lepetitcolibri's blog

Paris in the snow: so lovely, until it wreaked havoc on my travel plans

Well, I am finally home in Brooklyn, after the return trip from hell! Snow in Paris led to hours on the runway, I missed my connecting flight, waited a full day in Amsterdam trying to get on another one standby, spent the night in a hotel, and thanks to some miracle, got home to New York late last night, despite the foot of snow and high winds.

Besides the exhaustion, frustration, confusion, and plenty of other –ion words I felt in my 3-day trip home, I think the strangest aspect was being in Limbo: no longer still in Paris, but not yet returned to my world at home. On the plus side, as I wasn’t yet distracted by re-entering New York, I had a certain distance from my life in Paris, and could think about it more objectively. My last few weeks were, without a doubt, my most fulfilling and exciting weeks in Paris, albeit also intense and chaotic. I had the feeling that my life was full, that I had invested enough in the things I was doing in Paris (classes, the play, new friends, and getting to know the city) to be extremely busy, but in an usually satisfying way.

Not surprisingly, reaching this state of happiness at the very end of my semester made me wonder if I couldn’t have helped myself get there sooner. Sitting around several airports, I asked myself what forces had been at work in the first few months that might have gotten in my way. In large part, I actually think the problem was the length of time. A semester in New York goes by very, very quickly. When I came to Paris, I knew I wanted to take my French skills further, see a lot of art, write, and generally revel in the city. There was a part of me, though, that didn’t want to get TOO attached. Pretty conflicted about leaving my boyfriend and close friends behind in New York, I think I came to Paris focused more on aesthetic and intellectual explorations than on social ones. I immersed myself in the language and the place, but didn’t work as hard as I usually do to form lasting friendships with people. I would only be here for 3.5 months, right?

It was much to my surprise, therefore, that I realized in the weeks before my departure that I had, indeed, met some wonderful people who were genuinely sad to see me go. I got phone calls from several Parisian friends, inviting me for a last dinner or coffee. Their sincerity and warmth really touched me, particularly because I hadn’t thought we were all that close. It made me think back to a French friend of my mom’s, who once said that the Americans were quick to make friends but also quick to forget them, while the French took forever to warm up but stayed friends for life.

I think that my sense of temporariness and slight reluctance in Paris was part of what kept me from feeling fully connected to it until the end, but the French slowness in making friends contributed to it. Had I been there for a full school year, I would have had the time to pursue and truly enjoy the friendships I had (perhaps unbeknownst to me) been cultivating. A full year wasn’t an option for me at this point, but the wheels are definitely turning in my head to figure out another time to live and work in Paris. Knowing now the length of time it takes to truly create a new niche for one’s self there, I think I would be less put off by the gradual nature of that process.

When I left a friend’s apartment on my second to last night, he gave me a Tupperware with leftovers from our dinner. “But I won’t have a chance to get this back to you,” I reminded him. “No,” he said, “But you’ll keep it until I come to New York, or when you come back here.” His kindness and hopefulness for the future was infectious: though I don’t know when or how I’ll make it happen, I’m sure now that I’ll find my way back to France, and I hope, to the friends I made there.

My room: Since I wasn't in a homestay, it really felt like my own

Ahhh, Paris. Everyone I know loves it for different reasons, and has their own grievances with it as well. For my part, here’s what I’d pass along to future students:

I. Capitalize on what you’ve got

Do you have a friend of the family who lives in Paris? Did your best friend’s brother’s girlfriend just get transferred there for work? Do you vaguely remember meeting a Parisian at a party some months ago in Brooklyn? If so, do not write off this connection as too far-fetched! The most common complaint I heard during this semester was, “I haven’t met any French people.” Though it may have been luck in part, my one real connection in Paris (a woman my boyfriend met at a party) ending up opening countless doors for me. Particularly because she had moved there from the States a few years back not knowing a soul, Frances knew that her invitations meant a lot to me. I went to as many of the parties, dinners, gallery openings and events that she invited me as possible, and met countless French people and ex-pats that way. Some of her close friends would often be there, too, and some of them became good friends of mine as well. Essentially, through Frances I learned that it pays to say, “Hi! I’m in Paris, and I’m looking to meet people. Just tell me where to be, what I can bring, and I’ll be there!”

