“We’ll Always Have Paris”: Memories are Made of Many Unexpected Things
Fans of the film Casablanca know that when Rick comforts Lisa he means people will always have memories of people and places and moments in time.
The thing is, Paris — partly thanks to such films as Casablanca, Midnight in Paris, and Forget Paris (and many others) — revels in its reputation as the City of Light, the City of Love, a city rich in history and literature.
Much of that reputation lies in layers of myth, as many visitors soon learn the minute they step into the Arrivals section at Charles De Gaulle (CDG) airport.
Paris is a big, noisy, and bustling city. No two ways about it.
Rose-colored glasses soon fall to the pavement. And tourists fall victim to “Paris Syndrome,” seeming similar to Stendahl Syndrome, a condition that visitors to Florence suffer from too much beauty. Yet there’s a difference, yes?
Regardless, I love Paris, with all its warts and issues.
Believe me, warts exist. Note that I have visited Paris at least twelve times, for varying lengths of time.
But it’s understandable how so many of the millions of yearly travelers fail to find the Paris of their dreams.
Take my most recent trip, in March/April 2023.
During the first week, I wound up dodging garbage piled HIGH, almost to American first-floor height.
Tourists crowded every nook and cranny near the city center, so much so I didn’t get inside my favorite bookstore at all: Shakespeare & Co.
Fortunately, I stayed in the relatively tourist-free 15th arrondissement, about four blocks from the Seine, south of the Eiffel Tower and Champs de Mars.
I also got a good taste of what the city is truly like near the Buttes Chaumont.
And, of course, driving from CDG to the center, you can’t miss the concrete block apartment buildings and the banlieues on the way into the city, including Drancy, of ill fame during WWII.
Speaking of the Champs de Mars brought back a memory, one that should have shredded any desire of mine to visit Paris ever again.
It’s one of my most memorable Parisian memories.
Early on a June morning, I left my closet-sized hotel room on the Avenue Emile Deschanel and started toward the Champs de Mars on my way to a two-week cooking class at the Cordon Bleu at its former Rue Léon Delhomme location, “Fish and Their Sauces.” Since it was June, and warm, it only felt right to wear sandals. I’d change into sturdier shoes once I opened my locker at the school. The chefs didn’t allow sandals in the kitchens. And with good reason, given the heavy pots and boiling liquids so easily dropped or spilled.
As usual, I focused my eyes on the architecture looming above me. Rounding a corner near the far end of the park, my right foot forward, I stepped into a steaming pile of fresh dog poop. Creamy, warm, and stinky.
As the feces — likely from one of the pampered poodles of ladies living in the Faubourg Saint Germain area — seeped between each of my five toes, I frantically searched through my purse for some Kleenex. I leaned up against a wall and scraped as much of the goop off as I could.
As I flew through the door at the Cordon Bleu, I barked a terse, de rigueur “Bon jour” to the receptionist and hurried downstairs to the locker room. I ripped off the sandal and thrust my filthy foot into one of the sinks, pumping the soap dispenser like a farmer milking a cow.
With a half dozen paper towels, I managed to dry my foot enough to pull on a sock and the required leather shoe suitable for the kitchen. The left foot, no problem.
As for my sandals, I would never be able to get the subtle stink of dog poop out of the leather straps. I wrapped both sandals in a plastic bag and shoved them into the trash bin. Then I finished dressing in the required uniform, necessary even for short-term students.
I bought another pair of shoes from a street vendor in Montmartre a few days later. However, I never wore sandals again in Paris during any of my many future visits to the city.
Despite efforts to eliminate the French dog poop problem, it persists.
What to do?
Don’t look up before you look down first!
