One day during the 2004 U.S. Presidential election, I read an off-handed comment by a
writer, who was scribing doomsday predictions about the
re-election of George W. Bush. To escape the impending
downfall of the United States should Bush be re-elected, the
writer suggested we Americans seek out some South Pacific
island and live like Gauguin until the Dems could rebuild the
country as a representative republic. Musing on the writer's
advice, I began thinking, "Where am I? What's happening in the
world? What do I really want to do with my life?" I guess you
could say I was going through a quarter-life crisis. Fast
approaching my 30th birthday and living in Los Angeles (a city
I hate), I was working in the right field and had good
benefits, but my current job did not even begin to satisfying
my goals. And while I was grateful to have held onto all my
limbs, secured a decent apartment and attracted a seriously
hot and empowered long-term girlfriend, as a generation
X-er, Y-er, Internet-er, whatever, I admit I wanted more.
When I gingerly bounced the idea of moving to a distant land off my
girlfriend, she grew more excited than me. That's when the
dream started to take root. Since our bedroom is decorated
with pictures and paintings of the Eiffel Tower, it took us
about six seconds to agree to move to Paris. But dreams and
reality are two different things. Reality check number one:
neither of us had ever actually been to Paris. Reality check
number two: I speak absolutely no French. Reality check number
three: we were certain that moving to Paris would prove twice
as expensive as our current location. But the dream was too
large to let die and so we agreed to at least make a scouting
trip to the City of Light, to see if we could indeed live
there. It was our luck that at the time we decided this, the
airlines were practically giving tickets away, and so we
planned a visit for February 2005. Allotting ourselves an
eight-day vacation (ten days if you include the time change
and travel), we saved our money, reserved flights and hotels
and for the next few months I spent an extra hour a day on the
internet, researching and learning the very basic points of
spoken French.
When we arrived in Paris on a blustery Sunday, we found a perfect city. Well,
perfect if you discount the extreme weather. During our visit,
Paris was cold, wet and gray and while walking outside for
miles in the rain and hail might weigh heavily on most
people's mood, my girlfriend and I kept reminding ourselves
that we have endured far worse winters in Chicago. And so we
soldiered on and in our efforts to soak in some of the culture
(without seeming too eager and gawky), we hoped to strike a
balance between curious tourists and seasoned Parisians. This
proved nearly impossible however, as we spent most of the time
marveling gap-mouthed at the architecture, pontificating about
antique artworks, and capturing snapshots of everything we
saw. It is difficult to say how beautiful Paris is, even in
winter, without sounding like an over-compensating sports
caster, and yet we found it more beautiful than pictures and
poetry can describe. There was a subtle feeling of
connectedness to the surroundings and passersby that I find
missing in urban America and I had to resist the urge to shout
"Bon Jour!" to everyone I saw. (I have no doubt they would
have returned the greeting had I done so.)
We stayed at the Hotel New Montmartre, a small hotel at the foot of
Sacre
Coeur. We found the Hotel New Montmartre charming, quaint and
affordable, as it included a breakfast of baguettes and
croissants each morning. The staff was friendly and even went
out of their way to help us, offering a custom map and
directions to meet our friends whom we'd phoned while in town,
and waiting up for us at night. In fact, I still feel a little
guilty about the night desk clerk that waited for us until
6:30am one Sunday morning while we danced at O'Sullivans in
Pigalle. It took us a few minutes of pounding on the door to
wake him from his uncomfortable slumber (he was sitting on a
stool), but he seemed quite cheery to see us. I guess he was
used to curious, AWOL tourists, and that agreeable attitude
highlighted all our experiences with native Parisians. Not
once during our trip did we find anyone to be less than
polite. Add in the cheap, fast and reliable public
transportation, and the equally affordable vin rouge (red
wine) that flowed down our throats (a true nectar of the
Gods), and we were in a perpetual state of bliss (especially
me, since California wines, heavy with sulfites, have always
given me heartburn. The French bottles gave me no problem, and
as mentioned, the price was right).
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Feeling Paris