If you’ve never yet been to Paris, stop what you’re
doing immediately and go. The song praises ‘April in Paris’, but you could
substitute any month, with the possible exception of August, when the Parisians
themselves are on holiday and the place is taken over by foreigners (like me). Paris is magical – it has
beauty, history, romance, freedom, love, art, architecture, nobility, humanity
– as well as excellent food and even better wine.
I want to share just one of the days my
wife and I spent there on our last visit. After breakfast at a terrasse looking
onto the Luxembourg
fountain, we wandered through the Jardins du Luxembourg. London
boasts (justifiably) of its parks but those in Paris are of a different order. Dappled
shade, all the usual impressionist stuff, trees and open spaces. People
everywhere but no sense of crowding. On the pond, model boats, especially two
magnificent schooner rigs. Bizarrely, one guy preferred his submarine. It was
big and painted the usual sinister black. He launched it; it set out across the
pond then it submerged. I need someone to explain to me what pleasure he got
out of that. It had a mast thing (presumably an aerial for the radio controls)
on the conning tower. On top of that was a tiny green square of material. And
that was all you could see, moving along about two inches above the surface.
There were the ripples of the wake but no sign of the boat.
All around the edge of the water, very
young kids perched and leaned, their parents either deep in chat with friends
or welded to a mobile (cell phone) – an obvious demonstration of the French passion
for individual freedom. ‘If le petit Bertrand, aged 2, wants to topple into the
pond, that’s his inalienable right.’ None did.
Everywhere under the trees – nearby and in
the distance – groups of slowly moving Taekwondo practitioners wove their
moves. Others performed slow rituals with actual swords, sliding them so close
to their bodies that I was surprised the ground wasn’t littered with ears,
slices of buttock or other, even more important organs. There were donkeys,
ponies, families, couples, readers, joggers, walkers. People sat on the
hundreds of chairs spread around the place – so much more inviting than fixed
benches. The sun was hot and ‘le tout Paris’
was there enjoying it.
We wandered away, down the rue Bonaparte
and past a shop I always need to look at. This time in the window there were
letters from Louis XIII, the Empress Josephine, Zola, Montesquieu, Sartre and
others. Then along the Seine past the Museé
d’Orsay, across the river to the Louvre and the Rue de Rivoli. There, as we
stood waiting to cross, two young French women asked us the way to the Louvre.
We were able to point to the building opposite and say that’s it. I’m not
implying they were dumb or anything. It’s just that, around the back and sides,
away from the glass pyramid and the amazing approach to the Palais du Louvre,
it looks like everything else.
But it still makes Buckingham Palace
look like a shed. When I look at the vastness and the glory of the construction,
with all the statues and columns and gothic frilly bits, I have conflicting
feelings. First, it’s a triumph, a glorious demonstration of what humans can
do. Second, it was all built so that one individual who got lucky because the
right sperm and egg fused could say ‘Hey, look how cool I am’. On this day of
sun, however, the guy’s hubris was forgiven. The palace that people had built
for him looked magnificent.
I forgot to mention that, at various points
in our meanderings, we’d stop and marvel at the number of significant places we
could see around the skyline. Paris
is stuffed with them – our particular count on this trip was the Panthéon, the
Eiffel Tower (of course), Notre Dame, the Tour St Jacques, the Grand Palais and
even, way up north, the Sacré Coeur.
And on and on.
Then, six o’clock, in the tiny church of St
Julien-le-Pauvre, the requisite bit of culture. We’d bought the cheapest
tickets for a Chopin recital by Teresa Czekaj. We were at the back and the side
and could only catch occasional glimpses of her head as she moved. Needless to
say, the performance was astonishing. It’s impossible to create so many complex
sounds at such speed with only ten fingers but she did it. But, in my
proletarian way and with an eye to which wine we’d try later, I couldn’t help
thinking that culture was a bit expensive. We’d paid 20 euros. Then, in the
interval, a man suggested we move into some of the empty seats up front. We did
so and it was an amazing experience for which I’d have paid twice as much. We
moved to a pair of chairs set beside a pillar at the side right at the front.
The piano was less than 5 metres away and Ms Czekaj was facing us. The pillar
hid the rest of the audience so it was as if she was playing just for us. We
saw the music in her face – she was smiling, angry, sad, serene – all sorts of
things, and it added a sort of commentary to the music itself, made it even
more affecting. And being so near to the Steinway, nothing was lost in the
acoustics of the church. The 40 minutes or so of that second half could have
been forty seconds or a month – everything was suspended.
Dinner at Balzar and a last wander up the
Boulevard St Michel through the still fascinating crowds. Not a bad day.
So if any of you are thinking of buying a
place there, I’d be happy to look after it for you while you’re away.
