Paris Letters

by Janice MacLeod

  10

  Gustav Who?

  Everyone thinks they’ll see the Eiffel Tower from everywhere in Paris, but she’s rather elusive. The apartment-lined streets often hide her from view until you turn the corner onto a grand boulevard. Suddenly there she is, gazing down at you in all her lacy steel glory.

  I had been walking for an hour and not yet laid eyes on her. The day was cloudy, and the wet mist seeped through my coat and scarf. I was sure I was heading straight for her, but there are no right angles in Paris, only a maze of triangles. I was hoping the sun would come out and I could have a picnic on the grass in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, but my stomach was rumbling and my feet were aching, so I sat in the park next to the Rodin Museum to eat lunch and review my map. I unwrapped my baguette, which was sliced and buttered. Never in my life in Los Angeles would I have indulged in this carb and fat feast, but in Paris, it felt right. Plus, I still ran my calories consumed vs. calories burned calculator in my head, a niggling habit I retained from my former California life. They say the farther you walk, the smaller you get. I was walking enough.

  Each time I ate bread during that first month in Paris, my grandmother came to mind. For long summers of my childhood, I sat at her kitchen table waiting for her to slice the warm bread fresh from the oven. Her slices were always thick and slathered with butter that melted on contact. The crisp crust gave way to a soft and chewy center. This was the kind of bread you never put in a toaster, not that it would fit. This bread was too special for toasting. This bread should be eaten warm and not dressed with anything but butter. With this bread, I felt fed from my head down to my toes that dangled from my chair.

  I looked down at my baguette. The French eat this every single day! They know the feeling of being fed by bread in a way that I hadn’t felt fed since those summer days at my grandma’s kitchen table. The sun came out and burned off the mist. I looked up, and there was the tower in the distance. Oh right, you!

  The world’s most recognized monument was built as the entrance to the world’s fair of 1889. Located on the Left Bank of the Seine, it has become the icon and main attraction of Paris. But it was never meant to be a permanent structure. The plan was to disassemble the tower after the fair, but by then radio towers were popping up in major cities, and it, being the tallest structure, remained in place as a beacon for emitting and receiving radio signals. The tower itself is a remarkable example of architecture.

  When Gustav Eiffel started building, he noticed two of the four leg foundations would have to be built below the water level of the Seine. To avoid creating the leaning tower of Paris, he dug deep and poured massive foundations. Good thing he was a bridge builder. If you look at the Eiffel Tower with your head cocked to one side, it’s easy to imagine it as one half of a bridge. At the time, the tower had many critics. They called it vulgar, a great phallus in the sky. But Gustav Eiffel was steadfast in his reasoning behind the design. Mathematics dictated the shape: the stress of the structure equals that of the wind from any direction. And the lattice lets that wind pass right on through. Strong elegance. Nice.

  When I learned how the tower was built, I saw Gustav Eiffel less as an architect and more as an artist. He took the elements of water and air, added the materials he had to work with, and created a structure that couldn’t possibly have worked any other way for what they knew of tall structures at the time.

  Lunch eaten and feet rested, I continued toward the Eiffel Tower. Upon approach, the mood definitely changed. Tall African men stood and jangled large rings strung with mini replicas of the Eiffel Tower. “One euro, one euro.” Gypsies begged for money. “One euro, one euro.” And the thieves started appearing. The worst of all the pickpockets were the survey takers. Young girls and boys walked around the major tourist areas with clipboards and pens. Here is how it worked: They came up to you and asked you to sign a petition. You, being the kindhearted tourist you were, who was also slightly confused by this stranger standing so close, looked down at her clipboard with a fake survey attached. While you were reading this fake petition that saves Who Knows from Who Cares, they were slipping their hands into your pockets to swipe your phone, wallet, and whatever else they could grab. If the girl with the survey wasn’t picking your pocket, her friend who snuck up behind you was quietly relieving you of the spare change and Métro tickets in your backpack.

