Paris in May
Everyone acknowledges Paris as the world's capital, or at least the capital of the Western world. The proud British have London, the romantic Italians have Rome, the confident Germans have Berlin, the solitary Russians have Moscow. Yet if even Washington, D.C., the capital of the most arrogant nation, was modeled after Paris, then those other cities are hardly worth mentioning. It's said that Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina, most resembles Paris, but it lies far away in South America, beyond comparison. Russia's former capital, St. Petersburg, also seems to have been designed with Paris as a blueprint, but in every respect Russia cannot compare to the great, glorious, and correct France. There are many places in the world called Little Paris or the Second Paris, so you can imagine how enchanting the real Paris must be.
I. Mirror of Paris
May is the finest season of the year in Paris. The weather is delightful, flowers are in full bloom — truly worthy of its name as the City of Flowers. With spring just arrived and people dressed in their spring attire, the streets and alleys of Paris are filled with men of graceful bearing and women dressed splendidly. Tawny hair, slender beautiful legs — the romance of the Latin people paired with the reserve of Gallic blood is the very portrait of the Parisian.
In my early years in China, reading French literature, I had already memorized every detail of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Paris. The Arc de Triomphe, the Seine, the Champs-Élysées — they must still possess their past elegance. The Paris depicted by Zola and Maupassant should be no different from Balzac's Paris, though perhaps Balzac's provincials viewing Paris differ from us foreigners. Truly, compared with the Paris of Stendhal and Flaubert, what changes has today's Paris seen? Progress or decline? If those literary giants, painters, and poets returned today, would they praise it or sigh? Indeed, the Eiffel Tower certainly did not exist; the Louvre has been renovated; on the Seine, you can no longer see those captains who once used the garret lights of Mr. Flaubert's building as a navigational aid. What remains are only the ceaseless glass sightseeing boats, fully loaded with tourists like you and me, bustling noisily. That scene is probably very different from the "women of the Republic" who once strolled along the Champs-Élysées in light carriages. Perhaps only the deep waters of the Seine, gently lapping against the Pont Neuf, still flow on.
(Along the Seine)
II. Paris at Night
The plane landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport in the early evening. Customs, filling out forms, collecting luggage — no different from any other major airport in the world. I didn't see anything uniquely brilliant about the modern design of Charles de Gaulle Airport either. Driving into the city, apart from the highway signs, there wasn't much to see. The black taxi driver came from Ghana; he was very chatty, and like taxi drivers everywhere, the moment he opened his mouth, he could talk about everything under the sun — it turns out that 'shooting the breeze' is not a patent of Beijing taxi drivers. Still, he did teach me a couple of handy phrases for bargaining in French. Entering the city, in the dim dusk, I couldn't see any sign of a 'City of Light.'
Our hotel was behind La Madeleine church, turning into a small street with no sidewalk. It was just past eight in the evening, and the street was already empty. I thought we must have taken a wrong turn, but the unremarkable door we'd just passed did indeed bear a plaque for the British Consulate. The taxi stopped in front of an old building, and the black taxi driver murmured, 'This must be your hotel.' I glanced back at my wife, who had been silent the whole journey, and I knew that for our next trip, I would surely lose the right to book the hotel. Worse still, while getting out and unloading luggage, I spotted a drunk sprawled right across the street in a corner, slurring indistinctly, with two or three broken bottles beside him. This was hardly the City of Flowers — it was more like the New York subway in the early 1980s. When I booked the hotel, the travel guide said it was behind the Élysée Palace, near the French Ministry of the Interior, and next to the British Consulate!
The hotel interior was nothing special either. A three-star hotel that couldn't even match a two-star in the U.S. The décor was dated, the elevator cramped. It seems the French star-rating agencies can be bribed too. If I were scoring it, at most two stars, no more. Hardware was poor, software even worse. The receptionist's English was abysmal, and she messed up our dates; we almost ended up on the street on our last day. That led to a big row with the manager — but that's a story for later. Ah, these French, romantic yes, but also so disorganized.
After a long day, I was exhausted and fell into a deep sleep. My first impression of Paris was really not good.
(Morning in Paris)
III. Morning in Paris
Because of jet lag, I woke up early the next morning. The vagrant from the night before had vanished. Only the wine stains on the ground reminded me that a drunk had lain there. Our hotel wasn't great, but the location was truly excellent. Around the corner was the Élysée Palace, flanked by the British and American embassies. In the other direction was the French Ministry of the Interior. No wonder some online sources said this hotel is the travel industry's best-kept secret. Imagine your hotel is on Beijing's Fuyou Street, across from the West Gate of Zhongnanhai. The location would be twice as good as the Beijing Hotel. Even more delightful, that street is lined with shops, from Chanel to Hermès, everything you could want — a place where politics-loving men and shopping-loving women can gather together in one happy street. This is truly socialism with French characteristics. People say China has undergone a drastic transformation in recent years, with shopping malls everywhere, rampant materialism, talking money rather than people. But compared to France, it's a mere drop in the bucket. Here, they've ingrained petit-bourgeois taste into their very bones. So natural, so carefree, without any concealment — a perfect marriage of material beauty and political ugliness. If only one day Fuyou Street's red wall had a branch of Liubiju opposite, I'd believe China's reform and opening-up had achieved something. But that's a digression, just idle musing. Strangely, there are two types of guards in front of the Ministry of the Interior: one in ceremonial uniform — white jackets, blue collars, gold trim, holding long rifles, vigorous; the other two in blue uniforms, with sunken chests and bulging bellies, pistols tucked at their waists, looking much like American traffic cops. So it seems one country, two uniform systems is not a Chinese invention after all.
