Travelers' Tales Paris (29 page)

The two were as different as gruyère from gruel. One was tall and elegant with dark wavy hair. An architect, dressed in a chic suit, the other was short, fat and had a ruddy face. He appeared to be some sort of factory worker for he wore the blue working class jacket. In minutes we were drinking wine, enjoying mushy chow mein and listening to the men bemoan how Paris was no fun anymore as nowadays people were obsessed with making a living.

“
WHAT A PITY WE
'
VE FORGOTTEN THE ZANY LITTLE WAYS OF LIFE
!” the architect wailed and we all drank a toast to this loss, feeling giddy with joy.

As the evening wore on, I no longer cared that my intimate dinner had turned into a
tête à tête à tête à tête à tête
. We drank a lot of wine and laughed like crazy. In fact, the whole restaurant was a boat of merrymakers on the brink of capsizing.

When the lugubrious waiter asked if we'd like dessert, and I declined, the architect appeared offended.

“Do you mean to say, Madame, that you won't even try
la banane du chef
? It is the specialty of the house!”

“I don't have room for it,” I answered.

“Nonsense! No room! You will have the room when you taste it!”

“Very true,” the ruddy faced man said. “It tastes like nothing else in the world! Am I not right?” he asked the waiter. The waiter nodded as one might on identifying a body in the morgue.

“Why don't you try it, if it's that good?” Steve urged, knowing my fondness for sweets.

“I'll have
la banane du chef
,” I said to the waiter.

As conversation and wine flowed, it occurred to me (through a little haze) that this dessert was taking quite a long time. I was about to question the waiter when the lights in the restaurant went out, plunging us in darkness and causing a collective scream from the patrons. Then the kitchen door was flung open and our waiter walked through the black restaurant holding high a tray with a flaming dessert. Somberly he made his way to our table, guided by the blue-yellow light of the flames. He set the plate in front of me and announced gravely, “Madame,
la banane du chef!
” These words brought a hand-clapping and foot-stomping from the other diners. I looked down.

Banana fritters formed in the shape of a male's private parts.

Every eye in the place was on me, waiting for me to take a bite but I was giggling so much, I couldn't. At last, when I did take that first bite, loud cries of “Ooh La La!” went up and the lights came on. All four of us shared the dessert, which was delicious. After dinner, Steve took my hand and led me up rue Mouffetard. Up and up we wound our way through the medieval street. The night was bright with moonlight which gave the ancient gray houses the look of tarnished silver. We stopped and kissed, our bodies like clasped hands.

“Where are we going?” I whispered.

“You'll see.”

We threaded up and around some side streets until suddenly Paris was spread before us. How beautiful it looked then! Exactly like my idea of Paris. Like
everyone's
idea of Paris. Vibrant and askew. The gold-lit Eiffel tower tilted jauntily, and for a beret, wore
the moon. The
bâteaux mouches
were now spaceships floating on black iridescent ribbon, while at the Place de la Concorde, the obelisk was a rocket taking off. And far at the city's cusp sailed Sacré-Coeur—a white ship guided by stars. Yes, that night it seemed Paris, in sympathy with us, twinkled and trembled, and leaned too in fervent anticipation. An excited city listing toward love.

So if in the day, I recount some delightful French meal, shopping discovery, historical site or museum exhibit, you'll understand if I say that at night, a more passionate nostalgia beckons. At night, when I lie in my husband's arms, I need only whisper “Gucci Hootchie Kootchie” or “
l‘expédition scientifique
” or, if feeling particularly naughty, “
la banane du chef
” to lure us into the realm of memory. Lure us back to that long-ago couple, fearless and fanciful. Back to the quivering nights of a time-distant Paris when the air was dusty with miracles and the stars were hung lower. Closer to our hearts.

—Lawrence Durrell,
Spirit of Paris: Letters and Essays on Travel

CAILÍN BOYLE

I
LAND IN
F
RANCE AT THE AGE OF NINETEEN WITH A STUDENT
loan and the belief that an address in Paris is the precursor to a literary, artistic, or at least interesting life. I have come to attend the Sorbonne's French Language and Civilization program. One month in Paris and I too will be sitting in the cafés, draped in black, suffering through excessive bouts of second-hand smoke, looking bored—always bored—complaining how my life is so underfunded. My lips will be fantastically pouty. I will meet only fascinating people—the soon-to-be-famous—and have an immediate rapport with them. I will be welcomed into their tight weave of friendship, partially due to the above-mentioned pouty lips, and partially due to my ability to say outrageously witty and insightful things at the appropriate time.

