Pourquoi J'adore Paris

[rebness]

avariecaita has been spending the week in my Favouritest City Ever, Paris. I think she's really enjoyed herself in the French capital, and if only I had been able to get some time off work or book a little in advance, I would have gladly flown over to see her there.

(Thank god for budget UK airlines).

On one of her posts, I wrote that Paris makes my heart ache. It really does-- when I'm in that city, I feel alive like at no other time. I feel I know it better than any city in England, but also that I can never really know it.

Don't get me wrong; I adore New York, other French cities, and even that jaded London, but Paris just...gets me.

Anyhow, I thought I may as well make a whimsical post of three sort-of vignettes about

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My friends and I stayed in a modest hotel just off Republique one time. The street was narrow and cobbled, and we had a room right at the top, where one could step out onto the balcony and watch the world going by. It was so easy to imagine the countless myriad of people who had lived out their lives in the centuries there, their hopes and dreams swallowed by this beautiful graveyard of a city. It told me more about the unchanging face of the world, the insignificance, but also the beauty, of a man’s brief life, his dreams and aspirations and hopes and fears ending in darkness—something not to be feared, but understood—more than gazing at some mountain or a river ever would.

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There is always an undercurrent in Paris; one I find hard to put into words. One of the most affluent parts of central Paris is the arrondisement extending from the Champs-Elysee to the Louvre. Here, rich Americans and European royalty and businessmen come to spend their time wandering the gilded buildings and beautiful roads to spend their money in Chanel, Cartier, all the famous names.

Dominating this area is the Place de La Concorde, with its opulent fountains and impressive architecture. This place also once went under the name of Place de la Revolution, and the square was packed as the ground ran red with the blood of aristrocrats, revolutionaries and thinkers who screamed out their lives in the guillotine there.

There’s a certain sort of irony in the face it presents now.



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One day in high summer, I climbed the godforsaken stairs of La Butte and my sister and I sat gasping for breath on the steps of Sacre-Coeur. It was a Sunday, and though there wasn’t a public holiday that week, there was an air of festivity about it all— performers, street traders—all undoubtedly catering to the tourist market, but still fun.



A group of Spanish singers stood on the steps and played songs for the people gathered there, from The Sound of Silence to Edith Piaf’s more famous songs. The people gathered there came from all around; there were Europeans, Americans, Australians, Asians… most people joined in and sang. A Parisian came round offering bottles of water at an extortionate price. I told him I didn’t have any change to spare in French, and he responded with a sarcastic 'bien sur.'

Entirely typical of the French attitude taken to tourists there, and not altogether unwelcome. I love that whatever Romantic illusions one may have about the city, the French are always there to drag the tourist back down to earth and to remember that, after all, it is Paris.

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Comments

[rebness.livejournal.com]

Mon dieu! C'est incroyable!

LOL! ;)