The breakfast shop on the street corner was astonishing. All sorts of croissants, pastries, chocolates — a dazzling, seductive array that made it hard to know what to buy. No wonder the French tend to be plump, rosy-cheeked, and well-nourished. I recall Mr. Zou Taofen's travelogue from the 1930s comparing the British and the French: the British are tall and lean, the French short and stout. Truly, it's still the case. Latin peoples are indeed shorter than northern Europeans, with more dark hair and deeper-colored eyes. Probably because they're southerners.
Because I couldn't speak French, the plump lady behind the counter looked displeased. No matter how many chocolate pastries I bought, it didn't help. She looked ready to throw me out. Fortunately, my final "merci" (thank you) turned the tide: her poker face went from long to round, and she beamed back a genuine "merci," so coquettishly sweet that it startled me — I could never connect such a sound with that massive frame.
It was still early; the morning light bathed France in the dew and sunshine of spring. Whether window boxes with flowers or half-open shutters, everything was touched by faint rosy hues. Walking west along Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, shops were not yet open; only café and restaurant workers carried tables and chairs out, preparing for the day's outdoor business. Few pedestrians were about, with only an occasional elegant young woman in a breakfast spot inviting a daydream. Everyone knows Paris as the City of Light, the city of long nights; but few realize that Paris in early morning is just as beautiful. Low buildings, heavy wooden doors, everywhere seeming to hide a profound historical depth. A small door within a large one creaked open, and a woman in morning lingerie strolled out with a small dog. Glancing past her, I saw an empty stone courtyard, yet I seemed to glimpse the carriage of Camille, Bel-Ami, and those gentlemen preparing for a duel.
Ah, duels — fighting to defend one's honor — this is the very spirit that our five-thousand-year Chinese civilization most sorely lacks. Chinese tend to be oppressive, fond of group fights, especially good at endless biting quarrels, but are rarely given the chance to stand up and fight for their own honor, in their own name. For millennia, China has seemed not bad, but the Chinese people have seemed not so good. We dislike taking risks or braving dangers, we are not good at exploration or conquest; we endlessly spout lofty rhetoric about the benevolence of a great nation, organization and discipline, yet the result is deep and heavy disaster.
IV. Balzac's Paris
At an intersection, a street name caught my eye: "Rue Balzac." Could this street have some connection with Balzac, the great French writer, author of La Comédie humaine? With a hopeful heart, I turned onto the street, thinking that even if I just walk on a road the giant once tread, it would be wonderful. In front of a building that wasn't particularly old, I stopped. What? This was actually Balzac's former residence? The home of the literary giant, the brilliant genius Balzac? Looking closely, the plaque on the building indeed read: 8th Arrondissement, Rue Balzac (1799–1850), author of La Comédie humaine. Oh, I had searched everywhere in vain and found it with no effort. In my joy, I quickly took out my camera and snapped pictures left and right, as excited as if I had just completed those seventy-odd volumes myself. Then I thought, I can't just photograph the building; I need to include myself, or people will think I bought a postcard.
Still not satisfied, I circled around, scrutinizing the building. It wasn't very old — probably a construction from the 1950s or 1960s. Balzac certainly never lived inside. So it's not really a former residence, just the original location. Around the corner, the plaque was different. This one read: 8th Arrondissement, Rue Balzac (1799–1850), Romantic. Now this really impressed me with the French. They revere him as a great writer, yet also honor him as a romantic in his own right, and have engraved both on the wall for people to mourn and ponder. Thus, I felt truly happy for Balzac, happy that he was born in a country that nurtured and understood him; likewise, I was happy for France, happy that she produced such a talent and romantic as Balzac and takes pride in him, never once thinking of using schemes to deal with him.
Walking further down Rue Balzac, I came to the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Heading west was the famous Arc de Triomphe. Up close, the Arc de Triomphe isn't particularly grand or towering. Much like Beijing's Tiananmen, it can't really be called magnificent. During my time at Beijing Normal University, those Tibetan classmates disdained Tiananmen; they said to my class monitor, "What's this? Far inferior to our Potala Palace." To be honest, I don't find Tiananmen very grand either; the Meridian Gate inside has more presence. The Arc de Triomphe is similarly showy but insubstantial — looks impressive but is of little real use. It seems that ever since the French built this thing, they haven't won a war. Instead, Prussian and German troops paraded through it victoriously several times. If Napoleon knew from his grave, he'd surely regret it. And indeed, after the Germans copied it and built the Brandenburg Gate, they started losing wars too.
(Balzac — author of La Comédie humaine)
(Balzac — Romantic)
V. Friends from Afar
My wife's schoolmate, Ms. Fang, came all the way from Germany with her family to see us. Having friends come from afar is a joy; meeting an old acquaintance in a foreign land is even more joyful. We were originally their faraway friends, and in Paris, they became ours.