  I had seen them around and was warned about them repeatedly. These thieves triggered me like no other, partly because they were so good at picking pockets and partly because they hounded. When one was done hounding, another came along a minute later. Soon the dreamy Eiffel Tower experience turned into me clutching my purse and yelling. They wouldn’t take a polite no for an answer. Only an aggressive “Non!” along with finger pointing followed by “I’m not a tourist, you thief!” yelled in French. I would have followed up with swear words, but I didn’t know any in French and wouldn’t know where to fit them into a sentence anyway.

  If anyone ever got too close to me, which was a natural tendency in crowded places in front of monuments, and if they tried to get their hand in my pockets, they would have to get their sneaky hands past my tissues barricade. I had a layer of crumbled tissues, some used and some not, on the inside of my bag. My tactic was to gross them out. I reasoned that touching a damp tissue would deter them from going any further.

  Then there was the ring trick. A young boy would walk by me and pretend to have picked up a ring next to me. He would ask if it was mine. I would tell him it wasn’t. He would offer it to me. If I accepted it, he would ask me to give him money for it. Luckily, I knew about the non-finger-pointing strategy before my ring bearers came along. “Non! I’m not a tourist, you thief!”

  And there was the long-winded tales of woe trick. This one I actually fell for. A man stopped me on the street and asked for two euros to buy an inhaler, pleading on my Good Samaritan nature. Naturally, he had lost his wallet. Naturally, he was having a hard time breathing. Only when I opened my wallet and his face turned ever so slightly from a look of desperation to a look of glee did I know I had been had.

  Eventually, I could spot them coming. I saw girls walking out of malls with too many handbags, running over to the man roasting chestnuts and stashing the loot in the boxes behind him. The chestnut roaster is in on it! The girls would continue on, lurking around unsuspecting tourists to snatch more handbags. Once I came upon a middle-aged American couple trying to read a survey from one of the quick-fingered heathen survey-takers. The couple was quietly being swarmed by pickpockets. Something came over me, and I went berserk. Clutching my own bag with one arm, my other arm flailing, I ran up and started yelling like an angry pigeon. “Thieves! Voleurs! Pickpockets! It’s a scam! They are trying to steal your money!” The thieves scattered, not wanting to make a scene so they could quickly get to the next set of tourists. When they left, I stopped flailing and kept walking, yelling back, “Have a nice vacation!” The middle-aged American couple looked baffled by the whole scene.

  Besides all the thieves, standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower and looking up was still breathtaking. Taking the elevator to the top and peering down at the rooftops of Paris was still marvelous. The only problem was that when I was standing at the top, the skyline of Paris didn’t look quite as it should. It was missing one element: the tower itself.

  Back on solid ground, I continued walking. This time I was on a mission to Le Bon Marché, one of Paris’s major department stores. The highlight here wasn’t the luxury purses or even the building itself, which was also designed by Gustav Eiffel. It was the food section. Since arriving in Paris, I had an insatiable appetite. Was it because I was walking so much or was it simply because I had deprived myself so often for so long?

  Walking into the store, I came upon the fish section. Glistening oysters lounging on platters of crushed ice and fish gawked with their stunned, staring eyes. I continued to the chocolate section and gasped at the gravity-defying
sculptures. I stood mesmerized by rainbow walls of fruity confitures and marveled at vibrant shelves of canned sardines, mussels, and paté. I was mystified by round mounds of cheese ranging in shades from creamy brie and ashen chèvre to speckled blue Roquefort. At the pastry area, I became befuddled, trying to decide between the tart au citron (topped with a meringue toupee) and the multi-layered millefeuille. In the end, I bought them both. Later, when I sat on a bench in Jardin du Luxembourg, I realized I had made the right choice.

  A sliver of sunshine landed on me as I sat in the park, warming my cheeks. A few children were sailing toy sailboats in the fountain. A few men had hung their jackets on the racks (provided by the park) and had begun a game of boules nearby. I opened my notebook and scrounged around my bag for a pen.

