The Ups and Downs of Paris
In Paris, everyone looks beautiful. The smoke lines on their faces aren’t full of wisdom, they’re full of character. There are the fashions, of course: the trench coats, the scarves, the fabulous boots and cocky hats. But even the girl with striped stockings held up to her butt with garters, even the woman who wore nothing that matched plus garish gold platforms, even the street artist with ruffled shirt sleeves who stood bent scowling at passersby with scissors idle in his hands. They are all somehow beautiful.
I was walking through the subway station when I heard classical music wafting down the halls. I turned the corner hungry like a dog straining on its leash. It was like a dream, a holodeck malfunction: before me was virtually an orchestra, violins and cellos at least, their bows dancing in time and the musicians wearing suits and satin in their minds if not on their bodies. They were students from all over Paris, bringing classical music to the masses. And the masses clogged the tunnel, held there by vibrating strings, and I leaned against the staircase railing hoping to lose my parents — and myself — and stay in thrall forever.
Once upon a time, even tires were pretty. At the Musée des Arts et Métiers, everything is steampunk. Everything is brass and ivory and glass and wood and designed in minute detail. The astrolabes, leather gas bags, microscopes, bicycles, and printing presses — however utilitarian, they were crafted and decorated as if they were objects of art. Which now, of course, they are.
Will anyone want to put our modern junk, our television remotes with a hundred squishy buttons, in a museum someday? Will anyone want to visit?
French no longer seems scary to me. I can almost pronounce half the words half correctly, and I can imagine learning how to spell them someday, too.
The food, on the other hand, is impossible. The French have perfected the art of cream, butter, and eggs (which can also be used by bridge brigands to hurl at Seine river tour boats), using exactly those features of their ingredients that are irreplaceable, unreplicatable. And then they serve only those things. I stand amongst the macarons, an ethical vegan, a little sad.
Not that the food I did eat in Paris wasn’t fabulous. We ate at Bob’s Juice Bar every day it was open, where I filled myself with wraps and smoothies. Maoz taught me how much I need falafel in my life. The bright La Victoire Suprême du Coeur was the first restaurant I have ever been to where the menu items are specially marked “not vegan.” And with Naturalias around, I could almost live in Paris!
Almost… but not quite. There was not a wild plant to be seen within the city limits. Unless you count the milligrams of moss between stones along the Seine.
Next time I go to Paris, I will walk without purpose, bring trail mix along, and carry a map of public toilets. And next time, I’ll make it inside the Louvre!