THE CHARLES
"Millions of monarch butterflies," reads one billboard; "Also, millions of windmills." At least that's what I assume it says, based on the picture of a butterfly and a windmill. Most of what I remember from high school French involves words for describing family trees.
"Mexico," the sign concludes. "A land of opportunity."
It's been two years since I was last in Paris. Last time, work brought me to the city. This time, I am here to do anything but work. I am here in the faith that France, like Mexico, has great national treasures to offer -- ideally treasures somewhat more tangible than wind energy, which we all know will eventually be exposed as nature's biggest Ponzi scheme; it's only a matter of time.
On the train from the airport to the city, the graffiti that flies past the windows offers promise of the undiscovered. "Roro," says the underside of a footbridge defiantly. "Sheat." I am not down with this lingo, and it exhilarates me.
THE CITY
No matter how you enter the city, the first few moments upon arriving in Paris always feel a bit grand.
Entering the peripherique by car, as I had the occasion to do two years ago, one claps in delight at the drone of motorcycles and the flashing green crosses of Pharmacies on the street corners.
Entering the dungeon of a metro station, as I had the occasion to do on this trip, it is harder to clap with a suitcase in one hand. Nevertheless, one still manages to register delight. A French candy wrapper on the ground! A used French metro ticket, also on the ground! It is nearly too much.
THE COFFEE
The first destination on my itinerary is a cafe.
Cafes -- both the place and the drink -- might be the monarch butterfly of France. In France, un cafe is an espresso, also sometimes referred to as a "normal coffee." As in, "Would you like your coffee normal, or American?" Waiters always check with me. It is as if they are skeptical that I actually do want my drink served in a thimble, rather than a paper tank larger in volume than my stomach.
To be fair, there were times when I probably would have opted for the tank. French men at the office where I worked in Paris used to watch me prepare my mid-morning coffee as entertainment. "You Americains," they would laugh between drags of their cigarettes, "with your long coffees and the hot dogs."
I'd like to believe that coffee comes in different sizes because it serves entirely different purposes in Paris versus, say, New York. New Yorkers drink coffee for the same reason SUVs guzzle gasoline: because there is no other way to keep moving. In Paris, the utility of coffee is much more limited. Drinking cafes to get wired seems about as practical as eating Skittles to get full.
More than the caffeine, coffee in Paris might be enjoyed mostly for the anticipation of pleasure. How about a coffee? one proposes to another or oneself, and the answer comes back yes, yes a coffee. The wait, the crema, the tiny spoon are all part of a highly quotidian foreplay -- one that can be repeated many times a day, all over the city. It's quick, it's delightful, and nothing ever goes cold.
THE CHICKS
Alternatively, the butterfly of France might be the French woman.
The women in Paris wear beautiful, purposeless outfits. They do inexplicable things like drink regular Coke. They pour it into tall glasses and take delicate sips, proving that Coke doesn't always have to be chugged from a 20-ounce in the corner of the TMEC computer lab.
The women in Paris are attractive, even the ones who aren't. The attraction is largely to their exotic indifference. At 11am on a Monday, walking down Rivoli, I pass a girl in a floor-length gown leaning against a gate, composing a text message. She has an unreadable boredom written on her face.
Later, at a cafe, I try similarly arranging my face, just to see if there is a future to be had in that direction. "Smile," says my young waiter in English, "or you will have to leave." He laughs at his own joke, before asking if I'd like another American coffee.
THE CONFUSED
American writers, I am told, used to frequent cafes in this neighborhood, but then that isn't too surprising. Americans in general have flocked to Paris for generations. There is something about the city that speaks to those with unplaceable angst, or uncertain identity, or too much middle class wealth. Twenty-somethings come to Paris to "find themselves", as the saying goes, but really they come to lose themselves to something worthwhile.
On one of the bridges that cross the Seine -- which the New York Times recently reminded us is a river that divides Paris into left and right banks -- lovers have taken to putting locks on the metal railings, presumably to declare the foreverness of their sentiments. Some have used real padlocks; others, clumsy round combination locks that look like they got lost on the way to the gym.
One often hears of people locking down significant others, locking down jobs. There is something extremely lovely about the idea of locking down public infrastructure. For couples, it might be the ultimate romantic gesture other than jointly filing taxes. And for all visitors, and especially for those who come to Paris looking for an answer to the question of what they are looking for, it represents at least one gesture of certainty. Our time in the city is transient, our appetites come and go -- but a lock stays to mark our movements, until someday French government officials arrive with a saw, as they have already promised to do.
We, the visitors, might be the ultimate monarch butterflies of France. There are millions of us. We are constantly flitting from one pretty thing to the next. And as incredible as it may seem, we are one of the city's main attractions: we come to Paris to see ourselves in Paris.
We also come to drink wine at noon and make Eiffel Tower jokes in front of the Eiffel Tower. But whatever.
THE CONCLUSION
Two years ago, in a car to the airport, the driver said to me, "Did you hear about Michael Jackson?" At least that's what I think he said, since Michael Jackson had died the night before.
This world, I remember thinking, as the Champs-Elysees flashed past my window. I wondered when I would see it again, and what else would have changed by then.
A lot has changed, but coming back to Paris mostly reminds me of what has stayed the same. I still love coffee. I still stare at bizarrely dressed women in the streets. I still stop on the middle of bridges and try to look lost in thought, when in fact I am just lost.
The hardest part of leaving Paris is knowing that you've barely touched the surface of all that the city has to offer. This was true last time, and it is true again. I still need to find the French equivalent of the windmill. I still need an occasion to describe a family tree. I still need a gym lock. My days of working in Paris were over, I'd thought; as it turns out, there is still much left to be done.
