanted to go. Not to die — but to live. I longed for a city I’d neither seen, nor tasted — only read about.
Even the spoken word of France sang to me. The musical lilt of the French language, each word turning lips into shapes that invite kissing. Paris the magnificent. Paris, the misty city of legend. Paris had long led my personal bucket list of cities I most wanted to experience.
Are you like me?
Could you just imagine yourself sitting all cool and jazzy and literary at a Paris sidewalk café, whistling a note or two of Coltrane or Gershwin under your breath, to demonstrate your hipness? If, as a genuine Parisian, you needed to. You’re blade slim in your skinny jeans, maybe in black leather for the cool fall weather, your feet shod in butter-soft studded stilettos or sweet flats. Your hair, glossy as a mink’s, is styled just so — artful, casual, nothing too determined or obvious, don’t you know? You toss it back with an easy movement of your head, blow your long bangs from your forehead with your lips pouting like a young Bardot’s…
Oh, you’ve got it alright, Madame or Mademoiselle, it’s oozing out of you, that certain je ne sais quoi, that particular Parisian cool that gifts you with the cojones to ride your bicycle through the morning mass of scooters, motorcycles, tiny Twizy and Twingo cars, behemoth buses and trucks, your slender black dress hiked up your slender thighs, your black heels whirling the pedals as you weave through that buzzy, tangled traffic. You, with not a mis-placed hair, studying your smart phone for intriguing messages as you pause for a red light, feet planted just so.
You’re not fazed, flustered or flummoxed by the traffic. You live in your own world of joie de vivre. For you, why you’re a Paris girl, a woman who cut her baby teeth on foie gras, Gauloises, potent noisettes of hair-raising caffeine and endless baskets of crusty bread just hot from a favorite local boulangerie. You know how to fork an escargot with elegance, eat a Rum Baba without gaining an ounce, the best time to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre without the crowds and where to find cool, subterranean jazz on a hot Paris night.
Oh my, as a visitor on my first visit to Paris, how I envied the élan of the Parisian woman. Feeling frazzled, frumpy and totally gauche in comparison, I observed them stride, straddle a scooter, pedal a bike, or quaff a glass of wine or a tiny espresso, wondering how they did it, how they captured that seeming unstudied elegance. I still do not know. Maybe it comes at birth or from swallowing oceans of Perrier.
I saw that the make-up of the French woman was minimalistic, her hair not very structured or lacquered, her clothes somehow inescapably right, fitted just so, even if a simple pair of jeans. A scarf, artfully knotted, the perfect accessories, the scent of Chanel, Dior or a gardenia carried on the wind, all added up to a patisse of perfection. No Hollywood boob jobs on parade, the Parisian woman is a natural beauty, an un-constructed beauty, but a very well-planned beauty with quiet verve honed to razor-sharp perfection.
Her secret remains elusive, though I will do my best to fit into her jeans. Skinny jeans…I fear I’ve a distance to bridge as wide as the Seine. My diet to refine. For she eats very well, this Parisian woman. But café-gazing and grazing has taught me that Paris portions are petite, but prepared to perfection, served with style. That basket of good bread comes unadorned, sans butter and olive oil. The crust is crisp, crunches so perfectly under your teeth, opening up to the tender interior.
When food tastes and looks so fine, it doesn’t take a bucket-full to satisfy. No doggy bags for the Parisian Miss, merci beaucoup. Most store-bought ready-made foods I took home to our rented loft were not laden with scoops of sugar and high fructose corn syrup. Less sweet, the flavors burst forth. Real food. Lovingly prepared and fresh — the vegetables and fruits at the corner market displayed as jewels, each one inviting itself home with you. But do not squeeze! “Look only with your eyes,” I was told with a smile, at a Sunday market.
And what’s that dirty, dark secret I alluded to earlier? It’s this: Paris is perfection. But ooh la la! Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport (CDG in airport code) is a hellhole designed to torture all those who dare enter. You’ll see them there: those who have abandoned hope and wander aimlessly, hollow-eyed and gaunt. They seek their gate of release, but alas, it’s located in another concourse, somewhere far, far away. I was one of them.
Avoid this airport.
I suspect the French do (or know how to way-find their way around the traveler-eating monster with their usual élan). But they need not go there at all. The savvy French have designed and preserved a paradise in their own country. They’ve got it all. Even outside of Paris. A glamorous coast, towering snow-covered mountains, acres of grapes turning into delicious, inexpensive wine, gaggles of ducks and geese being morphed into fine dishes in the haunts of the Troglodytes in the gorgeous Dordogne region.
French cuisine — my idea of heaven
Flaky, buttery croissants, tender lamb frolicking happily with rosemary on your plate, tangy ciders and hearty crepes — and ham! That jambon!! I could write pages of poetry about the ham of Paris in all its many forms. Ham so meltingly tender that it slides right through your body, leaving not a trace to lard your arteries.
Why would the French want to leave their land of chateaus and castles? When they must come and go (but why should they?), I suspect they depart and arrive on the well-run TGV high speed train. Or in their tiny Twizies or scooters, in a purring sports car or a classic Citroën…
That’s just what I’ll do the next time I come to Paris. I shall forever bid adieu to the CDG. Chewed up, spit out, I’m just now nursing my wounds, healing my battered psyche. Is this airport the price one must pay to enter heaven? Is it a test? I do not know.
But yet..and yet, I am plotting a return. Maybe you’ll see me there, sitting at a sidewalk café… Do stop by to say bonjour. You’ll recognize me. That’s me with my badly knotted scarf, my blistered feet stuffed into stilettos, doing my best to be mistaken for a Parisian woman.
Buy me a Kir pêche. Have one yourself. I’ll be happy to spill more Parisian secrets. We can plot further adventures. I’ve just begun to scratch the surface. For having once visited Paris, I’ve developed an irresistible urge to return.
I hear they have a tower there. And if you time it right, you might even be able to ascend its height for dazzling views. My timing was off; I saw its base, but my feet reached not its top. So you see, I really must come back. Paris beguiles. She beckons. She smiles her Mona Lisa smile. The world comes to explore her mystery.
Wishing you much joy, one meatball at a time. Hope you enjoyed this post. Please share your comments/thoughts. Always, Patty
Stop, Patty. You are making me so hungry with your vivid food descriptions that my January diet might not make it into February! Lol
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