Foreign Parts

À AIMER: le people-watching

People watching is great in any city, but it is especially rewarding in Paris. Maybe it’s the spectacular backdrop — the Haussmann buildings and pavé streets — or perhaps it’s the density of the population — there are so many people living within “the snail” that the parade never ends.

In Paris, you never run out of faces to look at, or places at which to look at them. The parks, with their pea-gravel allées and strategically placed iron chairs and benches, are designed for seeing and being seen. So are the cafés, where wicker chairs are set side by side to give everyone a fair view.

Of course, many say Paris is the best city for people watching because the French are so chic, and blessed with good genes to boot. Though there may be some truth to this (see La Vue d'Ici for examples), the city does not have a lock on fashion or beauty — you have only to visit Milan, Tokyo, or New York to see that.

No, I believe it is the atmosphere of the city itself –- its beauty, its density, its design so perfect for strolling and observing -- that makes it prime face-hunting ground. That and the fact that it’s okay to regarder in Paris. People examine one another on the métro, in shops, and in parks with little of that American “What are you lookin’ at?” aggression.

But it does takes a bit of getting used to, being examined. Even if you’re French. A Paris native who now lives in San Francisco remarked to me during her last visit home, “I can’t stand all of these people staring at me! What’s their problem?” She had forgotten that here, looking and being looked at is sort of a city sport.

The three-year-old daughter of some American friends gets it, though. When I asked her what she liked most about living in Paris she replied, “I like to look at the people.”

Me, too.

À DÉTESTER: les crottes de chien partout

This has got to be the number one complaint of foreigners in Paris: la merde everywhere — on sidewalks, in the middle of streets, on doorsteps, even in métro stations (I have a truly disgusting photo of dog droppings in the Gare de Lyon, which I won’t post because it will forever ruin your appetite for brownies).

Interestingly, many of my French friends shrug when I bring up the subject. They, too, find it disgusting, but they are used to it; it’s no big deal. There are more important issues to rant about, like stagnant salaries and shrinking pouvoir d’achat (purchasing power).

There are, however, signs that things are improving in "Poo-ris," as my brother calls it. The city’s green-minded mayor, Bertrand Delanoë, has taken several steps to encourage citizens to pick up after their pups: he has put signposts everywhere to remind people to ramasser; created new parks and pea-gravel walkways all over the city; and has begun to fine people who pretend not to notice when their beloved bulldog drops several messy crottes on pavement. In the past six months, I have seen four people picking up after their dogs. This is a marked improvement from my first two-and-a-half years here, when I saw not one person doing their doggie duty.

So there is hope. A day may indeed come when I can look up at the city’s fabulous architecture whilst I stroll, instead of down at the ground in search of canine landmines, a beautiful, sweet-smelling day when the acrid scent of excrement will not permeate every impasse and cobblestone back street.

But until that day comes, I’ll keep my eyes on the ground.

À AIMER: une noisette au comptoir

If I had just one hour in Paris this winter I’d spend it at the bar of a corner café with picture windows overlooking two intersecting streets. From there I could take it all in: the bar man frothing milk for my café noisette with his left hand while pouring a glass of white wine for himself with his right; the patrons huddled at tables over chocolat chaud or pots of tea; the endless stream of Parisians passing by en route to a film, a dinner, or home. My noisette would arrive piping hot and perfectly correct, meaning it would be served in a porcelain espresso cup, with a matching saucer, a silver spoon, a square of sugar, and a little treat: a chocolate-covered almond or tiny cookie. If I were French it would take me twenty minutes to finish my drink; being an American who only lives here it will perhaps take five.

When I first visited France, I downed a noisette in ten seconds and was out the door a minute later. Perhaps this is what a few years in Paris earns you: patience. And a taste for strong coffee, with a splash of frothed cream.

PARIS: à aimer, à détester

Paris, like every other metropolis in the world, has her charms and her faults. Live here long enough and her celebrated beauty begins to fade; her romantic veneer starts to chip off, sometimes in layers. If you’re lucky, you will see beyond her flaws and still find yourself smitten — even after three or ten or twenty years.

So far, your Foreign Parts correspondent has been lucky; after three years, I still love it here, but that doesn’t mean I’m wearing rose-tinted glasses. I can complain with the most Parisian of Parisians — les parisiens de souche — and I don’t feel the least bit guilty because nobody can grouse like they can. It’s one of their many charms.

Now, about my list: a wholly subjective compendium of things to love and things to hate about Paris. Eventually, I’ll add other residents’ thoughts, but for now the list is all mine.