Ms. Fang was my wife's classmate at the Harbin Normal College. While we went to America, she went to Germany. Keeping in touch over the years across foreign lands is no small feat. Her husband is German, though to me he looks more French: not tall, ruddy complexion, and hair the common flaxen color of France.
When Chinese meet, they naturally eat Chinese food. Next to La Madeleine church was what looked like a quite upscale Chinese restaurant. Opening a restaurant in such a premium location, yet the food was tragically bad. The poor dishes did not affect the German's beer drinking, though. Ms. Fang herself had become Germanized — no beer, no joy. During the meal, we chatted about the distance from Berlin to Paris. Even on the unlimited-speed Autobahn, it takes nearly twenty hours. Her husband described their seating positions on the tour bus with such gestures that we nearly fell over laughing. Communicating without a common language was truly delightful. Although France and Germany are hereditary enemies, oddly, Germans don't hate the French. On the contrary, Germans are quite hostile towards Brits and Americans. Actually, the Brits and Americans are Germany's Germanic cousins. The French are Latin, more distantly related. I suspect it's because Germany lost to the Brits and Americans twice. We had previously invited Ms. Fang's family to visit us in the U.S. many times, but her husband adamantly refused. He said that after WWII, the atrocities committed by the Brits, Americans, and Russians in Germany were worse than beasts, practically reducing Germany to rubble. He still vividly remembers the devastation after the war. Out of friendliness, I didn't criticize him, but without fascist aggression, how could there have been the ensuing violence that met violence? Americans are more lenient with Germans, likely because of the white racial bond. Like Japan, which deserved to have two atomic bombs dropped on it — just retribution.
During conversation, I asked him to rank five European and American countries. His ranking was: 1. Italy; 2. France; 3. England; 4. America; 5. Russia. First and last didn't surprise me, but the United Kingdom and the United States are Germany's Germanic cousins. The U.S. rebuilt Germany, stood firmly with West Germany during the Cold War, and later helped unify East and West Germany — it should at least rank ahead of Britain and France, at least ahead of the UK. But my impression was that if Russia weren't a former Soviet state, even Russia might rank ahead of America. Truly, a great country attracts universal hatred, just like China's neighbors. Fortunately, America doesn't care, unlike China, which cares so much about face. I asked if this ranking was common, and he said absolutely.
France and Germany have had pretty good relations in recent years, likely realizing the reality: if you cannot eliminate your rival, then it’s better to unite with them. In modern Europe, France and Germany have been the axis, leaving the traditional powers Britain and Russia out of the mainstream. Germans also greatly admire French culture, art, fashion, architecture, etc. After the meal, as we strolled along Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, he pointed out famous Parisian shops and French local specialties.
VI. Different Guards
Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré is quite a unique street. As mentioned, on one side are the French President's residence, the Élysée Palace, and the British and American embassies: heavily guarded, high walls, solid gates. On the other side are those exquisite, lavishly detailed boutiques. A classic combination of politics and commerce — perhaps it should be called the Street of Wealth, or the Political-Commercial Street.
While my wife and mother went shopping, the two children and I were fascinated by the guards of the Élysée Palace. The crisp, handsome blue ceremonial uniforms, with gold tassels and red accents, were striking and spirited. The young men were clearly picked from hundreds. They stared fixedly, imposing without anger, dignified but not arrogant. As we watched, a side door opened and three guards marched out in step to relieve the guard. I wondered why three were needed to replace one, then saw them approach the guard on duty. The first one passed the sentry and began marking time. The second stopped to change shifts with the sentry, while the third also stopped and marked time behind. Once the replaced guard joined the formation, all three marched back to the side door. So the front and back guards were guards of the guard. My two children, seven and eight years old, were awed by the guards' solemnity and ran across the street to examine them closely — my daughter even reached out to touch the tassels on his uniform. The guard didn't mind. I then raised my camera from across the street and gestured to ask if I could take a picture; the guard did not speak but gave a slight nod of consent. So we captured a wonderful photograph: my son and daughter on either side of the French guard, all three so beautiful.
(The children with the French guard)
Here, I must mention the guards of two major countries, China and the U.S. The guards in front of the White House do not permit photographs; any hesitation and you'll get a scolding. Coming out from the back entrance of the White House, photography is also forbidden, but when my sister visited the U.S. some years ago, she ignored the rules, took out her camera, and snapped away — guards, buildings, everything. She was reprimanded a bit, and that was it; no confiscation of camera or film. I haven't tried in front of Xinhua Gate in Beijing, but at Xiyuan Gate east of Zhongnanhai, I was yelled at before even getting close. The sentry sergeant stood on a round wooden platform under a large parasol, showing off but not impressive. The junior guard beside him had no parasol or platform, pitiful — without military dignity, let alone personal worth. I truly don't understand why even guard duty requires class distinction. The sergeant raised his hand threateningly and said, "Move along, move along, there's nothing to see here. Go, go." To be honest, he wasn't much to look at; I wanted to see Xiyuan Gate, and the scene was completely ruined.
My wife's shopping luck was good, though. At Hermès she snatched two silk scarves at $250 each, about the same price as in the U.S. No tax, so it was a bargain. Indeed, no sales tax and no tipping are advantages of both France and China. Not like the U.S., where something marked $100 ends up costing $108.25 with that 8.25% sales tax! Why do I say "snatched"? My wife said the store was full of Japanese women, chattering nonstop with zero self-discipline. She disdained being in their company and quickly left.
