Paris: Final Thoughts

I always found it easier to reflect back on a city in the immediate moments after leaving it, when memories suddenly become streamlined, lucid, and clear – like a scrap book of visual and sensory fragments collected from your travels. And so, having finally arrived in London and reunited with a dear friend (and soon to see many more!), I endeavour here to jot down reflections on the last few whirlwind days in Paris, which ran through my head this afternoon as I watched Gare du Nord disappear in the distance from windows of the Eurostar train.

First, a few words on the French. I was no stranger to the famous rudeness that preceded their reputation. “They will hate you, because you are a  tourist with an American accent” everyone said, which is why I am pleasantly surprised at all the positivity that has surrounded my many interactions in the city. Locals indulged my rusty French and spoke slowly, even mixing in hand gestures when words failed.

For example, last night, I said to the waiter: “Excusez-moi, je voudrais an tasse du carottes s’il vous plait,” which I thought, meant a glass of tap water. What I really asked for, unfortunately, was a mug of carrots. How embarrassing!

But instead of being mean, he made a funny face and jokingly grimaced. What an adorable waiter.

In the past two days, I climbed the Arc de Triomphe, walked down the Champs Elysees, explored the Catacombes, pushed past mobs to see the Mona Lisa, and visited the Halls of Mirrors in Versailles. With the touristy activities out of the way, I spent my last day wandering around the Ile de la Cite – the island in the Seine where the Notre Dame is situated, daydreaming about Quasimodo and Esmeralda. In true April fashion, I was caught in a downpour on the way back and had to seek refuge in a cafe. Watching the crowds hurry past on the beautiful tree-lined boulevard and chatting to the lovely waiter in broken French, I realized that, it is here, in a nameless café on a road not found on my tourist map, I am finally beginning to get a sense of what it feels to be Parisian.

“Je pense que Paris est la plus belle sous la pluie,” I said to him, invoking the closing lines of Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris.

“Cette ville est tres belle, tousjours.” He replied. This city is very beautiful, always.