The death of Paris
(greatly exaggerated)
By David Benjamin
PARIS
— In mythology, Paris was a Trojan prince who left his first wife to
steal Helen from Greece, cuckolding Helen’s hubby Menelaus and launching
the Trojan War. In combat, Paris was a notorious coward eventually
wounded by Philoctetes. Paris died gradually after Helen begged his
first wife, Oenone, to nurse him, a request Oeonone refused, leaving
Paris to expire, after which Oeone, in a belated onset of grief, threw
herself onto his funeral pyre.
In Europe, Paris is a city which,
like its mythological namesake, is dying gradually. Or so say its legion
of mourners, all of whom remember a better, livelier, more relevant
Paris in good old days that are as recent as the turn of the millenium
and as distant as the Belle Epoque.
Last night in Paris,
strolling with Hotlips along rue de Sevre, I saw a living picture
postcard from that golden age. Seated at a table on the sidewalk terrace
of a café, she was a profile, her legs crossed, sipping from a glass,
ebony hair swept back, skin tinged with a subtle blush, smoldering eyes
that could — if you risked any inspection longer than a glimpse — wither
you with disdain. There was something in her of Louise Brooks, Ingrid
Bergman, Anouk Aimee, completely French but absolutely international and
— in the moment you see her there casually public and indifferent to
her perfection — heart-stoppingly beautiful. She is more often visible
in Paris, in more colors and shades, that in any city on earth.
If
she was here for the doughboys of 1918, for the GI’s of ’45, and now,
here, eternally, for Hotlips and me, on the terrace of the Café Les
Oiseaux whispering French nothings into the ear of an arm-candy boytoy
escort, how dead can Paris be?
When I first saw Paris almost 35
years ago, I read, in several magazines, the city’s obituary, written by
people who’d been here ahead of me. Since then, people who landed 20
years after me have sadly recounted the changes that killed Paris before
their very eyes. This could be as simple as the closing of an iconic
department store (Samaritaine), the felling (and replanting) of the
chestnut trees on place Dauphine, or the demises of Serge Gainsbourg and
Memphis Slim.
A thousand city-diminishing tragedies have struck
Paris in my time, and yet I can still lay my hand on the marble thigh
of any sculpture in the Tuileries and feel a pulse. I cling to the
faction who believes that any city’s life force is its indefatigable
capacity for change.
When I first came to Paris, the original
L’Entrecote restaurant still stood on rue Verneuil, dispensing the best
steak in Paris with its ambrosial béarnaise sauce. Today, L’Entrecote is
a chain serving cheapskate tourists, still with a decent steak and a
nice béarnaise. But it’s no longer the best steak in town, and I don’t
know where that best steak is. But I know it’s there and it’s probably
the best steak in the world. Because this is Paris.
When I was
first in Paris with Hotlips, the best dessert in Paris was the tarte
fine aux pommes chaudes at a little bistro near St. Germain des Prés,
called L’Échaudé St. Germain. But when the old couple who ran the place
retired, they took the recipe with them. There’s still a best dessert in
Paris, but now it’s the rice pudding at La Regalade, way down on the
south fringe of the 15th arrondissement.
To quote a dead Parisian, “Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.”
(Oh.
Almost forgot. We’ve also found the best soup in Paris, around the
corner from our apartment on rue St. Jacques, at a Chinese joint called
Mirama. This soup is so popular that the broth vat is the size of a
Japanese bathtub.)
Speaking of bests, there isn’t a subway
system in the world better, cleaner, faster, safer, easier to negotiate
than Le Métro. If this town is dying, why are half the subway stations
newer and brighter than your average Swiss toilet? The Métro stays the
best because it changes. The central line from Chateau de Vincennes to
La Défense now has suicide barriers and the middle-of-the-line stations
have been spiffed to the hilt. I was worried that renovation would ruin
my favorite station, Franklin D. Roosevelt, which conveyed a murky
funkiness that distinguished it from every other stop on the Métro.
Thankfully,
although the new FDR is totally different, it’s as lovably weird as
ever. Its designers somehow lent the station the indirectly-lit ambience
of a 1960’s bachelor pad as it might have been displayed in the front
section (between this month’s “Playboy Philosophy” sermon and the
centerfold) of Playboy.
How can you call dead or dying a city
with the chutzpah to turn a subway station named for a paraplegic
Depression Era president into a mass-transit version of Hugh Hefner’s
TV-show boudoir?
To quote another president, here’s change I can believe in.
Besides,
for everything Parisian that vanishes or re-upholsters, there is the
Paris that preserves stubbornly so much of itself. The Plague victims in
the Catacombs haven’t moved an inch in centuries. Paris hasn’t torn
down a church in my lifetime. The museums are as timeless as their
mummies, and there are still hundreds of sore-backed workmen who know
how to lay cobblestones in perfect scallop patterns between the granite
curbs in the back streets of Paris.
And Parisians? They’ll never
die, they’ll never entirely behave and they’ll never be as predictable
as New Yorkers. Our waiter at lunch yesterday went goofy with joy at
seeing us and insisted on taking our photo not once, but twice with both
our cameras (failing both times). Few citydwellers are as charming as
Parisians.
Or as rude. Today, as I aimed for the door of my bank,
a Parisian woman of a certain age (not to be confused with the goddess
at Les Oiseaux) cut in front, buzzed herself in and turned on me as I
tried to follow her into the foyer. She shook a finger, fending me
backward, and said sharply, in English, “One by one!”
I’ve only
been back here 30 hours, but I’ve already had a dozen slights, delights
and adventures. Imagine how fun this city would be if only it were still
alive.
Friday, May 16, 2014
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