VII. Be a Walker
Of course, in Paris, you must visit the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and the like. So we first bought a two-day tourist bus pass, planning to see the blossoms from horseback first, then dismount and appreciate them later. Who knew that would be a huge mistake, leaving us seeing flowers through a mist. The bus wasn't cheap, it was crowded, and sometimes it took ages to arrive. It was nowhere near as convenient as the metro or taxis. The Paris metro has many rules and varying fares; be careful not to get fined. But the signs are clear, and after a couple of rides, you get the hang of it. Taxis are good too, with excellent service; many drivers are older country folk, North Africans, or black. If possible, the best way is to walk. Walking across Paris shouldn't be exhausting. When tired, you can sit anywhere; when hungry, there's food everywhere; when thirsty, there are drinking fountains. Only by walking can you freely take in Paris, and only by walking can you feel the Parisian earth under your feet.
As I said earlier, I like walking in the early morning — few people, few cars, fresh air. In Beijing, I've walked from the East City to the West City; in New York, from Battery Park to Central Park; in Shanghai, the whole length of Nanjing Road; in Barcelona, from Columbus Square all the way to the Sagrada Família. Last year while vacationing in Chongqing, every day I walked from the upper city to the lower city to visit my father reading early in the morning. This time in Paris, naturally, I walked along the Champs-Élysées, across Place de la Concorde, to Place de la Bastille, and back and forth, walking all over Paris.
Some say the essence of Paris is the Louvre, others say the Eiffel Tower, still others the far-flung Palace of Versailles or Fontainebleau. To me, it's the neither-too-clear-nor-too-murky Seine River. Water too clear has no fish; the Seine, as it is, probably has fish. Even at the Pont Neuf, people fish.
An American friend once told me that when he toured Paris, he started from Pont National in the east and crossed every single bridge, sometimes on the Right Bank, sometimes on the Left Bank, all the way to the Pont d'Iéna beneath the Eiffel Tower in the west — twenty-one bridges in all, comparable to Yangzhou's legendary Twenty-Four Bridges in China. While walking, he looked around, enjoyed himself, and even hummed tunes and recited poetry. Especially that small wooden bridge in front of the Musée d'Orsay, closed to vehicles — a pedestrian bridge often featuring street performers playing accordions or flutes, looking very joyful. Unlike street performers in China, who often wear a pained expression to invite pity and alms. The culture is vastly different.
Another saying is that there are thirty-four bridges across the Seine within the city of Paris — ten more than Yangzhou. I didn't count; a travel guide could tell you, but that's not important. What matters is to have bridges in your heart and to like them. With bridges, the Left and Right Banks are connected, freely flowing and exchanging. Without bridges, they’d be cut off, only hearing each other's dogs and chickens but never interacting — and Paris wouldn't be Paris. China's love for bridges should be no less than France's: the ancient Zhaozhou Bridge, both beautiful and practical; the Magpie Bridge of Qixi, utterly romantic. Modern Chinese people, for a long time, had no bridges in their hearts, and they need to rebuild them. Take Beijing: now all the old gates have been renamed bridges — Chaoyang Gate became Chaoyang Bridge, Fucheng Gate became Fucheng Bridge. Without bridges, wouldn't that mean no doors (no hope)?
VIII. Parisian Gardens
As I mentioned earlier, everyone has their own beloved Paris. There's a literary Paris, an artistic Paris, a musical Paris, an architectural Paris. Some adore the modern abstract Centre Pompidou, others prefer the babbling brooks of Monet's impressions. Some explore the deep palace gardens of Fontainebleau, while others linger enchanted at the risqué shows of the Lido or the Moulin Rouge. Or, on a dappled sunny afternoon, do nothing but savor a café en plein air — on the Left Bank of the Seine, of course.
As for me, what I like most are the gardens of Paris.
It's said that famous Western gardens worldwide fall into two major schools: the passionate, romantic Italian garden and the strictly symmetrical English garden. The former is lush with flowers, cascading freely; the latter features deep green, solemn, and dignified calm. No one singles out the French garden as a distinct style. Probably due to geography, French gardens combine both. They have the colorful variety of Italian gardens and the neat formality of English gardens. When in Paris, not enjoying its gardens is like entering a treasure mountain and leaving empty-handed.
From the Louvre to Place de la Concorde, on the prime Seine Right Bank stretch, lies the famous Jardin des Tuileries. Turning this golden real estate into a garden is like demolishing all the skyscrapers on Shanghai's Bund and replacing them with a grand garden. This is a classic French garden: flowers, lawns, graceful white gravel paths, and grand fountains. Marvelously, next to the fountains are many iron folding chairs placed for visitors to move around, sit, and rest at will. Speaking of which, I must criticize China and the U.S. again, because this would be impossible in either place. In the U.S., those chairs would be vandalized and graffitied into a mess; Chinese people would likely take them all home. Europeans, it seems, have more self-discipline.