II. Speak French

If you’re serious about strengthening your French, hang out with people who want to do the same. I have to say, I was very disappointed with the overall attitude of the NYU group in this regard. For me, it would simply not have been worth coming to Paris if I had only used my French to order meals and listen in classes. With a few of my American friends in Paris, we got into the habit of speaking French while out in public. The majority of NYU students seemed very reluctant to use their French for more than the necessities, and thought it was weird to speak French to one another. While there is a slightly funny feeling when you switch into French with someone you normally speak to in English, to me it was so worth the effort. In the metro or in a café, I felt so much more a part of my surroundings by staying in French mode.

III. Get a roommate

Point blank, I don’t know anyone who was truly satisfied with his or her homestay in Paris. Experiences ranged from having no peace amidst a family of five kids, living with a hyper-controlling and bitter old woman, and having to cook dinner at 4:30 in order to have use of the kitchen. Almost no one I knew in a homestay could have guests over, which to me is reason enough not to do it. I found a roommate in advance of my arrival on Craig’s List, and was so pleased with how it worked out. My roommate is a few years older than me, works in marketing, is bilingual, and has lived in Paris for two years. She was not only a great source of Parisian know-how, but turned out to be a real friend. I feel that I gained so much having done the work on my own to find a roommate and place that suited me, as opposed to letting NYU set me up with a roommate and location that I knew nothing about until arriving.

IV. A few favorite places!

a. Canal St-Martin: A sweet canal just a few blocks from the République metro stop, this place is lined with affordable and low-key cafés and bars, as well as some fun thrift shops and boutiques. Great at night, with the lights on either side reflecting off the water.
b. Any and all gardens: My favorites are the Jardin de Luxembourg (during the week when it’s quieter) and the Jardin des Tuileries, but any outdoor space with a stretch of grass and benches is likely to be lovely in Paris! There are lots of pocket parks and public spaces, and it’s worth taking the time to roam and find them while the weather is still nice. I did as much or my course reading as possible outdoors during the early fall months, knowing that I’d be stuck inside a lot as it got colder and I had more papers to write!
c. Any café with regulars: Pay attention, when you stop at cafés near your apartment, to how people are interacting. If you get the sense that it’s a place with regular customers who know one another, make it your business to become one! Although I never got the point of doing la bise (the ubiquitous cheek-to-cheek air kiss) with the bartenders, as some people did at my favorite local spot, they did know my face and my usual drink, which was enough to cheer me up a bit on days when my foreigner status was getting to me.

Lastly, a quick note on maps: realize that everything in Paris looks further on a map than it is in real life! I often thought I didn’t have time to do something because it seemed like a far trek, when in fact it was a 15-minute walk. And often, because of all the diagonal-running lines, the metro takes longer than walking, so opt for biking or walking when you can!

There are other bits of wisdom that I think we all came upon in the course of our semesters abroad, but I know that anyone doing the same will learn those lessons themselves. And that’s part of the fun: feeling how your approach to your time abroad has matured. Hopefully though, these more specific reflections will be a useful head’s up!

My favorite bike path in Paris: Limiting habit or highlight of my day?

While I found De Botton’s chapter, “On Habit,” clever and sharp as always, this time I also disagreed with certain attributions he made. These had to do mainly with the experience of home, and how we all function in our native environments.

De Botton says of home, “We feel assured that we have discovered everything interesting about our neighborhood.” Underlying this is an assumption that we have lived for a considerable time in one place, which represents a key difference between his reality and my own. I have lived in New York, uninterrupted (save this semester), for 2.5 years. In that time, I have moved 5 times. Though my city has remained the same, my immediate surroundings have always been in flux. In some ways, I suppose that has kept me in constant observing and discovery mode, and I have never reached the sort of ennui that De Botton describes in London.

However, I did recognize and relate to the process he describes, by which “our sensitivity is directed towards a number of elements, which we gradually reduce in line with the function we find for the space.” Even though I have never ceased to find new things in my immediate neighborhood, I do notice an almost inevitable focusing of my own routes, my gaze, and my network of stores, cafés, etc. After finding an efficient route to the subway, my favorite place to buy bread, or the most pleasant bike ride, I tend to return to them by rote.

Where I depart from De Botton’s thinking is that, to me, this narrowing is not a negative development. Rather, I have found a sense of pleasure and accomplishment in becoming a bit of a specialist in my neighborhood. To be able to separate out what one likes from what one doesn’t, to know how to access the good things, and to not lose time on the annoying ones (like slow people on the sidewalk)… aren’t these all desirable adaptations? Selective usage of one’s habitat isn’t necessarily a dulling of the senses or a blindness to new discoveries; it can also be one of the joys of acclimating to a new home.

