An American in Paris

Paris

And on this day of many days, in this rather freeform vacation, this day would be even more carefree than usual. This meant I’d be spending some money. I breakfasted quietly in the bottom dining room of the hotel, reading Le Monde. A half-baguette, some coffee or tea, a croissant and fruit spreads and butter for the bread were the standard offerings. If you wanted more, you could pay a little extra. Nutella, for example, cost more. This noxious and lethal mixture of hazelnut paste would create for me a slow and painful death, so—during the entirety of my stay—I did not once tell the hotel staff to bring around some Nutella. I hardly thought of it at all; and on those occasions when I did think of it, or accidentally spied a label affixed to the horrible stuff, a darkness passed over my visage, a contempt of the thing became apparent and I was at once unwilling to engage in the pleasantries that make human interaction somewhat more tolerable. Nutella can do that to you.

With breakfast finished, and another grey day waiting without, I headed across the Place de l’Opera to a men’s clothing shop that I thought looked fashionable. I entered that place in my blue winter jacket made by a popular outdoors clothing manufacturer. Everwhere I went the thing screamed “I AM AMERICAN!” I might as well have hung a flag done up in neon or sparklers, draped it around my neck, and paraded up and down the Champs Elysees with “Stars and Stripes Forever” blaring from loudspeakers. My jacket had the rugged styling of a sport utility vehicle back home, was functional with its many zippers and pockets, and did a great job of keeping the damp Paris days at bay. It was also a bulky thing, took up the space of maybe one and a half persons, but was overall an effective—if unattractive—thing.

I approached the young girls working in the shop, told them my aim. “I want to look more Parisian,” I said. “Or—at the very least—less American. Can you do that?”
They looked at my outer wrap of bulky blue, saw what surely must have looked like a person clad in an extra-large trash bag, and immediately understood.
“Oui, monsieur,” they smiled. “Venez.”
I followed them to a rack of clothes where different ensembles were put together, for those fashion-challenged individuals like me. We picked out a jacket, an overcoat, a shirt and matching scarf, and they also recommended a pair of black pants to round things out. That would tie everything together, the one particularly attractive young woman said.
“I don’t know about the pants,” I said. I’m already looking to pack up this stuff that I’ll no longer wear, so maybe I’ll hold off on those for now.” I could always buy them back home, I explained.

I modeled my new outfit in the mirror, struck a few poses for the store girls, who approved of the new look. They also showed me how to tie the scarf in the style of those around the city who’d grown up with these things. I will be forever grateful to those excellent helpers; their service and attention were exactly what I’d needed and hoped for.
They brought all my purchases to the counter, where I paid several hundred euros. It didn’t really matter, as I don’t consider the euro real currency. It doesn’t even sound like real money. Euro. It sounds more like a carnival token you’d purchase to ride the “Hurl-O-Rama.” I could picture a youngster with cotton candy and a burning desire to get on the big “Dizzinator.”
“I’m sorry, hon—you cain’t ride without you get five euros over to the lady in the booth.” The woman gestures to the little stand where you buy the carnival money. “You go an’ ast her for five euros and come back here an’ you kin get on…but you gotta buy some euros first.”

So I paid for my clothes, walked back to the hotel where I immediately changed. I wanted some practice with the scarf, for one thing—an item that I knew would take some getting used to. I’d also bought a subdued woolen hat that fit snugly over my head. It was not quite as loud as my Icelandic ski cap, which had a snowflake motif. I would pack that away with my blue jacket and other gear. I put on my new jacket, my shirt and overcoat and scarf. I’d already bought new shoes before leaving home, and they were incredibly comfortable and even a little stylish. I’d told the girls that I didn’t want to buy a new pair, and they said okay, the ones I had would work with what I’d just bought. They weren’t black but were made of soft brown leather, and—as I said—were some of the best walking shoes I’d ever worn. I’d already spent a few days walking around Paris in them—and Iceland before that.

With the day no warmer than when I’d first greeted it that morning, I now wanted to see if my new getup would actually protect me from the November elements. Here is what I discovered: Not only did this particular ensemble look about one thousand times better than my lumpy and blue all-weather jacket, but I felt secure in layers of warmth. The scarf, the jacket and overcoat enveloped me in a pleasant winter blanket that kept the grey and damp and cold at bay. Better even than my large all-purpose utility jacket. So, not only did the Parisians figure out a way to stay warm in the winter months that bring endless days of grey and rain, but they’d figured out how to look good at the same time.

