A FREER PERSON IN PARIS : The City of Light Is the Right Place to Lighten One’s Load

One of the most visible women in America was sitting at a cafe on the Rue de l’Odeon, along the Seine. Nobody was paying any attention to her. Only a week earlier, in New York, she’d given a party at another waterfront cafe--and she was a tour de force. She toured the room with a force that was dazzling. That night, in New York, she seemed practically fluid, posture perfect, gliding around welcoming guests. I studied her and her rather sanguine husband and wondered, “How do these people unwind?” Now, in this bustling European capital, two doors from the book shop where Hemingway unwound, I got the answer.

The visible American and her less-visible (but not less successful) husband unwound by helping their child write post cards. All three of them as silent as worshipers at nearby Notre Dame, and even more concentrated. They blended perfectly in the afternoon.

But that wasn’t what kept me riveted; there was something else about the woman--and it had to do with exposure, and privacy. This time, only a week later, her hair was not as blond as on television, and not as perfectly coiffed. The sweater was Chanel, but well-worn Chanel. The nails were no longer crimson, and the hands were the hands of a workhorse (a thoroughbred, but still . . .).

Gazing occasionally and distractedly at the street scene, she was less ebullient than one might expect. She looked tired, deservedly tired. She also looked wonderful, and simultaneously in need of recharging. Yes, there were frown lines and yes, her husband had them too. (The child didn’t, but then children don’t.)

A few minutes after leaving the cafe, I ran into this trio again, as lost as everyone else, underground at the Metro station, trying to make their way to some part of Paris.

“We’ve been away too many years,” sighed the husband to the wife, half in whimsy. She shot him a look that said, “I couldn’t agree more.”

There’s a point to all this, and it had taken days of walking through Paris to see it. It had been almost too many years for me, too. The last visit, in the ‘70s, was just after college. The indifferent Paris--not the strutting, swaggering Paris--was the only version I knew. It seemed impossible to make connections, on the Metro or elsewhere.

But last week, seeing the couple silent and unobserved, I realized that Paris isn’t where you come to strut. (Unless you’re Bruce Springsteen.) Paris is also not about what you’re wearing, or how much money you brought, or how-trim-is-your-waistline. In virtually every cafe, le haute monde mingles with le petit bourgeoisie . A Brando-torn T-shirt sits across the room from Miss Dior, and flirts, and gets away with it. And yet Paris is not nearly as narcissistic as its legend, and not nearly as narcissistic as America is right now. It’s just where smart travelers come to shed --frowns, fatigue, fantasies, whatever.

(There are a lot of other things to say about Paris right now: It’s cheaper to holiday here than in most American cities; it’s easier to maneuver in than any American city; it’s directly responsible for the Europeanization of America--the influx of petite vegetables and androgynous actors and wine spritzers and oversized shirts and patisserie and boulangerie , etc., etc.

It’s also sufficiently beautiful that the world’s beautiful women, visible or not, needn’t dress up. Marlene Dietrich understood that eons ago, and thus moved here. Unlike London, where everybody watches everybody, here nobody is seriously looking. Unlike Manhattan, where good eyes decide who you are and where you’re going, here nobody cares. In Paris, where you’re going is your business. How you look doesn’t count unless you look spectacular.

A thousand years of French culture helps, obviously. As a people, Americans lack that stability, so we latch on to what’s new and what’s next and we stay fickle. Or naive, in an endearing way. (When tourists here say the French are tough, they really mean that the French lack American illusions. “You Americans sugar-coat,” said a French acquaintance, curtly. “You’re as tough as we are, but you sugar-coat everything. It goes as far back as the songs of Stephen Foster.”)

And as far forward as USA for Africa. Standing on the steps of the Sacre Coeur, my friend and I heard a delightful, slightly tin-eared version of “We Are the World.” Our smiles were broad, if not sugar-coated. It was unspoken between us that we would not have minded staying in Paris at least long enough to see the imminent coming of Springsteen.

But hearing that song, the same day as seeing that couple, I realized why I’d waited so long to come back. Just like the sanguine husband and his visible wife, I too had acquired frown lines. (It’s not a matter of age. You can acquire them in your 20s.) But you really shouldn’t come to Paris without them.