While we were admiring the garden, we suddenly realized both children were missing. My wife instantly panicked, terrified they'd been abducted by the rumored Parisian Gypsies. My mother also started shouting frantically, turning the beautiful Jardin des Tuileries into something resembling the old Beitaipingzhuang farmers' market behind Beijing Normal University. Taking a closer look, I saw my daughter behind the flower bed. The little girl had deliberately knelt on the flower bed, head down, bottom up — her flower-patterned clothes made her blend perfectly among the blossoms. We hastily hauled her out and gave her a severe scolding. But she just muttered nonchalantly, threatening her mother: "If you don't buy me an ice cream, I'll hide again." Her mother, horrified, had to buy her off to avert disaster. We asked, "Where's your brother?" With a little finger, she pointed: there he was, over by the fountain, trying to straighten up the scattered folding chairs left messy by tourists, sweating profusely, his shirt soaked by the wind-blown spray from the fountain. His mother had brought spare clothes and tried to bribe him with an ice cream to change. He grabbed the ice cream, took his sister's hand, and ran off toward Place de la Concorde. As he ran, he said, "The wind will dry me." And indeed, the spring breeze lifted his white shirt gently; they giggled, as joyful as the lyrics from the Taiwanese boy band F4: "like sails full of wind"...
Northeast of Place de la Concorde is the southern side of the Élysée Palace. The green spaces in front of the palace, as well as the Grand Palais across the Champs-Élysées and the Sorbonne University area, all feature extraordinarily beautiful public gardens. Lingering there, you realize why Parisian women are so charming and Parisian men so romantic. The Champ de Mars below the Eiffel Tower and the Jardins du Trocadéro directly facing it are also lovely gardens. Especially after you descend from the tower, cross the aforementioned Pont d'Iéna, walk up the gentle slope into this large garden, and climb to the Palais de Chaillot above it, then look back at the Eiffel Tower. In the setting sun, the tower glows a blood-red hue; the wind blows, spring petals dance — really evoking the poetic line: "Sunset reflects back on Peach Blossom Ferry, willow catkins fly, flakes of red." This is Paris, this is the essence of Paris, the soul of Paris, Paris within Paris.
IX. The Resplendent Paris
Paris has many ancient and beautiful buildings. My favorites are the richly atmospheric Opéra Garnier and the incredibly majestic Palace of Versailles.
I didn't get a chance to tour inside the Opéra, but the building's exterior alone is captivating. One evening, I took another walk to the opera house, hoping to snag a ticket and see a performance inside. The afterglow of sunset hovered over the Baroque rooftop; street lamps began to glow, dusk faded to yellow, infusing the surrounding buildings with a mysterious charm, making my own mood a bit mysterious too. As I approached, I gradually heard a drumbeat, making my already unsettled heart even more anxious. Pushing closer through the crowd, I saw a large coach pull up. Its door opened, and a splendidly dressed couple emerged, slowly stepping to the base of the opera house steps, then turning to stand as a photographer took their picture. After the photo, they turned and ascended the steps. At that moment, ceremonial guards in red uniforms lining both sides of the stairs began drumming, the beat escorting the couple into the hall; then the drumming faded. Next couple, same routine. Occasionally, single men or women, or groups of three. Each party entering was accompanied by the ceremonial drumbeat — the men courteous, the women elegant and poised. Then it hit me: I had seen this scene somewhere before. Yes, in The Phantom of the Opera, that famous Broadway musical. Back then, it was so dazzling I thought it was just stage effect and didn't pay much attention. Who would have thought it really was like this? For over a hundred years, maybe even longer, truly like this. The only difference: cameras upgraded, horse carriages replaced by cars. Imagine the opera house holding nearly two thousand; the honor guard must drum over a thousand times, and they do this for every formal performance — truly extraordinary. That Broadway musical has since been made into a film. When you watch it, be sure not to miss those glimpses of past splendor.
Versailles is even more about past splendor. Some call it the most majestic and beautiful palace in the world. At least for me, it's the most majestic and beautiful I've ever visited. Stepping out of Versailles' train station, you're greeted by the building where the 1919 Paris Peace Conference was held and the so-called Treaty of Versailles signed — the Hôtel de Ville de Versailles. To think that here the imperialist powers once humiliated China, leading to the May Fourth Movement and altering the course of Chinese and even world history, causing incalculable damage to China. As I read the plaques in front of the building, the indignation in my heart was also beyond measure.
Walking through the town, I reached the main gate of the Palace of Versailles. The palace itself is an extremely controversial structure. It's enormous and excessively luxurious; even prosperous France could not afford it, leading to crippling taxes, polarization between rich and poor, alienation of neighbors, social contradictions intensifying beyond reconciliation, ultimately triggering the shocking French Revolution that sent the self-styled "fine-necked" King Louis XVI and his queen to the guillotine — and gave birth to modern republicanism. I bought a Chinese-language picture book for 50 francs, beautifully printed and detailed, though the translation was unsatisfactory. The souvenirs in the gift shop, however, were of high quality, especially the porcelain boxes with portraits of noble ladies — plump and prosperous, suggesting beauty standards back then didn't prize slimness.
