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A Paris Romance

So, here we are in Paris, said to be the romantic capital of the world. Moi, with the mood I’m in these days (the boys and Rome notwithstanding), I’m not only beginning to think this is true, I have decided in my infinite wisdom that I am one of the few who understands why. I’ve been mulling on this unceasingly during this week, of course, not only for me but also (or so I tell myself) for my book. But somewhat out of character, so far I haven’t talked it over with anyone, not to Caroline or even Sandra. So, this is just me, on the day of the evening that I will prove what I think, or not.

Here is what I suppose, at least today. The great French writer and lover Honoré de Balzac wrote, “To speak of love is to make love.” So, when we say those words, and no matter how casually we toss them off—about how enchanted we are by the beauty and charm of Paris with its ancient buildings in narrow streets, its aromas and tastes, its flowing river and beckoning bridges—I suspect we are making love, experiencing in all our five senses how Paris makes us feel, how it makes us feel about ourselves and our own lives. It makes us feel romantic, whether there is an adorable silver-haired man in sight, or not. As Victor Hugo said, “He who looks into the depths of Paris grows giddy.” Perhaps this is what is going on with me.

I really do believe that somehow it is Paris itself that evokes this romance. If, as Caroline reminded me, Paris is a beautifully adorned and enticing older woman, then she demands (as such a woman would) that we keep up with her, that we bring to her everything we have, just as she brings so much of herself to us.  After all, doesn´t she–in each of those streets and with all those aromas and tastes—bombard us continually with her romantic souvenirs?

Who here needs to be reminded of the city’s greatest love tragedy of all time, that of the tutor Abélard and his student Héloïse? For Paris, a thousand years ago was like last week to us. Héloïse so young, Abélard older and in love, she pregnant, he castrated, separated for the rest of their lives, but resting finally in their joint tomb at the famous cemetery of Pére Lachaise, their bones together for eternity. Some consolation, I suppose.

As to my own souvenirs of romance—ranging from fine to so-so to best forgotten—they are fortunately being replaced today by the one to come. I am ready for whatever Paris has on its plate.

So, at least for this evening, we will forget Hemingway’s blather about Paris not being so young and all that. At this age, as I have said, I still love Paris and—at least this week—how it makes me feel about myself, which I think is the point of it all. It is true that so far here, I have been making love only to Paris (except for that American businessman in my advanced French class last year, but he doesn’t count). And this no doubt is about to change. All my five senses are at the ready. I am confident that Joël, Monsieur Himself, would agree with the sixteenth-century writer Montaigne, who said about Paris, “I love her tenderly, even her warts and stains”—if he has, indeed, ever read Montaigne. And Miss Stein—that expert on everything about Paris—wrote that, “Frenchmen love older women, that is women who have already done more living, and that has something to do with civilization.” (But she preferred her mustaches on women, so how could she have known?) Well, let us hope that she is right and that with Joël this has to do both with Paris and with me.

I have been waiting for tonight for so long that I am already on the cusp between excitement and utter fatigue. Joël says he will arrive somewhere around 22h30. I have done everything any woman would do in preparation for a new lover (losing weight, waxing legs, streaking hair). I cleaned house, changed the linens, and put out a bar of Gardenia Passion perfumed soap. It amuses me to think that whether or not this evening is a success (whatever that means), my apartment, for a change, passes muster. Perhaps I should always have a romance in mind.

And ever the optimist, I also practice, off and on all afternoon, my opening gambit. “So, Zho-elle,” I say, ever so softly to the empty room. “Have you ever learned to make love in English?” That’s really good. But what will I do if he says, “Yes”? I must have an alternative plan.

[For the entire chapter, see pages 99-108.