I agree with De Botton that our increased “receptiveness” while traveling is an essential and wonderful aspect of the experience. I would add, though, that that awareness extends beyond the journey, and into the return. I notice when I travel, even just to a neighboring state or borough, that certain features of my home environment stand out as different. For example, I’m always keenly aware of the more open sky and the quiet in Brooklyn when I return from a day in Manhattan. Who knows what details, previously unremarkable, will jump out at me when I return home from Paris?

I don’t think the danger lies in falling into well-loved routines in our own neighborhoods. The risk is more that we don’t venture beyond those surroundings frequently enough, in order to return and see them more clearly. I’m thinking of Santayana’s quote, back when we read “The Philosophy of Travel,” which gets at this exact idea. “Turning… from the familiar to the unfamiliar,” which can be accomplished by even the smallest scale travel, “keeps the mind nimble.”

Oysters...: 'cause shellfish seemed to be Hemingway's food group of choiceDear Hemingway,

I really do love your unembellished syntax. You distill moments into their most essential components. You capture a neighborhood in two sentences. You are like the meticulous neurosurgeon of the novel, working with utter precision and efficacy.

But sometimes I wonder what the pared down vignettes of A Moveable Feast are leaving out. The life created by your prose is rich in sensory experience: taste, smell, temperature and weather, physicality. But surely not all of your life in Paris in the 1920s was poetic. What was it like to acquire French as a second language, for example? Sometimes I can’t actually tell from your scenes whether they were spoken in French or English. Also, what did you do when you weren’t working, trying to work, walking, or eating?

I don’t mean to say your writing is one-dimensional. Nor would I accuse you of painting an overly perfect picture of Paris, which so many writers and artists seem to do. It’s more that you seem to have left in the writerly discard pile those experiences which did not contribute to the depiction of Paris as a romantic, history-filled, and charming place, and of your life as inspired, poor, and experientially rich.

Personally, when I look over what I’ve written over a few months in Paris, I see fairly significant variations in tone and subject matter. My life here isn’t held together by a few attributes, and even the concrete features of it (for example, the sights around me) seem to vary in effect, depending on my mood. Some days the quietness of the small streets is meditative and lovely; others, it is lifeless and old-fashioned. Sometimes I love the unhurried air of a sidewalk café; sometimes the waiters’ obliviousness gets tiresome, and the wafting cigarette smoke makes it impossible to concentrate.

Life abroad, much like life at home, is full of incongruent moments and fluctuating moods. And I know, I know, you were a Lost Generation writer, and I am a modern blogger… I can’t expect your approach to writing on Paris to match my own. But I wish I could connect more to the world that you describe here. As fun at is envisioning scenes from A Moveable Feast as I walk past some of your spots in Paris, it seems like I only know about that existence from one angle, one mood. Dear Ernest… please tell me the rest!

Fondly,
Aniella

"Paysage de neige," Cuno Amiet

Scheduling can be great. Scheduling can allow you to get a paper in, call your mother, meet a friend for coffee, and get to Bon Marché before it closes. Let it be said, though, that scheduling can also provide you with a permanent sense of obligation and productivity that dulls the senses and kills creativity. I have never been so aware of this as in Paris.

Although I intentionally took things slowly at the beginning of the semester, about halfway through, I went into overdrive. “I need to speak French more of the time! I need to see more art! Oh my god, I haven’t bought a single piece of clothing in Paris!” It didn’t help matters that I had a string of guests, which upped the number of cultural activities and tightened time constraints.

Needless to say, I wore myself out. I got sick and holed up in my apartment for the requisite period, and as I began to re-enter the world, I acquired a wonderful new habit: doing things on a whim. I think this is what Dana was talking about in her post about “Le Flâneur,” because essentially, a whim-driven lifestyle is what defines a flâneur. I don’t know, in retrospect, if I could have adopted the flâneur mentality just from reading a book; perhaps I had to arrive at it out of necessity.

Lately, I find myself a bit noncommittal about concrete plans. I’m guarding what little free time I have at the end of the semester for, well, To Be Determined! Some mornings when I wake up, I feel like going for an icy-cold run in the Parc Monceau. Others, I just want to curl up with my current French novel near the (one) heater in my apartment. Today, I intended to go Christmas shopping again. Instead, I walked from NYU across the Pont Bir-Hakeim in the drizzling rain, and looked up at the Eiffel Tower, half cut-off by fog. I took the train to the Musée d’Orsay, which I had been warned might be closed because of museum worker strikes. Au contraire: everyone was getting in for free, because the ticket stands were shut down! I didn’t revisit rooms I had seen before, or ones that seemed obligatory. Instead, I saw the current Art Nouveau Revival exposition, and spent the rest of the time visiting rooms that looked a bit empty. I discovered a Bonnard I had never noticed, as well as the most expertly painted snow I’ve ever seen (the photo doesn’t do it justice!) In short, I removed the “shoulds,” at least for a few hours, and enjoyed myself all the more for it.