Though the palace is splendid, there are too many visitors. Every chamber was packed. Guides' commentary and exclamations rose in waves, greatly spoiling the mood. In the famous Hall of Mirrors, it was a sea of heads, packed to the rafters; reflecting in the four walls of mirrors, the crowd multiplied exponentially. I doubt even the Sun King Louis XIV's masquerade balls drew such crowds. Many Eastern Europeans, many Japanese. Chinese tourists were mostly individual travelers, which is fine. I only hope they don't come in tour groups like the Japanese in the future, getting labeled as 'tourist animals.' Travel is a good thing, but too many people spoil the service for everyone. Yet you can't restrict others, because everyone has the right to travel. This contradiction will only intensify, a difficult problem to solve. Especially after the opening of Eastern Europe, people from the Czech Republic, East Germany, and elsewhere can drive to Paris in a day. They don't stay in hotels, they bring their own bread — much like us Chinese when we first went abroad in the eighties. The French are unhappy, but there's nothing they can do.
So I preferred the gardens outside, the woods, fountains, and ubiquitous sculptures. Walking through the South Parterre behind the palace into the Orangerie, the sculptures on either side are truly enchanting. In the light drizzle, descending the sloping path, admiring the marble statues of beautiful women from Greek and Roman mythology created by the faculty and students of the French Academy of Fine Arts for this garden — it was an overwhelming feast for the eyes. Compare this with the Rent Collection Courtyard group sculptures made by Sichuan Fine Arts Institute in the 1960s — both artistic creations, both from pure imagination. Why such a huge difference? It's truly puzzling. Recent years have even seen research proving the Rent Collection Courtyard stories were fabricated; Liu Wencai was no blood-sucking devil; the notorious water dungeon was a complete fabrication — it was merely a semi-basement for moistening tobacco. Why can't we, like the French, at least in artistic creation, beautify ourselves, mythologize ourselves? Instead, a significant number of Chinese, whenever given the chance, demonize and self-loathe, as if afraid others won't abhor them. I recall reading an essay by online writer Dushanzhaizhu, recounting a discussion with a French female student about Sino-French differences. He boasted that Chinese are willing to endure hardship, to sacrifice, leaving enjoyment to the next generation. The French student burst out laughing, saying, 'I once thought Chinese were smart, but apparently not. By your logic, if every generation endures hardship so the next can enjoy, then every generation will endure hardship, forever. Better to be like us French: every generation pursues enjoyment, so every generation enjoys.' I was dumbfounded reading that. Thinking about it, perhaps there really is something wrong with Chinese thinking. It's like those northern Chinese storing cabbages in cellars in years past. Every time they went down to fetch cabbage, they'd see one about to rot and think, 'This one's going bad; eat it first and save the good ones for later.' Next time down, they'd again take out the one about to rot. Result: they ate rotten cabbage all winter. Worse still, many things are plainly impossible. For example, Fan Zhongyan of the Song Dynasty said, 'Be first to bear the world's worries, last to enjoy its pleasures' — that's a sage's ideal. But it's unrealistic and doesn't conform with the idea of letting some people get rich first. Change it to 'Be first to excel in the world's excellence, and enjoy its joys along with everyone,' that might be better and more in line with reform and opening-up. Doing impossible things while pretending to do them, or urging others to do what you can't, leads to hypocrisy, falseness, and empty words. Hence our notorious face-saving and image-building projects.
In truth, the Palace of Versailles is itself an image project. Not to mention the extravagantly magnificent Ambassadors' Staircase, the hideously costly Hercules Salon, the splendid Queen's Bedchamber, or the awe-inspiring War Gallery. The Palace of Versailles's variety and splendor defy description in words. Without being there, you can't grasp its breadth and depth; without immersing yourself in it, you can't fathom its brilliance. The outdoor gardens need even less description; every section's landscape is unique — any one of them elsewhere would be a stunning garden, yet set here they are overshadowed and seem unremarkable. It's like the imperial harems of old, with eight hundred consorts and three thousand beauties, each a one-in-a-hundred beauty locked in the deep palace — all so beautiful that none stands out as particularly beautiful.
X. Gourmet Delights in Paris
After leaving Versailles, we needed to eat. There were many fine restaurants in the town. Inside the palace, there was a restaurant too, but it was crowded and expensive, so we just bought sandwiches to tide us over. Now seated, we surveyed this restaurant called "Bretonne." The décor was nice, waiters polite. The dishes arrived, one per person. Strangely, no matter what dish, it was served on a buckwheat crêpe. Beef stew was like that, grilled lamb chops too. Even the dessert: ice cream on a freshly made hot crêpe. We asked the waiter; he said it was a custom of Brittany. Did we like it? Very characteristic. Was it tasty? So-so, cannot compare with Paris restaurants. Likely Brittany is some rural area. We were having something akin to Shandong pancakes — local specialty fare.
The Chinese have always prioritized food, being very particular about cuisine. Confucius insisted that food be as refined as possible, sliced as finely as possible. The French are equally particular about eating and drinking. In the world of gourmet food, probably only France rivals China. The French breakfast I'll skip over briefly. Lunch is casual; on the streets, you often see well-dressed men and women each holding a long baguette, with or without filling, munching as they walk, or sitting on park benches or flower bed edges feeding pigeons and themselves. More often, people combine breakfast and lunch, sitting at a sidewalk café, a beret on their head, a cup of coffee, a sandwich or fried lotus root, passing time, reading newspapers.
