Why Paris?

The moment I told him Paris, his face changed to a look of barely hidden disgust. The house warming party we'd both been invited to swirled around us. People in the kitchen debated loudly about the drawbacks of a traditional sexual ethic; partygoers in the living room flipped through a book of Vivian Meier's street photography; a woman breastfed her child in the corner; friends of mine stood in a circle near the table laden with all sorts of food one might bring to a house warming party: crackers and cheese, trays of vegetables and fruit, chips and salsa, still piping hot chicken wings, etc. My interlocutor and I stood in the corner, sipping on some grapefruit-gin concoction, exchanging facts about ourselves as one does at parties in order to keep conversation afloat. Since I'd recently quit my job at the bank, I could no longer use this as my go-to identity marker ("It isn't something I love but I'm grateful for the job. And the company is good to me.") so I offered up my upcoming trip to Paris.

Of all the places, he said. It's dirty and the French are rude and everyone hates Americans and the Eiffel Tower is an abysmal architectural eye-sore. After a moment of thought he conceded that the food was good and that the churches were some of the most beautiful the world over, but the fact that one might choose Paris over Rome or Berlin or literally any other place in Europe boggled his mind. And to go there longer than a week made my decision even more mysterious.

He is not the only one to question my choice in Paris. It's usually the perceived hatred of Americans that sits at the center of their argument. Or they've heard from friends who spent a week there that the city is dirty and one must walk everywhere. Why Paris? is the question on everyone's lips. I'll tell you.

A romantic fog has forever enshrouded the city of Paris. Lovers standing on a bridge overlooking the Seine; business men and women with espressos and newspapers at the cafe; cobblestone streets at midnight, streetlamps bright like stars had descended upon the city; early morning boulevards infused with the smell of croissants in the oven. It's a difficult image to live up to. But it's the possibility of catching a glimpse of that city, of feeling the city aware of me for a moment, her hand outstretched and full of visions. What if, on a quiet streetcorner, I'm, as Annie Dillard puts it, "knocked breathless by a powerful glance"? The vision of a truer city bubbling up and spilling over. In the imagination of many before me, Paris is replete with such visions so why would I go elsewhere? Why search for a well in the wilderness when there are rumors of water just over the hill?

A desire to follow American writers who saw Paris as, to use Hemingway's image, "a moveable feast", lies near the center of my journey as well. The city of inspiration. The city of lights. The city of love. It's that romantic view again, isn't it? Idealism can only result in disappointment, right? Only if that idealism is separated from the world. Perhaps my idealism is a form of love that focuses me on the everyday so I don't miss anything, like washing a sooty window in hopes that one day I might see out of it onto the streets below.

In line with Hemingway's appropriation of a liturgical image, there's a biblical image I want to use in hopes of clarifying my choice. It is the idea of a New Jerusalem, coming down from heaven, the city and heart that every city and heart longs for. It is reality transfigured. This is the Paris I hope to glimpse, not one of completion or perfection. The Paris that exists in reality apart from my dreams is the vessel, the lightbulb awaiting the electrical current. To say it is dirty thus not worth one's time is ridiculous. It is the dirty and mundane through which the visions come, not despite of it.

I couldn't say all of this to my new acquaintance, so I nodded my head and said I understood. I'm going because I want to, I said. It's hard to argue with that even if it is just the tip of the iceberg. I'm going to Paris for the revelations, and if they do not come I'll stay for the croissants.