I don’t think there’s any place better than Paris to roam around, stumble upon, follow one’s nose, or discard obligations. Old European cities are chock full of small and large beauties, and I’m glad I’ve learned better how to find them.

Cécile: Director and powerhouse

Cécile is the director of a play I’m in here in Paris, but more accurately, she is the star of it.

She set the tone early on, at an introductory meeting in September. “If you are hesitating,” she said to the prospective participants, “don’t do it.” If there’s one thing you can count on Cécile for, it’s her total and unembellished honesty.

I don’t know the details of her career path, but playwriting, directing, acting, and circus have all been mentioned. Looking at her, you’d guess she could do all that and more. Cécile must be in her mid- to late-forties, but she has a spryness and energy that are almost boyish. She has short, dark hair and a trim but robust physique. She carries herself in a certain vertical way, that makes it seems as if she could spring up off the ground at any moment. When she laughs, her shoulders bounce and her face erupts in a delightfully childish way.

Don’t be fooled though… when Cécile is pissed, things are anything but delightful! Her directness works both ways: her comments are always heartfelt and genuine, but her criticism is also rather blunt. You’ll never get a, “Hmm, let’s try that line another way,” from her. Phrases like, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” and “That’s not it!” are typical of her rehearsal style. She also has a crazy-making habit of changing her vision of a line (or a scene, or a character…) on the spot, and then becoming positively exasperated when the actor plays it the way he’s used to. A “That’s not it!” might follow such a moment, despite the fact that that WAS it, last week. Merde, couldn’t you read her mind?

In a funny counterpoint, Cécile has an inordinate amount of patience and compassion for non-acting blunders. A boy in our class is more than 20 minutes late, or absent, literally every week. Last week, when he entered an hour late, she said, “Diogo, je ne suis pas contente.” His lame reply was that he overslept. Her response? “What if I called you at 8 AM Monday mornings to wake you up?”

Cécile is the star of our play not just because of her sparkling personality, but more literally, because she could actually play every part in the script. When she goes to show the Cop, the Narrator, the Bishop, or the Maid how something should be done, she immediately sheds her director skin and becomes that character. Man or woman, aggressive or docile, Cécile adopts the movement, facial expressions, and tone of voice of whomever she is playing. Sometimes I imagine our play (a compilation of Jean Genet’s work) as a one-woman show, with Cécile switching instantly from one character to the next. Not to sound disparaging of our own work, but I’m quite certain she could pull it off better!

Lovely, serene table...A hint at the chaos: Dad sautées, Mom and my boyfriend search for a platter, my aunt nibbles something, the dog scavenges.

“Ans, will you give me a hand with these dishes, please?” My mother’s voice, calling from the kitchen, inspires in me the same sense of automatic, and yet reluctant, cooperation. Yes, I was home for Thanksgiving, washing dishes in the kitchen that I know better than any other.

Except that when I imagined my happy, though brief, return home this Thanksgiving, I wasn’t thinking of dishwashing. Or tensions with my family members, or the looming pile of schoolwork that was growing everyday I was away. Instead, I envisioned my big, warm, sunny house, filled with delicious cooking smells, my eagerly waiting family, and (after a lovely walk in Rosedale Park) a fantastic meal. And all of those things were there! Except that they were all jumbled up with the annoying, humdrum aspects of family life, which I had somehow left out of my Thanksgiving dream.

When I got home the night before the holiday, my family was its usual disorganized self. Who wants what for dinner? Two people want Japanese take-out, two want to-go food from Whole Foods. Who’s driving where? And can someone get the shallots Mom forgot, as well as extra lemons? WHAT? Your recipe called for orange juice? That wasn’t on the list! It felt like any old weekend (plus a lot of extra food prep); I might just as well have gotten there via NJ Transit, rather than the eight-hour flight and much costlier ticket…

