Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluie,
Et s'est vêtu de broderie,
De soleil luisant, clair et beau.
Il n'y a bête ni oiseau
Qu'en son jargon ne chante ou crie:
« Le temps a laissé son manteau!
~ “Rondeau,” Charles D’Orleans (1394-1465)
I had forgotten how beautiful Paris is. And yes, I am horrified by that statement.
In consequence of doing exactly what I swore I wouldn’t do in Paris—taking far too many classes—I have spent the past two months semi-hibernating in my little corner of Parisian suburbia (aka the Left Bank) and cramming as much information into my head as I can fit. But, as Michel de Montaigne wisely taught me today, action and experience are much more important than random knowledge.
Dear Readers, I have rediscovered Paris.
To be entirely truthful, Paris more or less hit me over the head with its sprightly, spring-y glory until I saw the light. It brought out its greenery, and its street performers of various caliber but universal enthusiasm, and its warm, warm weather. It brought out posters for new, exciting destinations and happenings. Heaven help me, it brought out daffodils.
So, as a way of making amends, I set out to have a Paris day—a day of no particular plans, simply whatever Paris had in store for me. The best kind of day, in other words.
It was the day of wandering, wide-eyed, down familiar boulevards, because I had forgotten about that store and this park and that restaurant with the roasting pig out front. It was passing Notre Dame and getting sidetracked by a group of French Christian fundamentalists dancing in the central plaza, while spectators of all backgrounds and religions applauded. It was standing inside that tubular opus, le Centre Pompidou, and staring at art installations in the company of befuddled elementary-schoolers. It was pondering the peculiarly pleasant scent of magnolia trees and of butter and buckwheat wafting from a thousand crêpe stands. It was popping into the ever-enchanting Shakespeare & Co. and gobbling down half a biography of James Joyce (and realizing how deeply weird, yet deeply brilliant he was).
And it was walking back through Luxembourg, the acknowledged barometer of the Parisian state of mind, and knowing that I was home.
The Parisians and I are pretty much in accord about our feelings toward spring. In the sunshine, we all become as glowingly, drunkenly happy as a pack of singing Muppets. The park suddenly looks like something vaguely out of Seurat’s La Grande Jatte, people sprawled across the lawn, dogs yipping at each other, and picnics spread out in all directions. Every once-vacant chair has been colonized by rears, aching feet, and not a few bottles of wine. The children are out in full force, followed by an entourage of grandparents and nannies (with some tearful introductions of face to gravel along the way). The statues of the French queens ringing the central basin, which appeared so imposing during the winter months, now just look silly, in the face of the surrounding exuberance.
It makes me ache a little to realize that I had forgotten all of this. But then I sit down to watch the proceedings, and everything settles into place. I may not have much time to write about Paris, but I will make time for her. After all, isn’t that what every epic relationship needs?
