If New Yorkers walk as if walking were a contact sport, and Londoners walk as if walking were a business (quick yet polite), then Parisians walk as if it were a pastime. They walk like Californians, really. Slow. Not a strut, but a stroll. The pace is mandatory; within minutes of my walking in Paris today, I had forgotten my old utilitarian mentality, of walking as a way from point A to point B, with all the speed that that implies. A walk in Paris implies looking at everything and chatting.
Not that the appearance of the buildings and the surroundings has such grandeur. The great buildings possess it, to be sure, as do the parks. Some of the cafes also have that je ne sais quoi. Generally, though, there’s a grittiness and a dirtiness to many of the French buildings that is not grand.
So the reason that Paris demands this walking pace is environmental. It’s an attitude. Everyone else is doing it, so you should too.
I slept in quite late, the first time in a while. That was very pleasant. Rolling out of bed, taking a shower and then going to lunch with no break in between is quite the schedule, and one that everyone should adhere to for a time. The confusing thing, though, about the French bathrooms is their controls. I haven’t seen two toilets use the same flushing system (one uses the tried-and-true toilet handle, another uses a rubber cork that you pull out, and a third has a plastic board that you press to flush). Furthermore, the showers in the Fondation are the definition of authoritarianism. When I entered the shower, I searched in vain for the controls, for the hot and cold faucets. Then I discovered the button. You see, the dictatorial shower system decides how hot your shower is going to be (just hotter than lukewarm, a good temperature) and how long you want to take it (thirty seconds). This had the effect of making me take a much shorter shower than usual, probably a good thing.
After all that, I went to lunch with two other Stanford students and a French student who is the French student advisor for the program in general. As is the pattern with any interaction between a Frenchman and non-Frenchmen, we oscillated between French and English, oftentimes within sentences. The restaurant we went to was in the 6th Arrondisement, on the Left Bank. It was a good sandwich place. Upon reflection, we decided that because we were being reimbursed for the meal, we clearly should have found a more expensive restaurant.
And yet the experience was not so bad. Where else can you go that has abstract art with such titles as, “Contradiction” (a red piece with black streaks), “Movement No. 1” (grey with red), “Movement No. 2” (grey, with white and red daubs of paint) and so on? And, at this same restaurant, where else would Parisians attempt to bring their dogs up to the eating area on the second floor? One woman tried to get her dog to walk up the stairs, but that was a futile effort.
After the lunch, we wandered about the Seine, then walked the Champs Elysees. It’s a grand route. The scale of the Louvre really dwarfs any Palace I’ve seen before, and it was wonderful to be reminded of its scope. Our French student departed us at that point, and soon we returned to the Cite Universitaire.
We (the Stanford students) agreed to meet up for dinner. I spent the intervening time napping, then exploring the neighborhood. It is rarely fair to a neighborhood to judge it on just nighttime or just daytime, so I walked around.
There is a Park, the Park Montsouris just across from the Fondation. I’ve written earlier that London views its park in a utilitarian fashion; Paris constructs its park with aesthetic as well as functional considerations. So yes, there’s a basketball court (quick interpolation: England doesn’t have basketball courts. Instead, there are basketball hoops with squares of asphalt surrounding it that are insufficient for one person, let alone a game), but there’s also an artificial lake with verdant trees surrounding it. The constituency of this park appears to be joggers, families and couples. Single people walking around were in a distinct minority.
Speaking of families, Paris is crawling with children. Parisian parents appear to be far more indulgent of their children than parents of other nationalities, especially England’s. In Paris, the parents are like the nucleus of the atom, with the electrons, the children, flitting about it. In England, the walking family is like the old model of the atom: the electrons are buried inside the nucleus. All the children are very nattily attired. Scooters seem to be very popular amongst the Parisian children. I barely noticed small children in London at all; when I did, they were inevitably a part of school and outfitted in their matching uniforms.
After that interlude, I met up with the other two people and went to dinner. We went to the Latin Quarter, the student hangout on the Left Bank. The Latin Quarter is stuffed with restaurants and places to eat. Each one advertises its wares and prix fixe menus. Many of them display cooked examples of their food. The seafood restaurants have iced examples of “les fruits de mer” outside. The fast food restaurants show pictures of their food. Many restaurants have hawkers, people talking up their food. Lights flood the vision. The claps and crashes from street performers invade the ears. The combination creates a gibbering energy, a totality of experience.
We sat down at this one place because it had a good prix fixe menu, and we recognized an actor outside. Well, we knew it was an actor. We didn’t know who he was. I thought he resembled Sean Penn, but clearly wasn’t. No one else had any ideas. At any rate, this actor was on a date. He was talking about himself. “…it’s my publisher’s job to make sure I’m in magazines…” was an overheard snippet. Things like that were typical, from what I could tell. I couldn’t see the woman’s expression, so I couldn’t tell whether he was boring her or she was truly interested in his glamorous life.
As for our meal, it was solid but not spectacular. I love the prix fixe menu. For those who are unfamiliar with the concept, one orders, at a fixed price (ten euros for me), three courses: a starter, an entrée, and a dessert. Oftentimes, it’s cheaper to purchase a prix fixe than to order your entrée alone!
Anyway, after dinner, we wanted to finish off with a coffee, so we did. And that was our day.
*****
The Paris Metro system is an odd mélange of highbrow and low. On one hand, it is frequently stuffy and smelly. On the other hand, the stations themselves are high-concept. Many of them are decorated to a theme: Franklin D. Roosevelt has an art-deco theme, Louvre something-or-other has art (we were unable from our metro car to reach a consensus as to whether or not these were reproductions). Whenever you move towards the exit, you can immediately feel the draft of fresh air.
*****
French businessmen require a level of conversation no other nation requires. One must say, “bon soir,” chat and order and then leave. It’s really quite a change from the hit-and-run interactions with the dude at the Kwik-E-Mark.
*****
French people frequently wear clothes exclusively in English writing.
*****
Learning is an odd thing. Consciously, the French words elude me. But sometimes, in a situation, the correct things will find themselves and tumble out of their own accord. And I just stand back and think, not bad, huh? Then I go and butcher the final consonant of some word or another.
*****
Irony alert: “Le Choc Culturel” (The Cultural Shock), an orientation event, is on the last day of orientation. Am I alone in finding this somewhat ironic?
*****
One interesting difference between Paris and London is the way each city treats its street performers. In London, street performers are carefully sequestered to the south bank of the Thames, where almost nobody and almost nothing is. I saw police officers evict street performers from their spots from time to time. On the other hand, I’ve seen street performers in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Also, the quality of street performer is far higher and far less eccentric in Paris. I saw a xylophone performance in London, for example. I also saw that dude butcher “She Loves You.” On the other hand, I haven’t seen a truly awful street performance yet in Paris.
*****
So apparently I’m too loud and seem like a tourist. I do this regardless of nation, and, regardless of nation, whether at home or abroad, people believe I am too loud. I’m sorry to everyone in advance.
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