Like every other Thanksgiving, we ate about two hours later than planned, and everyone was pretty tired. The day after, also true to form, was the best: sunny, cool weather, a day off of work for my dad, and delicious leftovers for dinner, without any of the fuss! By that point, too, I had mostly come to terms with the fact that my four-day visit home wasn’t going to be so much more magical than Thanksgivings’ past. It got me thinking: after being away long enough, do we start to romanticize home in the same we once romanticized the lives awaiting us abroad? The trap seems the same: with so much distance from a place, one ends up ascribing to it certain traits (coziness, merriment, relaxation) and ignoring all the others. Paris is not only beautiful, historic, elegant, and fashionable: it is also sometimes inefficient, cold, conservative, and image-obsessed. So why should the place I come from be any different? It, too, has its pluses and minuses, and my visit home was a good reminder. Though it is my apartment in New York and not my family in New Jersey that I’ll be returning to in December, I know not to expect that life’s imperfections will have disappeared in my absence. Doesn’t change my giddy anticipation, though :o)

Whole chestnuts: ubiquitous at produce stands, as they grow well in southern France

In the States, the market is an antiquated, though very quaint notion. The tradition has been revived somewhat in New York and other major cities, but the market still has a rarified air to it: it’s either a statement of green-ness (the “buy local, think global” crowd) or associated with a big event (the Union Square Christmas Market).

On the street perpendicular to mine in Paris, however, is a market that is open all day, every day (with each stand taking its day off on Sunday or Monday). Occupying two very long blocks, the rue de Levis is lined with shops, small restaurants, and stands; essentially, if I wanted to, I could shop for all my home goods, food, and even clothing in that one stretch.

While I do make use of it, especially for produce and bread, much of the time I spend on rue de Lévis is actually just observing: it happens to be the most direct street to my metro stop, so I walk up it at least 2-4 times a day. I could probably draw a map plotting each and every store and stand, tell you which produce shop has the best apples (or greens, or grapes…) and which boulangeries are open on Sunday. But more importantly, I’ve come to see the street as a microcosm of Parisian culture, and love what it reveals in that respect.

Around 9-10am, the morning commuters rushing to the metro are trickling out. It’s the hour of the old ladies: they amble slowly, alone or in pairs, gradually filling their “caddies”—tall canvas bags on wheels, that trail behind them as they go from shop to shop. Some of them are so old, and walk so gingerly and slowly, that you can’t help but wish someone would take over the errand-running in their house. But it seems to be a matter of pride not to cede this task. I know, for example, that our elderly neighbor has her children visit nearly every day, and yet it is always only Madame Masson I see in the hallway in the morning, ready to go to the market with her caddy.

At lunch there is the local business crowd, who flood the restaurants on Lévis and the adjoining streets at 1pm on the dot. They are often in groups, rather than pairs, which strikes me as a difference from New York. Even more surprising is that they seem genuinely relaxed, and even jovial… they laugh, smoke, drink wine… and are back at their desks by 2:30. (If my father took such a lunch break, I often think to myself, he might be singing a different tune!)

Around 4, it’s the after school rush: elementary school kids on scooters (watch out, though, those boys are vicious!), babysitters (frequently immigrants) pushing strollers, and bands of surprisingly glam preteen girls. And then, of course, the hungry post-work bunch, forming endless lines at the supermarkets (yes, they have those, too, on the rue de Lévis!)

And, last but not least, there is the creepy, hooded old man who appears around 10pm… same exact spot in the middle of the street, same exact schpiel. Another day has passed on rue de Lévis, and it’s rather nice to know that nothing has changed…

Potato Store: A Bavarian staple

For better or for worse, America has always had some difficulty defining itself. Let no one argue that we don’t try: John Steinbeck, an American icon, dedicated a year-long trip—and the resulting novel—to the search for an American identity. But despite such intellectual quests (which may, themselves, be part of the American way!), it’s easy to grow up in the US with the impression that nations just don’t have identities. For me, growing older and seeing more and more the range of nationalities, religions, races, and regional attitudes that our country holds, I came to think of people pertaining to much smaller spheres than a nation. I see myself as resembling and sharing common ideals with my immediate community— my family and friends, New York City, Gallatin, etc.—but there are regions of my country that I’m no more connected to than I am to mainland China.

My fractured concept of national identities was shaken up by my recent trips to London, Liverpool, and Munich. Though travel was a big part of my upbringing, the place in which I had spent the most time was South Africa, my father’s home country. Talk about a struggle for national cohesion… besides its colonial past, South Africa’s notion of self was stretched to the absolute limits by the years of apartheid rule. Far more so than the United States, South Africa is a mix of seemingly irreconcilable differences of belief, race, culture, and language. For me, raised in a sense in these two environments, a salient national identity seemed truly impossible.

