PARIS, I LOVE YOU
I rode a morning train out of St. Pancras, beneath the English Channel, and into the picturesque, rolling green countryside of Northern France. The EuroStar experience was a delight; the cars are clean, spacious, and quiet, the staff is the epitome of professionalism, and the food is delicious! I planned to hole up in the attic of a Haussmann in the 3rd arrondissement, attack risks to business continuity at all corners of the French capitol, and still make time to explore whatever I could in this new-to-me City of Lights.
Traveling alone on an open itinerary through two foreign countries over a month can make you feel like a lost soul. But, nursing a steak tartare and a glass of rich, red wine that first night in a steamy oyster bar at the center of three converging streets, I felt like I belonged. Best of all, the timing of my arrival would be rewarded— as I looked out the attic window and over a city of Mansard rooftops, it would begin to snow!
Staying in La Marais meant being surrounded by trendy design studios, luxury jewelry boutiques, and pâtisseries by the score. J'étais à la maison! But, I was there to do the work of a technician, while also performing the duties of project manager, reliability engineer, and sourcer. And that meant hailing cabs and tromping through fresh fallen snow dragging a Pelican case in wingtips. But hell, I got ‘er done and I’m all the stronger for it.
One of my favorite moments was walking down a village street lined with niche perfumeries. With each step the scents became more intoxicating, until I was lead by nose into a austere shop that prided itself on non-visual advertising. I opened with my best attempt at a French greeting, then asked the young lady in English for something of a darker profile. She gave me a Mona Lisa smile, as if she’d been waiting all week for such a question, and produced a bottle that to this day is my wife’s favorite.
There is a view among some Americans of the French, and Parisians in particular, as being rude. I have surmised this to be a problem of misplaced effort. In practicing simple French phrases that I’d looked up on my iPhone, I found that almost everyone spoke English anyway, appreciated me leading with their native tongue (however crude I pronounced it), and expressed an easy-going empathy that I hadn’t experienced at all in London. Furthermore, I found Parisians to be among the most emotionally tuned-in of big-city-dwellers. It’s as if nothing matters but what’s right in front of them; and I love them for it.
Paris, oh how I love you. I will be back again one day to kneel upon your cobbles, taste the flaky, fish flesh and olive oil in my mustache, and feel the warmth of your arms in welcome. And, I’ll do it all on my own time, and my own penny. Until then, au revoir et merci pour les souvenirs!
