I’ve been lucky enough not only to visit Paris but also to return pretty often.
Each time I come here, I’m surprised by the same set of contrasts with my home town of Boulder. Even though I should know better and remember, I’m still dazzled. I’ll list them here.
Now, my Parisian friends would read this skeptically, present counter examples, and scoff, lightly but politely, but they’d scoff. Familiarity breeds knowledge as well as contempt. But first impressions bring a freshness with them that can fade over time.
So here’s what struck me this time, straight out of the gates of Charles de Gaulle airport.
Thin. Parisians are slender, slim, thin and fat free. As a group. Old men all look like The Rolling Stones, only with regular clothes. Women of a certain age weigh what they must have as blushing girls at high school. Sure, not all of them are whippet thin. But you don’t see the supersized bodies you see down at the local shopping mall.
Warm. Couples are physically affectionate. Pairs walk arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand, or one arm draped over a shoulder. They lean languorously on each other, share private jokes. Back home, sure, you’ll see teenagers all over each other, hungry. But here, it’s an all-ages pastime, and there’s an easy sensuality and warmth. This includes same sex couples now.
Smoke. Cigarettes and cigarette smoke. Far fewer people smoke than even a few years ago. But far more smoke here than in my crunchy hometown. All ages, too — college-aged girls, crusty and creaky old guys, nervous middle-aged ladies in navy blue.
Dress. People, generally, dress deliberately. You don’t see a lot of tailoring or suits. But it does look as if most people figured out how to look good, spent a few minutes before a mirror, and made an effort. You have high end ladies of a ferocious and strict elegance with large sunglasses, discreet pearls, Hermes scarves, wool skirts and so on. You also see your dandified dudes.
On the other extreme, you see track suits here and there. Dammit. But then to balance these out: Miniskirts. Really short miniskirts.
Warm, part two. The women at the bakery hand you fresh baguettes still warm from the oven.
Scent. Olfactory feast. In Colorado, we live in a semi-arid climate. The air’s so dry, it doesn’t carry many fragrances. Some, yes, and the good ones include pine after rain, sage, earth, stone, and, if you’re close enough, Chanel 19. One of the stenches is weed. Or car exhaust.
But apart from those, it’s a fairly sterile, odorless place. Here, in Paris, you’re overwhelmed.
Yeast and sugar from bakeries. Cigars. Perfumes, nice ones from Hermes and Guerlain, linger on the air. Linden leaves, a leathery cologne, thyme, and, whew, a cheese store.
That’s all in one long city block.
Oh, and the whole body odor cliché? It’s November, so it’s unlikely. But in general, it’s exaggerated, especially lately.
Covid. Not so much. The rules here are the same as at home. You wear a mask indoors in shops and offices and on public transportation. You show your sanitary pass, or health passport, a QR code, and you can eat a meal without a mask or sip coffee outside, no problem. Tents for rapid testing have popped up outside of some pharmacies. You roll in, get the test and receive the results in 10 minutes.
Juice. This is a tricky one, so hang in with me here. First, all people deserve freedom and dignity, and people should be able express themselves and their gender as they wish. But I have to say, Frenchmen seem more masculine and Frenchwomen much more feminine than in Boulder and Denver. In general. They have more … juice.
As the Russians say, the men seem like cats that can still catch mice. The women, too.
That’s enough for now. If you were to get off a flight and stroll around a few avenues and boulevards, you might have a completely different set of impressions.
And you should. Fly on over. Sniff the air, walk a little, and tell me what you think. We’ll both be richer for it.