Perhaps it is because I am already in keen observation mode, being abroad this semester, but the particular cultures of England and Munich positively jumped out at me when I traveled there. While I could write a 20-page paper exploring the nuances and contradictions inherent to the American or South African identity, I felt I could capture the British spirit or the Bavarian spirit in a sentence or two. The Brits were strikingly diverse (compared to Parisians, that is) and appeared comfortable with themselves, edgy at times but also playful, somewhat plump and/or out of shape, and were often colorfully dressed. The Bavarians all seemed to have the same glowy, almost ruddy complexion, sparkly eyes, somewhat bland style, and spoke OUTSTOUNDINGLY good English. Knowing people in both cities gave me access to more personal social interaction, and even in these settings my overall observations held true. Needless to say, I was amazed. And what a peculiar sense of satisfaction, that such definable cultures exist somewhere, after all!

Of course, the cynic in me wonders, particularly as I put all of this into words, whether the apparently tidy definitions were really so. It may well be that the window of a 3-4 day trip creates a neat frame around the local culture that would quickly fall apart with more time spent there. I do think, however, that the longer a national culture has existed without great interruption, the more possible it is for a shared identity to form and solidify. In France, England, and Germany, major world powers and—more importantly—colonial ones, there have been centuries in which certain values, traits, even gene pools, could perpetuate themselves. In former colonies, by contrast (like South Africa or the US), the flux of immigrants, emigrants, external conflict, and internal conflict mean that identity is always reconstructing itself. The hodge-podge of backgrounds and perspectives, in fact, may be the most enduring American trait—and it is thanks to that fact that so many people have adopted the United States as their home. But I have to admit: illusion or not, there was something refreshing to the more obvious national personas I witnessed in my travels.

The Pompidou Center: inside-out design, like in MacCannell's example :o)

I am currently breathing a large sigh of relief, having put my mom in a cab this morning and wished her a smooth trip home. Don’t get me wrong: we had our fun times, and it was important to me that she got to see where I’m living and what my life is like in Paris. But her approach to the time together as a visitor here, and mine as a current inhabitant, were frequently at odds. Beneath her behavior, I saw some of the tendencies pointed out by MacCannell: namely, the intention to seek out authenticity, but to be happier with a “staged” authenticity than the true one.

On my mom’s list (and man, did she have a list!) were museums, restaurants, bakeries, theaters, monuments, walks, and stores. Having been to Paris a few years before, some of these places held personal nostalgia for her. Most, though, were part of the idea she holds of the “quintessential Paris:” the must-see things that allow one to bask in the utter “Parisness” of it all. And it’s true: looking at Monet’s panoramic water lilies at the Orangerie, getting a perfect pastry at Ladorée, and staring up at Notre Dame does make you feel lucky to be in this beautiful city. I can understand why newcomers would think to themselves, “This must be what it feels like to live in Paris.”

For me, though, the activities that connect me most to Paris are much more mundane. I’m writing this from my laptop, amidst the run-down, painted metal chairs and tables of my favorite local café. This may be the place where I feel most a part of the city: I recognize the bartender (he’s the one who always drops things…), I know what I like to order (a café noisette), and I can anticipate the most crowded time of day (1-2:30) and avoid it. Other than this café, the most essential places are my yoga studio, the NYU center, and the esplanade of my local park. Not terribly exciting, but when I am in those surroundings, I feel rooted in my experience of Paris.

Therein lies the tension between my mother and I: these spots represent my Paris as opposed to the generalized Paris, or the Paris that my mom was seeking out. Though she wanted to see where I spent my time, those places didn’t draw her into the city or make her feel more Parisian. Maybe they weren’t so unpleasant as Arthur Young’s account of an 18th century French inn, but they represented the same sort of disenchantment: as a tourist, one often wants to be impressed and excited, rather than met by the banal. Yes, my mother wanted to see the “real” Paris, but she wanted to pick and choose which real things she saw. She wanted to penetrate certain regions of MacCannell’s authenticity continuum (say, up through Stage 4) but not go all the way. Seeing great works of art and eating a croissant supplied her with the Frenchy feeling she was looking for; it didn’t matter whether that was true to the quotidian Parisian experience.

These reflections have brought me back equally to De Botton’s writings as to MacCannell’s. What I observed in my mom suggests that we do, as De Botton suggested, each create our own destination. Mine is a product of my own disposition, my ability to speak French, and the fact that I’m living here for four months. My mom’s, on the other hand, is born of her personal traits and her position as a non-French speaking tourist. The result? Two rather different notions of Paris.