Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, November 7, 1993 TAG: 9404070005
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: F6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: KEVIN KITTREDGE
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
I know that Joan of Arc, Napoleon Bonaparte and Pepe LePew - the oversexed skunk in the old Looney Tunes cartoons - all lived around here somewhere. Actually, I'm not positive about Joan of Arc.
(For more informed, not to mention more useful, information about the alleged greatest city on earth, please see accompanying story by Paris-lover Wendy Zomparelli).
I do know its reputation.
Who doesn't?
Like the rest of the world, I have been inundated since birth with improbable stories about the beauty, poetry, etc. of Paris.
Paris fashion, Paris art, Paris in the spring, and so on.
Ernest Hemingway lived in Paris. And Marcel Proust. Not to mention those lean dark-haired women in bizarre-looking gowns who often appear in fashionable advertisements.
Paris, in other words, was Paris.
And clearly if I ever meant to be regarded as fully civilized, I would have to go.
Given my limited means, however, I would have to go cheaply.
Last summer, a charter company advertised round -trip tickets to Paris in The Washington Post for less than $400.
It wouldn't, I figured, get any cheaper than that. I bought one.
Having now been to ParEE (as the French say) and returned, I offer one American traveler's observations on the City of Light.
I can not, however, be held responsible for the ultimate validity of impressions which were strongly affected by jet lag and - depending upon the time of day - the distorting effects of either too much black coffee or too much red wine.
The writer also was somewhat handicapped by a knowledge of French that faded rapidly after ``Pardon, Monsieur. Ou sont les toilettes?''
In other words, take what follows with a grain of le sel.
Here we go.
Observation number 1:
Paris is very big.
Just over 2 million people live inside the city, with another 8 million or so in the satellite towns and suburbs. (No, I didn't count them. I got the numbers from ``Fodor's Exploring France.'')
Observation number 2:
Tourist attractions in Paris are seedy and overrated.
Consider for a moment the French lady of the night who politely propositioned me in front of the often-photographed Arc de Triomphe, on the world-famous Champs-Elysees.
Now, I wouldn't want to make a big deal about this.
I have nothing against ladies of the night generally. I have great sympathy, in fact, for anyone who leads a difficult life. And people do have to make a living.
But did she have to do it there?
Understand that, my profound ignorance about nearly every aspect of Paris notwithstanding, I was excited about seeing the Champs-Elysees.
I had read all about the avenue in 19th century French novels. Rich people were forever promenading there. It was, I knew, supposed to be a toney place.
Uh-huh.
``You come with me?'' the lady asked - in English.
And then, apparently noting my uncomfortable look:
``It is protected.''
C'est la vie.
Observation number 3.
French people hate us.
Actually, a French businessman I met denied this. He said the widespread and extraordinarily well-documented rumors that American tourists are utterly detested in Paris were news to him.
The fact is, he said, Paris has never been very good at showing hospitality to foreigners .Any foreigners.
Thus did I discover that the sneering waiters - not to mention the hotel manager who tried to murder me - would probably have treated me the same way had I been from Tel Aviv or Tangiers.
Made my day.
Observation Number 4:
Paris is clean.
Really. I admit this. Compared to most American cities, anyway, the center of the city is amazingly free of litter and smoke - not to mention freeways. This city was made for people, not cars.
And as long as I'm saying nice things about Paris (I'll get back to the other stuff in a minute), let me add that Paris abounds in virtually car-less side streets packed with quaint bars and restaurants; that tantalizing outdoor bookstalls line the Seine on weekends; that street performers, from juggling unicyclists to mimes to kids on skateboards, entertain endlessly for tips around Notre Dame - which by the way is otherwise best avoided altogether.
That is, unless your idea of a quality experience is being smothered inside a horde of sweaty people moving rapidly through a dank old building.
Observation Number 5:
Paris is NOT THAT EXPENSIVE.
I stress this. For years I was afraid to go to Paris because I thought I couldn't afford it.
But perfectly nice hotel rooms, with showers and toilettes in the room, were available in the middle of the city for 200 to 250 francs - or at current exchange rates, 30 to 40 bucks. And you can go lower than that if you don't mind bugs.
Meals, however, are expensive, and wine doubles the cost.
And alas, I found the stereotypically rude French waiters stereotypically rude. Or at best, unhelpful.
This was unfortunate, given my knowledge of French. Eventually, I took to simply pointing at items on the menu with pretty names, and then eating whatever I got. This led to some exciting moments - but all in all, is not an approach that I can recommend.
In retrospect, my French vacation was not a gastronomical success. Upon my return, friends commented that I'd lost weight.
Observation number 6:
I'm ready to get this off my chest.
I just asked for a pillow, after all.
I wanted a foam pillow. One that wasn't filled with feathers. I am allergic to feathers.
I said it politely. I know I did.
The sweet smiling woman at the hotel desk asked for me to wait a minute, while she conferred with her husband - the hotel manager - who was working at the bar.
She did. He whirled around.
He lunged at me.
Actually, he lunged at the room key. It just happened to be in my right hand.
``Give me that!'' he yelled. Yes, yelled.
He pulled. I pulled back.
For several seconds we played tug of war. People watched, faintly interested, over the tops of their drinks.
Eventually it was made clear to me that I was expected to relinquish my room key every time I left the hotel.
It would be returned when I came back - provided I came back before he went to bed, the manager said.
As for the pillow, I was instructed to go buy my own. I did. I have it still, a memento of my first night in Paris.
Observation Number 7:
There are nice people in Paris, too.
For every snooty waiter or homicidal hotel manager I met, in fact, there was some friendly shopkeeper or waitress (I met NO snooty waitresses in Paris!) who seemed to long to be helpful.
I must add that even the unpleasant experiences tend with time to blend not unpleasantly into the overall impression, like bitter herbs subsumed within a Mulligan stew.
To be in Paris, after all, is to be always involved in something or other - to be hustled, scolded, seduced and even not infrequently befriended, by gentle human beings with large hearts (though I think these people mostly came from somewhere else).
Thus two months later, my memories of Paris are a huge, messy canvas of kindness and rudeness, of beauty and sleaze, of the smell of delicious coffee and the pervasive sewage reek of Le Metro - the vast Paris subway system, which rockets people from Notre Dame to the Champs Elysees to Euro Disney.
Euro Disney, of course, is the American-made fantasy land outside of town, where there are presumably no obnoxious hotel managers or ladies of the night at all.
But I wouldn't really know. I never made it there.
I mean, after all, I was in Paris.
Kevin Kittredge, a staff writer in the New River Valley bureau, visited Paris for the first time last summer.
by CNB