Via Prague

PARIS – The irony was palpable.

I mean, this is a dream I’ve had for as long as I can remember, seeing Paris for the first time.

The City of Light was the dream of haunted youth: strolling along the wide pavements of the Boulevard du Montparnasse in the manner of my literary heroes; sitting and reading in the Luxembourg Gardens; breathing in the smells of fresh pastries from the shops, enjoying an aperitif in a café, gazing with wonder at Notre Dame and the Place de Concorde.

But to be honest, my lifelong admiration for France, and Europe in general, have taken a beating the past few years, largely because of the dramatic rise in anti-Americanism fed by the war. I guess you could say I felt cheated, like the kid in “Breaking Away,” the one who worships Italian culture, only to be snubbed in the most brutal fashion when he finally realizes his dream of racing with the Italian bicycle team.

So when I arrived last Friday, my excitement was tempered by the possibility of a final and complete disillusionment. It is with a happy heart that I am able to report that that didn’t happen. Quite the contrary. If anything, I found new reasons not only to renew my old romance with France; more importantly, perhaps, I found reasons to renew my affection for that other country close to my heart across the Atlantic.

Looking out from the Tuileries Gardens toward the Champs Elysees, your vision is arrested by two mammoth objects commanding the horizon: the Eiffel Tower, which shocked the world at the 1889 World’s Fair in Paris; and a replica of the giant Ferris wheel that American engineer George Ferris – in answer to the French engineering marvel – unveiled at the World’s Fair in Chicago four years later.

The two together create a powerful visual symbol of the relationship between the two sister republics: a dynamic synergy. We rival only each other in our flair for the original, the impossible, the dramatic, the sublime and very often the ridiculous.

Later that same day, crossing back over the Seine near the Museum d’Orsay, I came upon a statue of Thomas Jefferson, who in one hand holds his famous document declaring the Rights of Man. It was nice to see the French have reserved for Jefferson, who introduced many things French to America, including some of its architecture, ice cream and the ideas of Rousseau and Montesquieu, such a prominent place in the city. Jefferson’s memorial stands beside a bridge, another perfect symbol, for there can be few people, except LaFayette, who so perfectly connects our two histories, peoples, ideals and destinies.

I must say I was surprised, given the high gastronomic standards of the French, to come across a fair number of Starbucks and McDonalds, all of them crowded, but I’ll give the French credit. The McDs across the street from the Louvre has to be the most stylish and aesthetically pleasing McDonalds I’ve ever seen – the Golden Arches blends seamlessly into the Classical stone arches of the nearby architecture. I’m serious. Forward a copy to the City of Eureka’s Design Review team. Learn from the French on how to make even a fast food restaurant look tres chic.

Even our complaints have a familiar ring. One evening I was sitting on a terrace at La Rotonde, a famous old café in Montparnasse that was a favourite spot for the personal pantheon of my youthful heroes: Pablo Picasso, Claude Debussy, George Gershwin and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Historically, it was a place to sit for hours, smoke drifting over the conversations of art and literature. Now, you can’t smoke, except on the terrace, and everything is so expensive most young people can afford to stay for only one drink.

“I am from Marseilles,” said one French guy, as he and two girls sat at the terrace. “There it is much more free. Here in Paris it is not free anymore.”

“What do you mean?” one of the girls asked.

He shrugged in the usual French way. “Too many rules for everything.”

“In California too,” I commiserated.

Another thing, now that I think about it: I came to Paris fully prepared for everyone to be rude, especially since my French consists of little more than bonsoir, merci and souflee. Maybe I just caught the French on an off day (it is the down season after all) but not only was everyone I met willing to speak English, but also friendly, polite and helpful. How about that?

Or this: My host, Renaud, who teaches science and mathematics at a trade school in Paris, listened the other night to my experiences in the city so far. I told him I certainly loved seeing all the famous landmarks, walking through the arrondissements, and just being in the city, but it was a shame I couldn’t really afford to enjoy French dining. That evening, Renaud busied himself in the kitchen, with an almost patriotic fervor. Two hours later we started with fois gras, or duck’s liver, then for the main course sausage with lentils, a recipe unique to his family in Avignon, and served with a baguette. We moved on to fresh fruit and wrapped up with an endive salad. It was by far the best meal I have had in years. Renaud shrugged off my compliments with a modest smile.

“It is our national honor at stake – you must have at least one good French meal when you are here.” I honestly don’t think he was joking.

When we met outside his apartment building on the southeast side of the city Monday evening, Renaud apologized, as he had done in his emails, for having “such a little flat.” I told him a free roof was a free roof and not to apologize. When we got upstairs, he handed a set of keys to me. He had arranged, as it turns out, to stay upstairs at a friend’s flat – out of concern for my comfort – and was leaving the entire flat to me, a guy he scarcely knew at all. He showed me the shower, the bed, where the tea and coffee were, even his laptop and TV, and his number to call if I had any problems.

After he left, I settled in for the evening. It was infinitely more comfortable than the hostel I’d stayed at the previous night. I couldn’t help but think of that wonderful last line from “Casablanca,” when the American, Rick, says to the French Captain Renault:

“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a warm and beautiful friendship.”

Yes, times are changing. There are certainly those who would say that in this age of geopolitics, globalization, terrorism and rapidly shifting alliances, one cannot afford to be sentimental. It’s a different world; it’s no time to quote “Casablanca.”

But our oldest ally faces many of the same challenges, challenges of a society faced with change. Like many Americans, the French can be notoriously resistant, e.g. the smoking ban in cafes, when for so long the smoky café has been a part of French, especially Parisian, lifestyle. For some, this may sound trivial, but it points to broader changes. Like America, the French are dealing with globalization, immigration, health care reform, and inflation. These issues have several times in the past year reached boiling points, such as the outrage in the Muslim community surrounding the deaths of two Muslim youths pursued by police on the city’s north side last year, and more recently, strikes by public transportation employees, which forced thousands of working citizens to walk to work.

There are those who would say that the old Paris, the place where, as Henry Adams famously quoted, good Americans go when they die, lives more in books and films than in reality these days. But you’d have a hard time convincing me to swear by it. Even amidst change, Paris is eternal. If you don’t believe me, take a walk in the Luxembourg Gardens on a sunny day and check out the Rodin statues. Or try Renaud’s cooking.

James Tressler covered government and politics for the Times-Standard from 2000 to 2004. He is now a teacher, writer and journalist living in Prague.