Dreaming the Mythical France: Paris

Abobe Stock photo (Stockbym)

Day by day, I scroll through social media, gazing at photos of Paris. The Paris I see in these glossy portfolios is my Paris. And, again, it’s not. I see few images of the banlieues, Belleville, Drancy, the blocks of high rises flanking the highway from Charles De Gaulle airport to the center of Paris.

And another thing about Paris today that has changed since my very first foray through Paris by car, without a map, just a sort of by guess and by gosh, with a few prayers thrown in.

The lines, the crowds, the shorts, the tank tops, the grinning faces, the selfies.

Although there’s Disneyland Paris, I cannot imagine going to the center of Western culture and wasting my time at Disneyland.

Now Paris may mean a lot of things to a lot of people. Disneyland Paris is not one of them. At least not for me.

The lines, the crowds, the shorts, the tank tops, the grinning faces, the selfies.

But Paris is worth a mass, as Henri IV, or Henri of Navarre quipped. Henri became a Catholic so he could become king. Put in more secular terms, Paris is worth standing in lines for the Louvre or the Orsay or any number of other historical landmarks, giving up valuable time for something greater, larger, and ultimately longer lasting.

I discovered a copy of Don’t Be a Tourist in Paris in the apartment I rented in the 15th Arrondissement on my last trip to Paris. Unfortunately, there’s no Kindle version. This 368-page book weighs 2.15 pounds, hardly the thing to haul up the many steps to Montmartre or during a grand tour of the Louvre or even a leisurely evening on one of the Bateaux Mouches on the Seine.

On a recent trip to Paris, I explored a unique museum, at 23 Rue de Sévigné, the Hôtel des Ligneris (also known as the Musée Carnavalet), dedicated to the history of Paris. The crowds were manageable. I enjoyed being in the Marais, where I bought a chocolate brownie-like thing at the Boulangerie Muricano at 16 rue des Rosiers. The dark history of this area under the Nazis was never far from my thoughts, though.

Of course, I missed so much, including the Musée d’Edith Piaf. Maybe next time.

In a roundabout way, I did pay tribute to “la môme piaf” (The Little Sparrow), as Piaf’s fans called her.

Every time I visit Paris, I make my way to one of the most famous cemeteries in the world, the Père Lachaise cemetery.

And there she was. Nestled among so many Parisian greats that it would take days to comb through all the trails and byways of this immense monument to the dead souls of Paris.

Just listen.

For all of you who love Paris, but now prefer to armchair travel for whatever reason, you will find treasure in the pages of Don’t Be a Tourist in Paris.

I certainly do!