I left the hotel for a trek across Paris. On the Rue des Capucines, a man stopped me to ask directions. I told him that I wasn’t from here, but that I would try to help him. I’d often gone the wrong way in the confused maze of streets and Boulevards that changed names at just about every intersection, so I was something of an expert on all the wrong paths to take. He was a Frenchman, visiting from some other part of the country, and told me only that he wanted to be going in the opposite direction of the Madeleine Metro stop. “Oh, that’s an easy one,” I said. “You’re already going the wrong way.” I pointed up the street, “Madeleine is right up there.” He thanked me, turned around and headed back the way he’d come. Already my new outfit was reaping dividends, if only to make me blend in with the cityscape, appear as if I belonged there. Had I been wearing my parka-like swaddling, coming down the sidewalk like a mini-compact car of garish blue, the man would not have considered asking me for directions, would have opted for another woolen-clad Parisian in his dark and timeless winter coat.

I was now in the mood, ready to become one with the city. I hopped the metro for the ride up to la Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, went inside where the man who sold me the daily pass suggested that maybe I could buy a yearly pass for only around thirty-four euros. Well, that’s all well and good, I told him, but I won’t be around much longer, have to head home, I told him. Then I added: “My research is almost finished.” He nodded, in a not very convincing way, sold me the daily pass, and I went upstairs to check on my business activities back home and to see if there were any more responses to the video project. Paris seemed to be full of filmmakers looking for work, but no actresses. I would try back again.

This day was particularly chilly, but without rain—other than the occasional drizzle that came with most days. Leaving the library, I headed across Paris, deciding not to follow the Seine, but to take the big avenues and Boulevards that cut straight across town. My destination was the Eiffel Tower, which was too far away to see from this spot. I could have easily arrived there by taking the Metro, but there was little to see down there other than stoic and reserved Parisians. On one occasion I’d seen a working man trying to strike up a conversation with one of his countrymen, who’d just bought an electronic gadget and was bringing it back home to plug in. The man with the electronic gadget appeared almost pained to respond, as if he’d just gotten the news that all his teeth would have to be pulled out. I wanted to shout to the working man: “TALK TO ME! TALK TO ME! “I’m American---we’ll talk to anyone! It’s what we do!” I wanted to tell him about my electronic gadgets back home—whether he wanted to hear about them or not—my lawnmowers, how I sometimes looked at old tractors and even bought them, how I’d once had a flat tire and fixed it in only five minutes, and how I was once pulled over for speeding but did not receive a ticket. I wanted to tell him about some bugs I’d seen at a pool party, but no one knew what kind of bugs they were, because they were different from the bugs that were in the pool, and there were more of them. I wanted him to know that I’d eaten all of my breakfast, and that the clothes I wore were brand-new, and that I didn’t normally wear those kind, but that today I was, and might be tomorrow.

The man with the gadget had smiled in a forced way, made clear that he and his gadget were a private matter, that these things concerned really no one but him and maybe a few close associates—and even then he’d be reluctant to share the intimate details of the thing. I felt for the working man, with his rough clothes and large wife chewing on something in the next seat. In the silence that enveloped the tense and crowded subway car, this unspoken thing could be grasped from the thick and moist air: “You’re in Paris, man; don’t you know where you ARE?”

So I skipped the crowded but efficient subway, tracked my path across town by consulting the large city maps just outside the metro stations. These are put in place really to benefit the subway riders, but the main streets—and many of the smaller ones—are also clearly marked along with the metro stops. This helps in not appearing to be a visiting tourist: For many Parisians consult these maps to find their way in the complex subway system, especially if they deviate from lines they normally take. It is common to see someone from the city looking at the map to see where they might need to switch trains—or to determine if there is a direct route to where they want to go. So I left my large city map at the hotel, simply stopped every few metro stations to look at my route, and continued on my way.

Presently I became hungry, decided to stop in at a boulangerie where they sold good sandwiches on their browned and crusty bread. I was just in time for lunch, and the sandwich supply was holding up. A line quickly formed behind me, something that I find disconcerting—because my transactions are never simple. Unaccustomed to all the good food in front of me, I have a thousand questions. The people behind me simply wanted to grab a bite and get back to work. So I picked out a few orangettes, a confection popular in France that consists of candied orange peel dipped in dark chocolate. Along with this I told the young woman to put a few of the fruit jellies into the bag as well. They looked particularly good, and are also a specialty of France. For my lunch I picked out a long ham and swiss sandwich on crusty French bread and a bottle of Orangina soda. These things I took outside into the cold November day and ate them as I walked along.

The sandwich was gone within a few blocks—a delicious but simple concoction made all the better by the use of fresh ingredients and extraordinarily good bread. As the sidewalks of Paris passed under my unhurried steps, the desserts of orangette pieces and fruit jellies also disappeared. I was making good headway, but estimated that my walk to the Eiffel Tower—at my pace—would take about two hours.

