“Paris is best enjoyed on foot…” sign in a shoe store window
Paris is built around a bend in the Seine, where water flows first north, then west and south, it winds through the countryside away to the Atlantic. The area bounded by the river is classic and cliché.
Traveling downstream the city seems endless. The river bank was long ago reinforced with the stone walls that lend it an eerie hall-like character at night. Dark and mossy, the walls look wet, almost cave-like, contrasting the river’s softly lit gravel walks along each side. On the water at night one can hear the crunching rocks under the feet of those bold enough to chance a stroll. The city is bright and quiet, but the river is dark and silent.
At the apex of the river’s arch is Cluny and the cathedral of Notre Dame. The Latin Quarter sits surrounded by the Seine, the cathedral looks across from the an island in the river. To the north is the Louvre. Further on the left is la Tour Eiffel (which they don’t list under ‘E’ on the tourist maps, by the way). There are a number of long barge-like boats which dock along the river south of the tower, and a long narrow island which runs lengthwise in the center of the channel called Île des Cygnes.
The island is only broad enough for the quiet tree-lined walk which extends almost from the tower at one end to a large granite statue of Liberty on the other. It is in fact identical to the statue in New York harbor, only it is probably no more than 30 feet tall.
The bateaux-mouches which line the banks are grand residences, complete homes with plants and satellite television. Some looked as though they’d never moved, while others were clearly mobile.
Valaire deftly guided the fifty-some- odd-foot cruiser we were on (in actually) into what looked to be a forty-some-odd- foot space. A small man came running to the boat, dutifully tying off the large ropes to the docking posts. Valaire stepped out on the deck and they spoke briefly. He nodded and jumped off the boat’s deck into the street and disappeared into the night. Valaire pushed the door open and extended a thin pale hand toward me.
“Come on, Trouble,’ she said. “I want you to see something.”
We slid the gang-plank out to the walk which edges the river and stepped off onto the cement.
“Paris is called the city of light you know,” she said.
“I’ve heard that…”
The little man came running back out of the darkness. He waved at me as he leaped from the dock to the boat.
C’est un plaisir de vous revoir.”
He must have been speaking to her, I thought.
At this point things were looking pretty weird. I’d decided I’d be careful around this woman. I mean, she actually wasn’t the first person to ever fricassée my fingers. Well, maybe she was, but there was something about her. I mean, she seemed harmless enough. Not really, but she seemed like she wouldn’t kill me. Well, maybe she would, but probably later, not right away, and for some reason I thought that was ok.
Walking away from the river and passing the smooth glass exteriors of the modern hotels that line the Seine, Valaire began to relate the history of the city to me. Many of the older buildings in Paris have been standing for hundreds of years; the most destructive forces they endure are fire and time. Even the Louvre has burned several times.
War, however, has historically left much of Paris unscathed. Valaire described the french as people who’ve been conquered so often they’d rather not bother fighting. “France will be french regardless of who is printing the money,” she said. And she asserted the opinion that France was actually a nicer place to live when everyone was afraid of being indiscriminately executed.
Most Parisian architecture follows neatly into a theme that’s distinctly it’s own. It’s not possible to ignore the similarities other cities bear to Paris. It may be the most imitated place on the planet. Traces of cities wandered through my mind. As we slipped from one neighborhood to the next images from the world washed over me. There were streets of three-to-five floored structures that passed us to rows of little two-storied maisonettes that slid into mixed walks of both, some boulevards of gracefully planted trees, some lined by birches on the walk. Nearly every street has storefronts along the sidewalks, sometimes under professional offices, sometimes under apartments.
Toronto, Quebec City, New Orleans, even Manhattan and San Francisco, so distinct themselves, owe Paris, in their quiet parks and their bustling restaurants, in the noisy streets and on the sleeping sidewalks.
The life of a city takes on its own distinct personality, and the entire civilized world owes Paris a gratitude. It was in cities like that where society first began to deal with the modern pleasures and problems of dense populations. And Paris has always had its fair share of eccentrics. Lo and behold I found one.
I noticed we’d been walking a while in silence. I’d become a bit consumed with everything around me. I heard the wind rustling through the streets and the cats scurrying behind trash cans. The sky was running from the deep violet night into the pale blue of dawn. Like light I could almost see people dreaming behind closed doors. I could feel their hearts pumping and the air was thick with the smell of —
“It is beautiful, no?”
I looked back to find her holding her arms wide above her head. We were in a small park. It sat where three streets intersected forming a perfect triangle. In its center was a small pentagonal gazebo, only five feet across and perhaps ten feet tall. It had the feeling of quiet one feels just before passing out from a sharp blow to the head. I felt very uneasy.
“Do you remember this place?” she asked.
“No. I’ve never been here before,” I said. I was looking up at the trees swaying gently over my head. The yard was lit by the reflection of flood lights on the tree bottoms.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, yeah… I mean, I’ve only been to Paris once before today, and I spent that day trying to find paintings that are in Italy.” I was walking backward, spinning slowly around and around.
It did somehow seem familiar. But I knew I’d never been to that part of Paris before. I could almost imagine it in the daylight but it was darkness that made it seem so comfortable. The walks led away from the gazebo, but there were no walks around the park, just a tall wrought iron fence perched on a small stone wall. There was an odor of birch burning in the air and something else… a smell I couldn’t identify. I closed my eyes and tried to place it. It brought images of calm summer nights and lightning, raindrops and hot dry ground. I remembered sleeping on the cold earth. I could feel the dew on my face.
“Trouble?” she shook me by both shoulders. I was totally startled. I’d become entranced.
“Oh, sorry, I uh – I guess my mind wandered a bit.”
She smiled. “Yes, Trouble, maybe you should get some rest.”
“Rest? Wait. You said you wanted to show me something.”
“And I did.” She turned and pointed at a sign behind her that bore the large ‘M’ logo of the Paris Métro.
“This line runs by your hotel. Jump off at the station Maubert-Mutualité. It is a block from there.”
“That’s it? You drag me all over Paris for a train ride?”
She turned back to me and placed a hand beside my face, gently pushing my hair back and kneading the muscles in the back of my neck. My eyes closed as I thought how tense and tired I was. I felt her move close, her lips passing mine like a kiss, and I heard her whispering, “Go and dream, American. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next thing I remember was Henri letting me into my room.