A breath of Paris preserves the soul.
—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
Those who have experienced Paris have the advantage over those who haven’t. We are the ones who have glimpsed a little bit of heaven, down here on earth.
—Deirdre Kelly, Paris Times Eight
Paris is truly an ocean. Plumb its depths, knowing you will never touch bottom. Run its length, describe it. Whatever care you take in exploring or detailing, however many and determined the navigators of this sea, there always will be virgin territory, unknown grottoes, flowers, pearls, monsters, something amazing, overlooked by literary divers.
—Honoré de Balzac, Le Père Goriot
PARIS HAS LONG been a beacon—of light, beauty, culture, and civilization—to people and nations around the world. The city has been called the undisputed capital of the nineteenth century, though Gertrude Stein, writing in the early half of the 1900s, could also make the claim that “Paris was where the twentieth century was.” Though the city unquestionably lost some of its luster in the mid to late twentieth century, there is also no doubt that Paris is reemerging as a city of grace, significance, and prominence in the twenty-first. As anywhere, it is currently faced with some formidable urban challenges, yet as it works toward solutions to its ills, Paris retains its allure, and its image as a beacon will survive. Paris is still remarkably beautiful; it still has cachet and prestige, grandeur and distinction. “Oh, Paris!” writes Joyce Slayton Mitchell. “Even with modern and economic changes, the value of the beautiful is conserved.” The city still brings a sparkle to many an eye, and makes grown adults sigh at the mention of its name.
One of those adults is me. Though I will always have a soft spot in my heart for Spain—that’s where I took my very first overseas trip, with my tenth-grade Spanish class in 1975—it was Paris that changed my life, made me realize who I wanted to be, made me who I am today. It was in Paris that I lived as a student and learned to think in another language and grasped what was really important in life. Though I have only recently become familiar with the late historian Richard Cobb, a passage from his book Paris and Elsewhere perfectly sums up how I felt then: “To live in France is to live double, every moment counts, the light of the sky of the Île-de-France is unique and a source of joy, there is joy too in a small rectangle of sunshine at the top of a tall, greying, leprous building, the colour of Utrillo, and in the smell of chestnuts that brings the promise of autumn, la rentrée, and the beloved repetition of the Paris year.” I sometimes wonder if I would feel the same way if I’d gone as a student to live in London, or another European country, or somewhere in Asia, Africa, or South America—after all, every experience abroad is enriching and worthwhile. But I honestly don’t believe I would have. Paris was and remains a city that so very many other places emulate and aspire to.
If it sometimes seems that the world is shrinking (it is) and Paris appears clichéd and too popular and too much like anywhere else (occasionally it is), understand that things are different there. And, today, due to the influx of inhabitants from France’s former colonies, visitors may feel in certain quartiers that they are in a far-flung city nowhere near Paris. While it is true that there are too many of the same retailers and fast-food chains in Paris that we have in North America, thankfully there are enough one-of-a-kind shops, local places to eat, and only-in-Paris experiences to make you feel the journey you’ve made is worth it.
It’s easy in Paris to succumb to Stendhal Syndrome, named for the French novelist Stendhal, who felt physically sick after he visited Santa Croce in Florence; it refers to the sensation of being completely overwhelmed by your surroundings. (My translation: seeing and doing way too much.) Visitors to Paris who arrive with too long a list of must-sees are prime candidates for the syndrome. Author and Italy expert Fred Plotkin counsels against falling into this trap in his foreword to Claudio Gatti’s Florence in Detail (an excellent guidebook, by the way) by advising, “Like it or not, one must adopt a policy of ‘Poco, ma buono’ (loosely translated as ‘Do less, but do it really well’) to experience what Florence has to offer. A mad dash through a gallery will leave you with only fleeting impressions. Spend ten minutes in front of one painting and you will see remarkable things that a two-minute look could not reveal; spend an hour in front of that same painting and your life will be changed. To really pause and reflect, whether in front of a sculpture or a dish of gelato, is to find the presence of art and genius in all things.” For Paris, one may easily substitute the phrase Peu, mais bien, an image of the Louvre rather than the Uffizi, and a dish of glace instead of gelato. I would add that by creating more reasonable itineraries, you give yourself the opportunity to acquire more than a superficial understanding of a place. I particularly enjoy simply sitting at a café table, looking, listening, and wondering. What is life like in the beautiful apartment building off the place, the one the young boy has just entered carrying a purchase from the pâtisserie? I am curious about the elderly man in his antiques shop, the mother and daughter walking arm in arm, the fruit vendor at the rue Mouffetard outdoor market who talks nonstop and greets everyone like she’s known them all her life. And, enviously, I wonder where the woman walking on the rue Saint-Honoré bought her beautiful handbag.
In addition to a reasonable schedule, I also counsel adjusting to daily life, and one of the fastest ways to do this in France is to abandon whatever schedule you observe at home and eat when the French eat. Mealtimes in France are well established, and if you have not purchased provisions for a picnic or found a place to eat lunch by one o’clock, many restaurants will be full—or sold out of that day’s specials—and many shops closed. Likewise, dinner is not typically served at six, an hour that is entirely too early for anyone in France to contemplate his or her next meal. The phrase cinq à sept (five to seven) refers to a sort of French happy hour, or apéro. (It once more commonly was the time of day when men and their mistresses would rendezvous, but today it usually refers to an accepted time to meet for drinks before dinner.) While cocktails between five and seven are not unfamiliar to North Americans, I continue to be amazed at how many of us still eat dinner at six p.m. (my hypothesis is that North Americans eat dinner earlier than any other people in the world, which I don’t consider to be a positive custom). Adjust your schedule and you’ll be on French time, doing things when the French do them, eliminating possible disappointment and frustration and the feeling of being utterly out of step.