It wasn't that everyone fit the snooty stereotype. Far from it. Everyone was exceptionally kind to Joseph, from the old French men also visiting Versailles to the security guards at the museums. Most of the people at restaurants and grocery stores were also friendly to us all.
But I still felt a disconnect from Paris which bothered me. Each aloof or grumpy baker, each phrase at the train station that I couldn't decipher with my 10 days of studying French in May was yet another sign that we didn't belong here. And after being gone from home for more than a week, I wasn't sure I wanted to be here anyway.
And still, I tried to fit in. I memorized several phrases and tried the best I could to pronounce things correctly. Kevin and I would say "Bonjour" the moment we walked into a store and "Au revoir" as we left, hoping that we were polite enough. On the way back from Versailles, I sat next to a French teacher from Florida on a cultural exchange with her students and asked her what we could do to not rub people the wrong way.
For the most part, it worked. When it didn't, I felt confused and disappointed. I would wonder why on earth we had chosen to come here in the first place. I had never really cared about seeing things like the Eiffel tower. What I had been excited to see -- Versailles and the Louvre -- had not lived up to my dreams. Versailles felt so artificial and self-centered compared to all the cathedrals I had been to that I just couldn't love it as much as I had dreamed. The Louvre had been, well, rather fleshy. Although I wasn't bothered by all the voluptuous and nude women (and found some of the paintings even comical, like the one of a woman squirting milk at her baby), it became tiresome to go through room after room of it, especially with hardly any landscapes to add variety. For me, looking at portraits was about as interesting as looking at my cousin's yearbook. I didn't know who any of the people were, and I didn't really care about looking at pictures of them. And I would wonder again why we came.
When these moments would hit, when I was discouraged and affronted and disillusioned, I would think, "There must be a reason people love Paris." I racked my brain for reasons Paris mattered to me. The food, yes, most of the food had been good, especially the bread and crepes. Ummm, the Enlightenment. Yes, I was a fan of Pascal. And Claude Shannon! The father of information theory! Who shared my birthday! He had a French-sounding name, so he must have been from Paris! Spurred on by thoughts of these heroes, I realized that Paris did in fact matter to me.*
And things started to look up. On Sunday, we went to church and were surrounded by familiarity, playing the "put two Mormons in a room and see who they both know" game. Finding a community we belonged to in Paris itself helped bridge a gap between the two cultures. After all, if we belonged to the church, and the church belonged in Paris, maybe we could belong there, too. Later that afternoon, when we were finally able to get to know our hosts better, I felt joy as we were able to connect. Even though logically I knew all along that the city was full of real, live, intelligent, wonderful people, it was remarkable how my perception changed as I actually got to talk with these real, live, intelligent, wonderful people.
So the next day, I was ready to love Paris. Torrential downpours and fears of long lines at the Eiffel Tower couldn't dissuade me. Once the rains stopped, we walked right into the local bakery for the last time with smiles on our faces. We had gone in with friendly touristy smiles before, but now our smiles came more naturally.
And, miracle of miracles, our smiles were returned! The beautiful blond baker, who had always seemed impatient and busy as she had taken our orders, seemed genuinely happy to see us. She smiled at Joseph and even gave him a free pastry. Spurred on by her friendliness and the delicious macaron we had bought, we walked through the city looking up and enjoying the beauty. Everything seemed to be going right. The weather was perfect. Parc Monceau was beautiful, and it even had drinking fountains. We found beautiful flower gardens. Joseph was content. The line at the Eiffel Tower was short.
As we stood there, gazing at the beautiful city, I realized that I sort of did love Paris. It wasn't what I was used to, and I didn't like everything about it, but there was still a great deal of good to be admired. Parisians could be proud to belong to such a beautiful, cultured city.
And I was glad I could visit.
*Actually, Claude Shannon is from Michigan, of all places. So we didn't need to go to Paris. We needed to walk up the road. Ha. At least my delusion helped me enjoy Paris more.
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