Americans in Paris

Being an American in Paris, I think you’re supposed to go about your day with the same thought always in mind: I’m living in Paris! I’m living in Paris! There must be an exclamation point, otherwise all of our non-Paris-abiding American friends will wonder what the hell is wrong with you- I mean come on, you’re living in Paris!. But you can get used to a place. Especially in January.

It’s now February 9th and I’m dropping the exclamation point.
I don’t forget that I’m in the most fabulous City of Lights which is the romance capital of the world and the heart of fashion and culture etc etc. But this isn’t what I notice in my routine quotidian.

What I see is the 18th century buildings from the time of the village d’Auteuil, and I like that. I like that all of our boucheries and boulangeries and pharmacies are simply named after our neighborhood landmarks (Auteuil, Eglise, Bois). Even though I do most of my shopping at the Monoprix, reminiscient of a more grocery-centered Target in the States, I like that other people do shop at the overpriced local epiceries, and I do visit the local market once a week or so, overcoming my fear of speaking French in front of all of the bourgeouis women and couples who have been coming here for decades.

On a Sunday I like to visit the part of the Bois de Boulogne which makes me think I’m in the country, neglected and surrounded by faded fields and stunted trees, with a dilapidated building overlooking the crumbling pavement I’m biking on. You can’t see Paris from here and you can’t see the sprawling banlieu on the other side.

Which I think signifies my problem. Because even though it’s Paris, which is supposed to be perfect, nothing is in fact perfect. I don’t like turning the corner from my cute little Auteuil to see the 15-story concrete apartment buildings built in the 1970s. Maybe they’re not so bad looking, but I like the little views I see to continue. I’m not a big fan of the image of Paris in its entirety--I would like the little postcard images of Paris to spread out from the center and take over the whole city.

That would bring back my exclamation point. But what the exclamation point really signifies is an imaginary place, the Paris of Americans’ dreams, one that actually exists to a certain extent, probably to an extent closer than any other city in the world, but it’s still just that. Paris is a city, with all its people, with problems, dirt (la propete: on a tous la responsibilite) and bad drivers. Which is why the Parisiens who can regularly take their many vacation days and “partient a la campagne.”

Maybe that’s just what I need to do, in February, when it’s still cold and dim and I can’t figure out how to feel the dream again. Go to the country to recover my Paris!.