None of these traits have ever formed any part of my existence prior to moving to Paris. Why I will suddenly transform into this stylish, clever person is an inconsistency I easily dismiss. Who needs logic when they have Paris?

The first month passes with the usual excitement and frustration of a new routine. And I find the shopping areas. I remind myself that I am here to learn the language. And maybe have a deeply
intriguing adventure. If I acquire a spectacular wardrobe and a sense of chic along the way, I won't complain.

I regularly deposit myself and my journal in a café to watch the world, and more importantly, the Parisians, pass. I am initially taken by the style and
je ne sais quoi
of the men. However, they are taken by the style and
je ne sais quoi
of the French women. So I too become a student of the women's ways.

After much study, I note in my journal, Things to Do to Become a Parisienne:

Always wear tight jeans. Anywhere and anyhow. A must. Even at funerals.

And heels. Podiatrists must retire early in France.

Have your hair managed. Stuck in place, really, so that it looks the same at 11:00 p.m. as it did at noon. In fact, it probably hasn't moved.

Make sure your earrings match something on your person. Or have a serious reason for wearing them.

Carry an overstuffed shoulder bag. Watch for signs of curvature of the spine.

Ensure your lips are always a deep red.

Never have an appetite.

And always wear a scarf. Preferably silk.

I believe that I am eight items away from being mistaken for a Françoise, or Michelle or Marie. I march off to the markets. Most of these prerequisites are for sale. I search out an oversized shoulder bag and a new collection of bright or bold earrings. I have never frolicked in the costume jewelry section before with so much determination. I have a mission.

Being cursed with curly hair, however, the Parisian women's ability to manage their tendrils is beyond comprehension. I drag myself to a hair salon, clutching a photo of Princess Stephanie of Monaco. She is my age and is always considered
à la mode
. Maybe I am only a haircut away. Instead, after a long conversation with
Pierre where I stress the need to be
bien coiffée
, he trims and poofs. I don't believe Stephanie ever poofs. She may slick and groom and pat, but never poof. I leave Chez Pierre with an extra three inches in height and a potential to be a hazard in the Métro. I cannot afford enough gel to tame my cut, and to give it that royal style. Maybe my hair will sense the Parisian-ness of the rest of me and fall into place. The rest of me will be easier to manage.

In between classes I wander the Latin Quarter—with my big Pierre hair, shoulder bag, and earrings—to observe the locals: what they wear, what they order at the cafés, how they carry themselves. This is the greatest classroom for me. At the Sorbonne I diligently conjugate my verbs, polish my pronunciation, and learn the social implications of the May ‘68 uprising. But my passion is for the lessons of the street, and the chicness that somehow comes with a French birth certificate.

Three months in Paris and I still look as if I belong at a right-wing political fund-raiser, rather than on the Left Bank. I realize that this transformation is not just going to happen. I must take action.

After class I traipse down to a shopping area, or the department stores. This is the pulsing, intoxicating, and free version of the fashion magazines. The most overwhelming of these shops is Galeries Lafayette. Eight stories of exclusiveness built around an atrium. I'm not sure it gets any better than that.

One afternoon I collect some nerve—or maybe the second installment of my student loan has come through—and I enter Galeries Lafayette with a purpose. A full makeover. To allow the most Gaullic of women to spread as many concoctions on my face as the surface area will allow. They seem to see me as a challenge, a mound of fresh clay to mold and manipulate. Foundations and creams and shadows and liners all find their way onto my face. And lipstick. The ubiquitous Parisian red. My face is cracking but my lips are pulsating with color as I ride the escalator to the section “20
ans
” where I plan to buy the remaining articles of a
de rigueur
wardrobe. It is time for the jeans and heels. I try. And try and try. But when you dwarf the men around you, the jeans don't have the
same effect. I totter in shoes that make me even taller, and pour into jeans that are meant to celebrate my natural lack of appetite. Instead they only cheer reinforced stitching. I decide to wear my new outfit out of the store. Onto the streets of the city I saunter, bottles of potions clanking in my massive, recently acquired, over-stuffed shoulder bag. I walk past cafés trying to notice if anyone is noticing me. From behind this canvas of cosmetics I feel more European, more sure that I am on the way to being “one of them,” and then maybe attracting an Etienne or a Tristan or a Jean-Paul. I'll even settle for a Claude.