Fall in Paris

Five years ago, when my family spent two weeks in Paris, I remember looking around at the majesty of Notre Dame and the intricacies of the Chateau de Versailles and feeling so numb to the beauty of it all.  It was a wonderful trip fully of selfies with Dad in berets, ice cream along the Seine, crêpes in the park, and laugh until you cry moments at La Tour Eiffel.  Despite the silly times we had, I just didn't understand why the world had dubbed Paris the "City of Love”.  Perhaps it was a combination of my ignorance of the place’s history, slight culture shock, and the stiflingly dirty air.  All I know is that when we left from Charles de Gaulle, I thought I would be content to never return to the city.

My recent move to France, however, paired with the newly established TGV (speed train) direct line from Bordeaux to Paris, made it so convenient that I knew it wouldn't be long before I returned.  When searching for the cheapest way to get to Amsterdam for fall break, my roommate, Hannah, and I decided to take a long layover in Paris and booked a hostel for two nights.

As we strolled along the Seine that first morning in the sprinkling chilly air, I couldn’t help but note how different my perspective was.  I was swooned by the romanticism around me.  The trees were yellowing and the willow trees were so artfully draped in the water.  The way they framed Notre Dame was like a dream; it was hard to believe that such charm could fall into place in this same Paris from a few years back.

On the train ride into the city, I had begun reading Dicken’s “A Tale of Two Cities” and as we sat under a canopy outside a café protected from the rain, I imagined Madame Defarge appearing on the side streets.  In taking a wrong turn, Hannah and I stumbled on one of the famous cafés where James Baldwin wrote while seeking refuge from a segregated America in the 40s.  Looking out the top floor window of the old rail station refurbished as Musée d’Orsay, I was carried back to the rooftop scene in Phantom of the Opera where Christine and Raoul stood above the same cityscape.

Pairing the rich literary past with the violent and long history of the city, it became harder for me to separate the present day from years past.  Crossing the muddy Seine, my skin prickled imagining it red with the blood of Christian men and women fighting to claim their rights as Protestants and Catholics.  The cobblestone on either side of the bridges was washed decades later after being soaked with the blood of the people and the nobility brutally fighting for power and freedom. 

It was the beauty of these stories, the old ghosts of Paris, that created the enchantment for me this time around.  It was even lovelier to pair the famous stories with those closer to my own. On the second afternoon, we set off along the Seine once more to dig up some family history.  

 With red geraniums dotting the sill of every window and the tasteful floral antiques inside, Hotel San Regis was perfectly elegant.  Sixty years ago, my English grandfather had made his livelihood there.  He would work all hours of the day and night, sleeping behind the bar until the French government chased him, pockets full of cash, out of the country.  It was only shortly after that he immigrated to America.

Hannah and I had the chance to sit and fantasize about how the place must have been at that time.  We left the place full of smiles and trinkets from the generous old barman and continued making our way back along the river to the train station—headed off to The Netherlands.