Paris, the City of Romance
Everyone knows Paris is the city of romance, a pilgrimage site for the world's cultured youth. My first visit was in 1993 when I was in college, with my girlfriend and her younger sister. As students with little money, we shared a large-bed room and slept sideways across it—that was our budget strategy, and we climbed the Eiffel Tower instead of taking the elevator. Besides visiting the must-see sights on a shoestring, we spent most of our time at Disneyland. One little frustration was asking for directions: no matter whether we spoke in English or German, the replies were always in French. But some kind souls would walk us to our destination. Unlike the passionate exuberance of Spanish women or the chic sexiness of Italian women, French women exude elegance and romance. Liking Sophie Marceau meant I liked France, and I liked Paris. So when I returned home in '98, I made a pact with my classmates to reunite in Paris on New Year's Day of the millennium.
In the end, that millennium reunion never happened. My next trip to Paris was in 2003. My wallet was no longer tight but not exactly full either. This time I could take the elevator up the Eiffel Tower. But after eating escargots and duck confit at a restaurant under the tower, we left without tipping, and were so embarrassed we didn't dare go back two days later even though we wanted to. On a Seine river cruise, people on every bridge waved enthusiastically as we passed, and some kids even dropped their pants and waved their bare bottoms at us. Looking at the Eiffel Tower just lit up in the distance, I thought, this beautiful city—if I ever have the chance, I must live here for three months to slowly soak in your charm.
By my third visit in 2013, I found Paris had changed, and so had I. Galeries Lafayette was packed with Chinese shoppers, and the sales assistants were Chinese too—no communication barriers. People were snapping up cosmetics and handbags like at a farmer's market. Shopping mattered more than sightseeing, and I was no exception. Back in '03, my favorite thing was sitting along the Champs-Élysées with a coffee, watching the sunset over the Arc de Triomphe. Or cultivating my artistic sensibilities in the Louvre. In 2013, I no longer cherished Eiffel Tower models or sketches of me in front of Notre-Dame. Instead, my luggage was filled with LV, Hermès, Lancôme, and La Mer. No longer interested in the well-dressed beauties on the streets, I wanted to watch the undressed women dancing at the Moulin Rouge.