In one of the first neighborhoods I encountered a faded and neglected chateau—a once-grand place now encumbered by disrepair, lack of funds, and the passage of time. It was now a dwelling for various artists, bohemians, and assorted lazy people. Outside were broken-down things and firewood stacked against the crumbling and cracked walls. Banners and painted messages hung from windows, giving a glimpse into the lives of the people who made their home there, built fires in the immense hearths or rickety wood stoves picked up on the cheap. I looked for signs of cats—any sign at all—as I imagined the people who lived there would like cats and that cats would also be fond of the grand old place. I saw nothing in the tall windows that suggested a cat lived there, but passed by the chateau confident that it was probably home to quite a few. After another block, the turrets and grey roofs made of slate were gone from sight. It was likely I’d never see the place again.

At a café further along, I stopped for a blackberry kir and a rest from the chilly day. I sat outside the deserted café, with the overhead heaters keeping me warm. A couple of Parisians I’d talked to at another place near my hotel told me that these heaters are creating something of a controversy in the city. The argument is that they pollute. There is also no real reason why Parisians should be afforded the chance to sit outside and enjoy their drinks and food in all weather—other than that they simply like it. I should add that I am glad that these tables haven’t been taken away in the winter months, because it was something that I really looked forward to. But for the city-dwellers, there is another aspect to this: The smokers, who are represented in great numbers among the thin and fashionable population, can no longer light up inside the restaurants and other businesses. The smoking ban is complete. So they are forced to slip outside to sneak a smoke, sit for a while at one of the sidewalk tables, then duck back inside. So there is a compromise, as often happens where you get large populations of people living together in an increasingly confined area, and I noticed it as I—a non-smoker—sat enjoying the outside tables. Yes, you can enjoy a smoke-free environment if you choose to sit indoors. But if—like me—you enjoy the sidewalk tables in all seasons, you will be sitting next to smokers. I didn’t feel that the smoke was a great inconvenience, since the gusty days mostly blew it into the chilly air. Sitting indoors, with a group of smoking Parisians, it would be a different story: I’ve seen the late-night clubs so thick with the stuff that there didn’t appear to be any regular air left in there. Those days are gone forever.

Presently a teetering man came along, asked me as I sat alone at my table where the nearest metro stop was. I pointed a few feet down the street, told him it was right there. “Look, you can see the sign,” I said. He seemed to have an agenda other than finding some convenient mass transportation, so I ignored him after that. After all, I now looked like a Parisian, so I might as well start acting like one. With the constant crush of slow-moving cars along the big boulevard in front of me came a relic from the past—an ancient Solex moped, of the kind I actually have back home. This was retrieved from my cousins’ barn after about a quarter-century of collecting dust. Now it awaited some attention from me. This one motoring along the rain-slicked streets actually ran smoothly and did not appear to be smoking—something that was common amongst the machines I remember. With their two-cycle motors and oil that had to be mixed in with the fuel, it was easy to neglect the engine, let it run as it may, and trail blue smoke along the streets and boulevards of France. The combination of so many of these little front-drive motorbikes and their larger counterparts—all running on smoking two-cycle engines—made for a distinctive odor in the city. The odor was absent on this trip as this type of motor has become less common. Occasionally you'll see an older model still in service, like the ancient American cars people drive around back home, but it is increasingly rare. I looked at the bike longingly—a simple bicycle really with a very small engine outfitted to the front wheel. Back in the day, when the bike’s engine simply gave up and the owner decided that fixing it was not an option, many people simply pulled the motor off and pedaled the bike around as-is. With the Velosolex operating as it should, the starting of it was simple, could be accomplished by anyone who could pedal a bike. You simply raised it on its little center stand so that the rear wheel was off the ground, and got it spinning a bit. Then you lowered the bike, got it rolling along the street or sidewalk, and lowered the engine into its “drive” position over the front wheel. This got the engine cranking over, and resulted in it usually starting immediately. You could also just start pedaling the bike down the street and pop the motor into place or leave it in drive if you had enough leg power to pedal the bike and turn over the engine at the same time. When I finally returned home, one of my main objectives would be to get the little Solex running again.

With the afternoon’s light starting to fade, I got going, took one of the large avenues in the direction of the iconic landmark. After about two hours of walking and eating and enjoying a kir, the large metal tower came into view. It would disappear behind buildings, but by now I no longer needed the metro maps to guide me. I could basically tell—even with my abysmal sense of direction—where it was. When I arrived at the well-worn and damp grounds leading to the Eiffel Tower, the coldness of the day was emphasized by the black silhouette of the tower against the remaining light in the sky. The winter trees reached with their bony fingers to frame the regular symmetry of its graceful lines—the season seeming to want to leave nothing untouched. I took a few perfunctory photographs of the hugely-photographed thing, found the nearest metro stop and got on the train for the ride back to the hotel. I found that, thankfully, I did not have to switch trains: This line led directly back to my neighborhood.