Dinner is the main event. A typical French dinner often consists of four courses: soup, appetizer (hors d'œuvre), main course, dessert. Sometimes they add fresh vegetables and cheese before or after the main course, making it six courses. Regardless, that's the full set menu; apart from drinks, no other charges. A la carte is different: only the main course is included; everything else is extra. Be sure you know whether you're ordering a set menu or à la carte to avoid unpleasantness. Business people everywhere try to sell you more extras to make more money; the French are no exception. Only by understanding the situation can you get one dollar's worth of enjoyment for one dollar. Otherwise, you'll pay two or even three dollars for one dollar's worth of enjoyment. But in any case, expecting to get two or three dollars' worth for one dollar, like haggling at Beijing's Silk Street, is not going to happen. People like a bargain, Chinese and foreigners alike. But when abroad, consider our overall image as Chinese. Don't tarnish that image for a tiny bargain, spoiling your own travel mood.
Of European countries, France is uniquely blessed: abundant produce, mild climate, excellent geography — much like China's Yangtze Delta. With sea on two sides, an extensive canal network, and the roof of Europe — the Alps — in the southeast, its agriculture, seafood, winemaking, and dairy are highly developed. Since ancient times, farming and commerce have been the backbone of France. Even today, there's the saying: industrial Germany, agricultural France. Thus, every French household values fine eating and drinking; everyone is well-fed and plump. With a rich life and a romantic nature, the French are less shrewd than the British and less rigid than the Germans.
The travel guide mentioned an excellent Michelin-starred restaurant near La Madeleine. How good? Let's just say that even in its attached small épicerie, the attendants wore tuxedos to serve customers. Wow, I've been to many high-end restaurants — never seen a tuxedoed attendant. Right, let's go see. The small shop had a black storefront, vintage and antique. Unlike Chinese shops, its sign was modest and understated, as if fine wine needs no bush. Inside, indeed, attendants in formal attire with bow ties came to serve. I intended to take a closer look at their outfits, but my attention was immediately captured by the dazzling array of goods.
This shop was characterized by refined delicacy, unlike the big-box American supermarkets. Another feature: vivid freshness, not the tightly packaged, long-haul products. Among French foods, the most celebrated is foie gras. Its fame is as resounding as Peking duck in Beijing, or Goubuli buns in Tianjin. Without tasting Peking duck, you haven't truly been to Beijing; without trying foie gras, you've no right to speak of French cuisine. Making foie gras, with its myriad varieties, has recently seen innovations like fish pastes, seafood pastes, and others. In this one shop alone, there were several hundred kinds. Only products with considerable reputation and history can enter this type of traditional old store. And many items are homemade and sold directly. I can't fully appreciate foie gras and also worry about its high cholesterol, so I just sample it now and then. My wife, however, loves it and bought several tins on the spot, though who knows how good they really were. Tasting was possible, but enjoying gourmet food requires fine wine, ambiance, company — none to be missed. Here, a can of Alsace foie gras, four ounces, 310 francs (about $60); another from the Lorraine region, six ounces, nearly $100. There were higher-grade ones, and cheaper ones too.
Actually, I prefer those aspic-like, gelatin-like things in various colors and shapes, round and square, mostly made from various meats and seafood mixed with broth, stuffed into casings, boiled, chilled, and sliced. They come in countless varieties and names. Not oily or heavy, they dissolve in the mouth, with flavors far lighter than common sausages, especially suited to a lady's slimming aims. The dark ones go with red wine, the light with white, the transparent with champagne. This earthly delicacy is like French perfume among foods — truly "this thing exists only in France; in this world, you rarely come across it." Of course, the 'come across' here refers to savoring, not news.
Leaving the shop, we entered the adjacent restaurant. At the door stood a very imposing maître d'. Seeing that setup, I couldn't help but compose aloud: "Seeking fine flavors in Paris, renowned eatery with good word of mouth. Waiters all in tuxedos, fine wine sees me home." Indeed, the menu at the door had detailed fixed prices. That day's Thursday special set menu was priced at 325 francs per person, drinks not included. Three hundred twenty-five francs at the time was about $65. For five people, that would be $325 in food costs alone. With drinks, the meal might run around $500. A bit pricey. But then, entering a treasure mountain, you can't leave empty-handed. This was a full multi-course set menu. In the U.S., it would probably be even more expensive, just split-priced so the pain isn't as sharp. Also, France tips are included; our 20% tipping culture is often puzzling.
A waitress with very broken English came over. Most diners were formally dressed; only we were in travel attire, so I asked her if I needed to rent a jacket. Since women and children could be more casual, she said just take off my jacket. Underneath I had a collared short-sleeve shirt, which could pass as smart casual.
Before even reaching the table, I was awed by the table setting. The cutlery, plates, wine glasses, water glasses, centerpiece, flowers — all genuine, top-quality. Luxurious yet not gaudy, rich without clutter. The decoration was elegant and tasteful, the color tone and environment warm, complemented by soft candlelight — truly the finest atmosphere for dinner. Sitting down, the chair felt spacious, and the distance to neighboring tables was comfortable. The tablecloth and napkins were perfectly tactile, neither slippery nor rough — a blend of pure cotton and silk. In short, every detail, every piece of furniture was thoughtfully chosen. No wonder this restaurant has thrived for a century.
