Strolling through Parisian Streets
Paris in November is as magical as it is in the spring, although it is a different kind of magic. The multi-hued leaves falling in the wind along the banks of the Seine set off by light grey skies that only highlight a black and white effect of the skyline with the leaves as dots of color as in a Cezanne painting. I love being in this city. Its wide boulevards, complements of Baron Haussmann’s right bank remodeling efforts in the 19th C., and narrow alleyways throughout the St. Michel and San Germaine now very touristy districts on the left bank provide unending avenues of sensory delight. The restaurants, cafes, and bistros cover the gamut of the world’s cuisines, while the shops do the same for anything one could possibly want to buy – which is not to say that anything is affordable. But this is a fabulous city for window-shopping. Many of the stores make a special effort to dress their windows in the most amazing ways. These are not just windows with mannequins showing off the clothing or accessories for sale, but artworks in their own right. They range from kids’ stores with almost life-sized stuffed and moving tigers, lions, elephants and giraffes to jewelry stores that display their wares in a way that forms a flowing painting of gold and gemstones. In between the elegant shops are the souvenir stalls, which as almost everywhere else, all sell basically the same thing for about the same prices. They do offer a difference in selection between Spring/Summer and Winter/Fall, though. In the winter the hats, gloves and warmer scarves hang on the movable racks, whereas in the summer there were sunglasses, sun hats and light scarves. The majority of the wares, including kitchen magnets, shot glasses, coaster sets, bags of all sorts, hoodies, t-shirts, and hundreds of little Eiffel Tower trinkets remain in stock year in year out.
This dichotomy of junk and elegance is echoed in other ways as well. The homeless and drunk find a patch of sidewalk or a doorstep to sleep in while women in absurdly expensive soft lambskin coats and spiked heeled knee-length leather boots walk by. Most of the people on the streets are tourists, students, or normal working people of all professions. How some of them can afford the items in the stores is a mystery to me. Luckily there are a number of second hand shops with very nice and often unworn clothing.
Paris’ reputation for high fashion is well earned, and there are those who carry it off well, but like in the rest of the world on the streets skin tight jeans and baggy hoodies have replaced dresses and skirts for women. The only difference between the sexes is that the young men where very baggy jeans and the older ones those that are somewhat more fitted. I did see more men in tailored woolen slacks and malleable leather semi-pointed soft-hued shoes here than I have anywhere else, including in London.
There is a definite social hierarchy in this city, perhaps a remnant of the past, but it is a fluid one. The starving Parisian artist is a cliché, but nonetheless, Picasso and his friends all fit that description when they were in their twenties. A few decades later they were the ones with the fancy shoes, setting the style for fashion. This is a city that fosters innovation and free thinkers. Parisians have always pushed the boundaries of the conventionally accepted, and have done so by converting the establishment. Only when conversion didn’t work, did they opt for revolution and chop off a few thousand heads.
Leisurely ambling through central Parisian alleyways people watching, window gazing and fantasizing about the lives of the artists who lived, loved and created some of the most influential works in Western culture is a true delight. Every corner has a story. The city is a poem, at times tragic, at times lyric, but always with a bit of sarcastic humor that slices to the core. It is a magnet that pulls in the imagination, while it repulses those who don’t succumb to its charms. It is a city to keep coming back to.
