Ode to Paname

I reconnected with an old friend in SF last night, and one of the first things she said to me was, “I read your blog for a couple months when you first started it, and I thought, ‘Jess is miserable there. All she does is complain about it.’ So I stopped reading it altogether.”

Huh. I wasn’t so much offended by her remark as I was taken aback. Really? Did I “French out” and shout my complaints from the blogosphere rooftops? Yeah, maybe a little, but not constantly and always with humor. However, as a stereotypical “positive American,” this post is my proof to the world that I do not use the blog as a vehicle to kvetch. Because, truly, doesn’t everyone want to hear you gush when you’re inevitably asked, “How’s Paris?” And so here it is, my light and fluffy treatise on the things I’ll miss the most about "Paname."

When my sister visited during our last week in Paris, I realized that every time I uttered the phrase, “This is one of my favorite spots in the city,” I was standing in a garden or park. I’ve always been attracted to green spaces; part of the reason I love SF so much is that it marries the urban and the natural so well. But Paris takes the art of landscaping to a whole new level. Whether the simple symmetry of the 18th century buildings, arcades, and rows of shady trees forming the perimeter of the Place des Vosges; the cheerful flowers at Parc Monceau and the Tuileries; the multi-faceted wonderland of the Jardins du Luxembourg; or the red ivy spilling down the old walls of the Carnavalet gardens, I ache for the rare and hence overwhelmingly delicious bursts of color on the Paris landscape, manicured to breathtaking effect.

I will also miss the art of la table. I appreciate how much energy the French put into food preparation and presentation—it all matters and therefore if it takes time, it’s worth it. I loved strolling down the streets of Paris and gazing into the vitrines to find the latest work of patisserie perfection. How does Pierre Hermé manage to get that syrupy dew drop to stay flawlessly posed in the edible rose petal topping his raspberry crème pastry? What’s in Michel Cluizel’s secret sauce that makes gold-dusted chocolate even possible?! You know, people would say when I first moved to Paris, “You must be indulging in pastry 24-7.” In fact, I didn’t indulge in eating the pastry regularly, but rather I indulged in eye candy on a daily basis. That’s one thing that is absent from daily life in America. We do have excellent food, but that level of French elegance is hardly part of la vie quotidienne.

Speaking of food, there’s nothing like walking past a boulangerie, just for the smell of the best bread in the world baking to golden completion. Even the best French-style bakery in the States doesn’t come close. I am also sad to have said goodbye to the good folks at Chez Omar, our local cous cous joint celebré. Not only did we love the food and worship at the feet of their harissa (the only surefire spicy food to be found in Paris), but the restaurant was also kind of our Cheers—they all knew us there and loved to joke around with us and call N ‘l’arab’ because of his part-Syrian heritage. It’s the kind of convivial relationship with local merchants that’s not guaranteed in Paris.

However, that’s not to say we only experienced it over cous cous. Our butchers were jolly and kind, our greengrocer sweet and thoughtful, but no one made me smile as much as my local pharmacist. “Heeeeeeeeh-lllllloooooooooooooo, Miz Jessica Mordo!” he exclaimed every time I walked in to refill my allergy med prescription, followed by him belting out a random show tune (occasionally with jazz hands). We established early on that I was an American who lived in SF and grew up in NYC, and that he was an extra-fabulous, rabid Broadway musical/New York/Castro District fan. We instantly got along. Plus he was the only other person in my neighborhood aside from me who felt no compunction about wearing gym-style clothes in public. Without fail, every time I went into his shop, he was wearing basketball shorts and a tight, white tank top. I think he just wanted to show off his buff physique.

And another thing I’ll ache for? In America, we are in the shallow end of the pool in terms of living history. Europe is the deep end of the ocean by comparison. I’ll miss turning a corner and discovering yet another Gothic church or 18th –century hôtel. My personal favorite is the Église de St-Germain, which was built in 586 A.D. (I mean, COME ON!) and now stands beside a Christian Dior boutique. (How’s that for incongruity?) I’ll truly miss walking (always walking! I’ll also miss living car-free) around the narrow, cobbled streets of the Marais and imagining the centuries’ worth of characters, plot arcs, and changes in setting over the course of l’histoire.

The hardest part of leaving any place, though, is not the sights and smells and random acquaintances, but the deeper relationships you created that make it home. I already miss my lovely French and expat friends and hope to lure them over for a SF visit sometime before we make it back to France—which hopefully won’t be for too, too long.