Je suis un cliché. Mon dieu, je sui. Oh oui. Je sui. Je t’aime, Paris. Je t’aime.
That’s my new little ditty dedicated to Paris, city of light, city of lovers.
I have just spent seven days in Europe, traveling to Scotland (Glasgow, Edinburgh, Loch Lomond and Loch Katrine), then a 7-hour layover in Dublin took me straight to the city center to commune with James Joyce’s spirit for several lovely hours (despite a torrential downpour), and then on to France where I spent the final lingering days of my trip in Lille, the country’s third-largest city, and then to Paris.
I see cities a lot like lovers: old, new and imagined. Sometimes you have to leave the one you love in order to to feel passionate about it again. Paris makes me realize that you can have more than one love. Glasgow made me realize that sometimes the idea of love is better than the reality.
But Paris…oh Paris.
I think New York is okay with sharing me with Paris. First, I’ve been with her for so long—from the day I arrived with my packed bags and stuffed animals on the doorsteps of NYU in August 1992 until the present, with only two short beaks in between—and all the while, my heart has been so loyal. New York knows my heart lies with her. But the beauty of these other lovers, it is haunting, and I can’t help but feel so alive when I am with them. Very few cities make me feel as intoxicated as the first moments you realize you have totally and completely fallen for someone. I spent only two nights in Paris, and yet I returned to New York feeling as I had just fallen in love. My eyes had glazed over, there was a spring in my step, and a glow to my skin. There are only two other cities that make me weak in the knees: Berlin and Lisbon. But my affairs with all of them have been quick, passionate, fervent escapades that always send me back to my true love, New York City.
My flight to France arrived late, and once I retrieved my bags, I made my way to the last SNCF train bound for Lille, just an hour north of Paris. Arriving just after midnight, I could barely glimpse the historic beauty of the city, but when the sun rose, I flung open the balcony doors of my hotel room to see the bright heart of the city pulsing below. The hotel overlooked the Grand Place, the city’s great square lined with cafes and shops. Lovers lazed across the marble borders of the centrally located fountain, embracing, kissing, fondling, heads nestled in laps. Women sipped their coffees and nibbled on croissants. Old men with bikes rang their bells as they rode slowly across the plaza. And as I surveyed the scene, the clock tower rising above and the church bells ringing, I sighed along with the lovers, listening to Edith Piaf sing “Non je ne regrette rien” on my iPod.
Oui, je suis un cliché. Yes, I am a cliché.
Of course, there were a full five days of travel before I stepped foot in France, and while visits to these others cities didn’t fill me with this resonating sense of euphoria, there are, certainly, some highlights:
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Being in Europe watching the UEFA Euro Cup 2008, being around people who give a damn about soccer. In Glasgow, at a lovely little pub called The Goat (and yes a very big, very plastic goat stood in the window of the establishment) I rallied on the Germans and lamented the loss of the French to the Italians. In Lille at a crowded Australian bar—called, how clever, The Australian—I cheered on Germany, wiped the field with Portuguese booty to make its way to the semi-finals.
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Playing lawn bowls with my friend Ryan in Glasgow in Kelvingrove Park just as the sun began its slow summer descent into night
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Climbing the castle in Edinburgh, exploring its nooks and crannies in—what else—my sassy NYC wedge sandals
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Finally being in Dublin, which has long been a dream, if only for a few hours in torrential rain
Hands down, my favorite memory was of my last night, Saturday, June 21, the first day of summer. I had a lovely dinner at a small French restaurant in Paris (where upon a tall handsome waiter made eyes at me throughout my meal, making me blush like a little school girl) and after walking around a bit, I remembered that it was Fete de la Musique until 2 a.m., where on random street corners throughout the city were bands, singers and DJs. I started at a little square by my hotel in the 6th arrondisement near Montparnasse and the Jardin du Luxembourg to listen to a DJ spin some downtempo house and wended my way through the cobblestone streets to see people dancing everywhere. When I got to St. Sulpice, there was a little sidestreet where a 20-piece horn band had nearly 200 people dancing and singing. Imagine your high school marching band—but on a grander scale, wearing fluorescent pink feathers in their hair and adorning their shoes—playing pop songs—Born to be Alive, ABC, Bad to the Bone—and the national anthems of the teams who are now going on to the Euro Cup semi-finals. The moon hung high in the sky, and the street lamps seemed more like Christmas tree lights strung together for one big party.
Somehow, I was able to tear myself away from this band to explore what else might be lurking around the corner. I ended the night with this incredible band that sounds a lot like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I felt like a teen-age girl swooning over the blue-eyed, floppy-haired mysterious singer. Surrounding him was what seemed like a miniature soccer stadium full of young people, dancing, waving their hands, singing along. In the distance you could hear other music competing for ears. The entire city of Paris was electric with live music on nearly every corner, and it seemed as though people were in love with each other because there was such an incredible feeling in the air, like all is well with the world, and why don’t we all just make out and feel the joy? The energy was tangible.
As the Chili-Pepper band ended its last encore, a man walked by and gently brushed my bangs off my face, and as he walked away, smiled over his shoulder.
Je t’aime, Paris. Je t’aime.
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