Paris à Go-Go

Oh, the charms of having grown children!

The Nor’Easter knew I couldn’t miss my visit to Planet Rachel! It let me slip out under the wire and get that plane to Paris. After a spell of ersatz sleep (as much as the tattooed and beefy gents going off to St. Patrick’s Day allowed me), I met my darling daughter. Now that she’s finished her undergrad work, she’s in her town. That little crevette who was born premature in nationwide French strikes of ’95 is now a beautifully fluent cosmopolite, flowy red hair following behind her.

We’re bopping around the city, dashing in and out of thunderstorms; sitting under heated terraces with the Parisians who don’t let a gleam of sun pass unattended. We analyze the clouds, noting their individual identity. Baudelaire wrote about them, Paris designers must have coordinated the tint of the apartment buildings to resonate with the vibrating but flat light.

I’m relying on guidance of families and friends to put my finger on the pulse. A few things I’ve gleaned: Paris has long reveled in its self-selected role as standard bearer of values and artistry. How far does that go these days? Not very far.  It now sees itself reflected in a mirror, or in images of others, then appropriates that image for itself. Paris is taking “food concepts” (country/decadence/colonial) and making them fey, cute, designed.

France used to hide its commercial tendencies so as not to put forward a capitalist or “Anglo-Saxon” face. It made entrepreneurial spirit take backseat to other values. That’s changing. The latest “grand projet” (the French love massive redefining projects) aims to make Paris a start-up capital. Station F, a large complex built downstream from Notre Dame, not only lends up to-the-minute hipster designed space to start-ups, it also makes available government officials, bankers and soon-to-be living space. In Pantin, at the end of the metro, Bogosian and others have built important galleries around a small runway that makes it easy for buyers to whisk in on their private jets.
We still managed to land in cafes with only Turkish toilets. And find wonderful food and wine.  And the cheese – ah, the raison d’être. How many ways can they make fromage chèvre? Let me count the ways.

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