Things in Paris are slower, smaller, slimmer, fresher, denser, tastier, classier, prettier, more fashionable, more expensive, and, I am convinced, better. People walk through the streets of Cleveland to go somewhere; people walk through the streets of Paris because they are somewhere. They walk to walk, eat to eat, play to play. It’s as if every part of life is an end in and of itself in France—except work. Here we live to work, but in France they work to live.
The French view and live life differently, and to spend even a few days among them is enough to convince one that one’s entire life would be better spent among them. Spent among the tiny Smart Cars that cram into nonexistent parking spaces next to hardly larger Peugeots, Citroens, and the inevitable Aston Martin or Lamborghini. Yes the cars are better in France as they are all across Europe. They look better, both in design and upkeep (the French care about detail), and did I mention that a good fifty percent of the taxis in Paris are Mercedes? Brand new Mercedes?
And amidst the street corners crammed with Smart Cars are the brassiers, bistros, where you can sit at a table facing the street and watch life pass you by. The neighborhood patissieres that you walk to every morning for your croissant au chocolat, and perhaps a sandwhich au jambon to take with you for lunch. The patissieres that you return to before dinner (because bread from the morning is of course, no longer fresh) to buy steaming baguettes straight from the ovens. The fromager, or the gourmet food and desert shops like Hediard, which are splattered through upscale neighborhoods like Courselles.
Need I even mention it? The food is definitely better. Rich, succulent, and out of this world. Or, at least, this continent. Buttery escargot, fresh bread, searing steak au poivre, creamy brie, tender salmon, and ooohh the charcuterie. Cured meats like you have never tasted before. I don’t care what kind of ham you buy, you have never really tasted ham until you have had the jambon from an assiette du charcuterie. And all of it fresh, fresh, fresh. Fresher than even possible back here in “the best country on earth.”
It must be this freshness that counteracts the reality of the rich food the French consume on a daily basis. Either that or the urban layout that demands walking and activity. Or both. I saw few overweight people in Paris, and I am convinced that the majority of those I did see were tourists—American tourists. Yes, the people in France are slimmer, prettier, and more fashionable. Women and men included. In fact, Parisians are just downright beautiful. They consistently look good, and challenge you to do the same.
Public transportation is better in Paris. It’s fast, efficient, on-time, and simple to use. It’s pleasant and clean, and so are the people who use it. That Paris’s subway system was constructed one hundred years ago, beneath an already existing, and ancient city, is incredible. But then, Paris itself is a marvel of urban design. Haussman’s grand tree lined Bouevards that shoot away from the Arc de Triomph in every direction look like rays of the sun when viewed from on high. At night they are. Rays of light that course and pump life through this urban combination of the new and the old, the classic, and the modern. This city of stone, iron, steel, glass, and lights.
But unfortunately I don’t live in Paris, and eventually I returned home. And as I exited customs in Newark, and walked back through security and down the terminal to the gate of my next departure, I saw an Arby's and lots of fat people. Welcome to America.