  Dear Áine,

  I do a lot of walking in Paris. And on these walks, I come across plenty of statues. It’s as though the city is standing guard, looking out pensively at something important in the distance. Some of these statues are heroic generals, revolutionaries, or kings on horses. Others are serene like the collection of queens and duchesses at Jardin du Luxembourg. Anne Marie Louise d’Orléans, Duchess of Montpensier, was one of the greatest heiresses in history. She was a defiant young lady, refusing a string of proposals from European ruling families and wanting only to marry for love. When she was refused, she opted out of the scene and died unmarried and childless. Many admire her for her strength, but I like her because she is situated under a shady tree and looks out to a grand fountain where children sail toy boats.

  We spend a lot of time together, the duchess and I. She scored an excellent spot in the park—a nice trifecta of shade, people-watching, and silence. The fountain drowns out the sounds of nearby traffic, pierced only with the occasional police siren, which I don’t mind because it reminds me of Jason Bourne movies. James Bond movies too.

  The duchess doesn’t do as much exploring as I do around Paris, preferring to stay put as statues are wont to do. By the time I reach her, my dogs are barking, and I pull up a chair to rest my feet.

  We all must find places to explore in this world, but also places to rest. Paris is good about this. It’s easy to walk for hours. Once you’ve lost your way or your spunk, you’ll likely find a bench to sit and take a breather.

  The guy sitting near to me is reading Le Monde, the big French newspaper. There is a couple nearby reading a map. And dogs. A healthy population of prancing pups. There aren’t as many poodles as I thought there would be, which suits me just fine. Pugs are the dog du jour these days. Their snorting makes me crack a smile every time. Not the duchess though. She’s as serious as always, keeping guard over Paris, and perhaps me too, as I write this letter to you.

  À bientôt!

  Janice

  As I rose from my chair near the duchess, I noticed some meringue clinging to the inside of the dessert box. I scooped it up with my finger and popped it in my mouth. I realized I hadn’t done this since I was a kid. In California, I didn’t eat dessert, or even bread. Carbs were the devil in Los Angeles. Meals were vegetable-based and came in cardboard boxes from Whole Foods. I didn’t cook; I assembled. If I was eating with someone, I assembled the boxed food on our plates. If I was alone, I skipped the plate. But here in Paris, the salad bars and bread ban—like the vegan thing—had been forgotten.

  After my dessert in the park, I meandered back down rue Mouffetard. Before I turned right down my street, I slowed my gait near the butcher, who was stirring the potatoes that were roasting and collecting the drippings from the rotisserie of chickens above.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.” I smiled. I added monsieur to my repertoire.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He smiled.

  I skipped to the door of my building. Is there anything more glorious than new crushes on boys? I opened the door with a code, walked into the foyer, and groped along the wall for the light switch. The foyer was lined with mailboxes, but of course there was no mail for me.

  That was all done now.

  11

  Try Something New

  There are times when I try the patience of my older sister. Three weeks into my time in Paris, there was a discernible undertone of exasperation in Julie’s voice. I had been giving her daily updates from Paris about this butcher I’d been eyeing. I told her he looked like Daniel Craig. I told her we stared at each other.

  “But you haven’t told me if you have talked to him?”

  Silence.

  “You know how to speak French, Janice. You know grade-four French.” Sheepishly, I admit that I took many, many classes all the way through high school. I even took night classes when I moved to California because I thought it was cool to take night classes at THE Beverly Hills 90210 high school. And yet, the fear of speaking French to another person who speaks French had rendered me mute in Paris.

  “Lesson one in grade-four French,” my sister began. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Janice. Comment t’appelles-tu?” Hello, my name is Janice. What is your name?

  “Sounds simple enough.”

  “That’s how you start speaking French.” Exasperation spitting through the phone. “You. Start. Speaking. French.” My sister has always had a flair for common sense, which is probably why I generally do what she says.

