Rules for well-fed romantics
by David Benjamin
“Paris
is a place where, for me, just walking down a street that I’ve never
been down before is like going to a movie or something. Just wandering
the city is entertainment.”
— Wes Anderson
PARIS — Lisa,
who’s much younger than I and naturally contrarian, leans toward sarcasm
when I issue one of my rules for how to behave in this city. Despite
her protests, though, I think Lisa secretly understands that Paris is,
to the French, as Yellowstone is to Americans, a national treasure
wherein a certain standard of comportment must be encouraged, lest it
succumb to the human tendency to trample and deface the most beautiful
places on earth in pursuit of a selfie.
I often suggest, for
example, that people should not bring children under the age of 25 to
Paris. Leave them behind, preferably in a nice kennel. There’s nothing
here for kids but EuroDisney — which is poor justification for shlepping
two or three bored-to-death mozniks to the lascivious domain of
Josephine Baker and Serge Gainsbourg. Disney has outposts closer to
home, where the sweaty hireling inside the Minnie Mouse costume speaks
English and takes regular baths.
Lisa is especially irked by my
ban against ordering eggs for breakfast here. The French make the best
omelettes anywhere, but for lunch. Morning means bread and coffee, and
maybe an overpriced glass of O.J. I cannot, I know, prevent tourists
from demanding bacon and eggs over-easy with white toast and jam, nor
can I console them when they learn that no such options appear on any
Paris menu.
Likewise, I’m powerless to prevent Parisian
victualers from trying to accommodate — and even emulate! — the
philistine tastes of my countrymen. For example, Paris is recently
gripped by a bizarre hamburger outbreak. Suddenly, in every café, you
see trendy hipsters jabbering in French and eating deluxe baconburgers,
but… with a knife and fork? Lift the bun and you might find stuff like foie gras, avocado slices, fourme d’Ambert and tapenade. I know. This is wrong.
Just
as Americans will never sculpt a proper croissant, the French will
never really figure out the cheeseburger. And they don’t need to. This
is a city where — in any of a thousand bistros, you can sit down to
simple, sublime dishes that nobody makes properly anywhere else: pot au feu, boeuf bourguignon, confit de canard, ris de veau, souris d’agneau, sole meunière,
a half-dozen little garden snails drenched in garlic butter. Amidst
this culinary luxury, there is no reason for people — even homesick
foreigners — to blow $20 on a faux Whopper.
The same goes for pizza. They have ‘em here, but they don’t get it.
In
Paris, food should be everyone’s foremost objective. Not museums, not
fashion, certainly not souvenirs, not the Eiffel Tower, not the boat
trip or the fake artists who infest Montmartre, nor even the Ferris
wheel in the Tuileries (but you should ride the Ferris wheel!).
Here, the prime directive is to eat — well! A couple of rules: First, be
thrifty but don’t be cheap. This only works if, second, you read a
little. There are dozens of guidebooks to conduct you into cozy,
friendly, affordable bistros where each dish is lovingly concocted and
served with a proud flourish.
One other thing: Drink wine at lunch… dinner, sunset, bedtime! This is Paris and tomorrow you die.
But
enough about food. Most of my Paris rules are personal — reminders to
myself that prevent me from hunkering upstairs, settling into a rut and
missing the latest gay-pride parade. Among my most important rules: Obey
the sun.
Paris weather blows in unimpeded from the Atlantic
Ocean, changing not daily but hourly, bringing with it Cole Porter’s
drizzle and Voltaire’s mordant overcast. So, when the sun peeks through
and the sky goes capriciously blue, I’m out the door with camp and
camera, observing another rule: Details, details.
The views of
Paris are magnificent, like the nave of Notre Dame seen from the pont de
la Tournelle, or the sacred heart of Montmartre from atop the Butte s
Chaumont. But broad vistas are few. Most are obstructed by cars and
buses, walls, buildings, trees and scaffolds, or what I usually call
“human clutter.” In the absence of panoramae, I seek out the overlooked
minutiae, small features that distinguish Paris from anyplace else. One
example is a street name etched into a limestone cornerstone on the
narrow lane where I live. The building has to be at least 250 years old,
because it was in the 18th century when street names were chiseled
right onto the walls. Paris did not then have those cool blue street
signs.
I look for chiseled street corners and take photos when I
find one — rue de Bussy, rue de l’Hirondelle, rue des Rats (really!).
But the one on my corner is special, because it’s defaced. This happened
in 1789, when the anti-clerical leaders of the French Revolution
violently edited every street, square and edifice that bore the name of a
Catholic saint. Hence, my street, rue St. Séverin, became rue Séverin
after some Jacobin zealot sloppily plastered over the “St.” on the
corner building. In all the years since, that vandal’s handiwork has yet
to be properly repaired.
Another rule: Go to church.
Paris
is a city of churches, most centuries old, with ceilings that soar and
buttresses that fly. Walls covered with forgotten art, by great masters
and pious daubers, flicker with candlelight. These eglises are cool and
hushed, except when the organist is practicing or the choir is
rehearsing. They are refuge from the hurly-burly and a stroll through
portals of time into the past. There’s always one old lady praying. If
someone I know back home is sick, I drop a coin and light a candle.
I
use the churches of Paris to rest and reflect, but also to test my
modest skill as a shutterbug. In the shadowed colonnades, lit mostly by
sunlight through stained glass (if the sun is out at all), I bate my
breath and try to hold still long enough (a fifth or a quarter of a
second) to get a clear, focused image of the altar, its towering
crucifix and the stained-glass madonna beyond. I steady myself against a
pillar and fill five, six, ten frames. If I’m lucky, one shot succeeds —
a small triumph and a lovely image. Usually, I forget the name of the
church.
One more: Explore!
Every tourist knows the Louvre
and the Musée d’Orsay (and its crowds), but few ever hear about the
funky hunting museum in the Marais, see the Monet lilypads at the
Marmottan or visit Gustave Moreau’s slightly spooky house in the Ninth.
Not to mention all the naked ladies, in oil and bronze, at the Musée
Maillol.
By obeying my hiking imperative, I’ve watched
ballerinas flit past the windows at 41, rue du Temple. I’ve gone due
west from the Métro station at Pré-St. Gervais by way of rue Mouzaia in
the communist Nineteenth, popping into the cobbled streets (called
villas), erected for the workers who built the park at Buttes Chaumont,
now some of the most coveted and charming townhouses in the city. I’ve
traversed the Promenade des Plantes, stumbled into the Marché d’Aligre
and its amiable wine purveyor, Le Baron Rouge, and found the secret
garden of the Société des Gens de Lettres. And I’ve lingered with itchy
feet at the polished circles in the pavement along the Seine which on
every summertime Friday turn into dancefloors, for deft partners
circling effortlessly through tangos and waltzes, quick-steps and salsa,
through the jitterbug, the peppermint twist and the cha-cha-cha.
I’ve even found the zoo.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
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