  One day a few years ago, I was visiting her in Canada. My niece came home one day after school and complained that she felt bossed around on the playground. Julie said, “Next time, you tell those kids that they are not the boss of you. Mommy is the boss of you.” My niece looked at me for further validation. I nodded. “Your mommy has been the boss of me my whole life. I don’t mind. She’s good at it.”

  So the next morning, I did as I was told and walked up to the butcher.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” I said.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he replied.

  “Je m’appelle Janice. Comment t’appelles-tu?”

  “Je m’appelle Christophe.” And he pointed at my necklace, which had hanging from it my Saint Christopher’s medal.

  “Tu parles anglais?” I asked. Do you speak English?

  “Non.”

  Merde.

  “Ça va?” How are you?

  “Ça va.” I’m fine.

  As I turned to leave, he touched my arm. I looked up at him.

  “Demain?” he asked. Tomorrow?

  “Demain.” I smiled.

  Each day thereafter, I would walk up to him and say something in French that I had pieced together and rehearsed with help from Google Translate. I would see him in the morning and practice my future tense. “Today I am going to Musée Carnavalet. After, I am going to walk around Saint-Germain-des-Prés.” He would nod, smile, and tell me to have a nice day. At the end of a day filled with crêpes, photo-taking, and navigation, I would walk up to him and practice my passé composé. “Today I went to Musée Carnavalet. After, I walked around Saint-Germain-des-Prés.” And each day, he would nod and say, “À demain?” See you tomorrow? And I would say, “À demain.” See you tomorrow.

  Then I’d walk home, stroking my Saint Christopher’s medal, and watch the video I took of the butcher with my phone one morning from the café like I was a crazy stalker lady.

  He probably went home thinking I was slow. Cute, but slow.

  During my fourth week in Paris, I met up with my Uncle Brad and Aunt Mary. They were in town for a week to celebrate her retirement. When I was twelve years old, I took the train into Toronto with my sister to visit our uncle and aunt. It was our first trip away from our home in Clear Creek, Ontario, a small village on the edge of Lake Erie. He walked us around the city with a map and taught us how to navigate our way. “Always remember your compass directions,” he said. “Internalize them. Know where the water is in reference to where you are going. That way, you’ll be able to find your way back. You’ll feel the freedom of exploring without fearing being lost.” He pointed at th
e map. “You’ll get lost, but you’ll have confidence that you can get back on track again.” This lesson came in handy in Paris as the three of us repeatedly got lost, but being lost in Paris was a joy. That’s how we found an old instrument repair shop run by a man with a handlebar moustache, the bookbinding studio that dealt in restoration of old texts, and a candy shop where we found the most heavenly candies of unusual flavor combinations. None of these places were on the well-beaten path.

  On one of our final mornings together, we headed toward Sainte-Chapelle, the glass cathedral that was the private cathedral of King Louis IX of France (the one who became a saint later). As we sat under the rainbow rays pouring through the stained glass, Uncle Brad told me about his Baptist upbringing and how he never felt any connection to God in church, but when he saw art, he felt something. “Art is a spiritual practice,” he reflected. “If it weren’t for art, I’d have given up on God a long time ago. This cathedral though”—he looked up at the walls of stained glass—“is very convincing.”

  We left the cathedral and walked through the Jardin des Tuileries to the Musée de l’Orangerie to see Monet’s Nymphéas (Water Lilies), which he painted in his garden in Giverny. This isn’t one painting. It is a collection of murals lining large empty oval rooms. Talking in this room was discouraged, and I understood why the moment I arrived. The air was thick with calm and peace. It was as if we left our words in the coat check. I sat next to my Aunt Mary. She leaned over and whispered, “Feel it?” I nodded. It was the moment I began to fall in love with silence.

  After the museum, we strolled over to the Jardin des Tuileries for a picnic. With the warm April sun on us, we unraveled the contents of our bags and grabbed four of the hundreds of olive green chairs strewn about: three for sitting and one to use as the table. We made sandwiches of various charcuterie meats and cheeses. I peeled the top slice of salami from the stack. My aunt said, “I thought you were vegetarian.”