Before ordering, a basket of bread is placed on the table. This place served large slices of various flavors, very fresh, likely baked in their own bakery next door. The kids, being hungry, fell upon the bread and ate heartily. I warned them that better dishes were coming, but they ignored me. My wife teased me for being afraid I wouldn't get my money's worth of those 300 francs. I thought about it and decided to let them eat their fill. In French restaurants, bread is free, same as in the U.S. Some countries charge for it — Spain, for instance. The first item on the bill: "PAN...2 EURO, 5, 10 EURO" (bread... 2 euros per person, 5 people, 10 euros total). You didn't order his bread; they force it on you then charge. The commercial ethics of Spaniards are akin to ours Chinese — not very high.
The courses were indeed excellent. My soup was a chilled cucumber soup — trying something novel, hot soup served cold. My wife had a green soup of cucumber, kiwifruit, and melon; more a juice than soup, taste just okay. My mother ordered a thick vegetable soup, which she said wasn't as good as my Shanghai uncle's creation back in the day. But I thought, that was during the Cultural Revolution; just having soup was a treat, anything tasted good. What the kids ordered, I forget.
My appetizer was oysters, the kind reputed to invigorate. My wife's was baked clams, deliciously fresh. Mom had tomatoes stuffed with seafood, excellent, as pretty as a work of art. Again, I forget what the kids had.
After the salad came the main course. Mine was cod, paired with white wine. My wife had salmon, with red wine. Mom's was seafood covered in a cream-and-cheese sauce and baked, with the top layer golden and enticing; breaking through that crispy crust revealed milky-white seafood beneath. It resembled the 'boat-plate' baked fish in cream sauce at Moscow Restaurant near Xizhimen in Beijing. The Russians must have learned it from the French. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Russia modeled everything on France—clothing, food, housing, even upper-class conversation was in French. Back then at 'Lao Mo,' it only cost eighty cents a serving; now it's probably eighty yuan. The kids ordered chicken and lamb chops — this time I remember. French cuisine features moderate portions; you can finish each course. Big eaters can hold onto the bread; don't let the waiter clear it away.
After we were well wined and dined, a pretty waitress wheeled over the cheese cart. If anything was astonishing, this cheese cart truly was. Such variety, so many shapes, cleverly arranged on a two-tier trolley — artfully staggered, exquisite and beautiful — it was hard to bear eating them, truly too lovely to eat. I knew cheese is heavy and wouldn't fall, but I still feared someone bumping the cart and turning the cheeses into shattered works of art. This cheese cart was more for viewing than for eating. After all, fine food itself is art. However, we Chinese, especially Han people, don't have a great affinity for cheese. Only one type, blue cheese, tasted exactly like our stinky tofu; my mother loved it.
By the time dessert arrived, I couldn't eat another bite. Dessert also had its little trolley, laden with models of various desserts — very pretty. I intended to skip mine and just taste my wife's, but the waitress kept urging, "It's the set menu, it's included," meaning I'd already paid for it, so why refuse? She was really on our side. On her recommendation, I ordered the Napoleon cake to see what an authentic one was like. My wife chose baked custard; Mom, a chocolate fruit platter — hot chocolate poured over fresh fruit. Very distinctive. The kids both ordered three-flavor ice cream. Unexpectedly, when it arrived, it was so beautiful that my seven-year-old daughter couldn't bear to eat it. I had assumed three-flavor ice cream meant those three layers stacked together. But this restaurant used a large, gold-rimmed dinner plate, arranging the three colors of ice cream — red strawberry, yellow vanilla, brown chocolate — each shaped like a leaf in a diamond pattern, with real strawberries and vanilla leaves beside them. The colors and composition were so striking and fresh that my daughter couldn't bring herself to destroy it with her spoon; she just sat there watching it slowly melt. I quickly snapped a photo. Indeed, before melting, it was a classical sculpture; after melting, it somewhat resembled a modern painting. Finally, my daughter said regretfully, "Look, it's melting." Yes, even French ice cream melts.
XI. Paris at Night
After much writing, I finally reach the night of Paris.
In truth, the night of Paris is not night but an extension of its day. This seems like nonsense — isn't night everywhere an extension of day? But let me tell you: when you are on the Champs-Élysées at ten o'clock in the evening in May and suddenly realize it's still broad daylight, you'll understand. So the city that never sleeps really never sleeps.
Back when I worked as a film projectionist in the Great Northern Wilderness, I always remembered that summer open-air movies couldn't start until after nine because the sky wouldn't darken. Yet in my memory, the Great Northern Wilderness is at a high latitude, and it was summer. Could Paris be at a higher latitude than the Great Northern Wilderness? Later, checking a map, I found Paris's latitude is higher than Harbin, even higher than Kiamusze, roughly equal to Jiayin County by the Heilongjiang River. No wonder the days are long and nights short. Thinking carefully, such misconceptions come from assuming the Northeast is extremely cold and Europe is comparatively warm, substituting temperature for latitude. I recall reading about a fellow countryman who traveled to Egypt in early spring, thinking, 'Going to Africa, it must be hot.' Upon arriving at Cairo Airport, a frigid wind nearly froze him to death. That too was temperature replacing latitude in his concept. Note that Cairo's latitude is similar to Shanghai's; hit a late cold snap in winter-spring transition, and you'll indeed be half frozen.
Yet the May nights in Paris are not cold. On the Champs-Élysées, brilliant lights and throngs of people. Not to mention browsing those exquisite shops or watching street performers' exaggerated acts. Simply sitting on a bench and people-watching, as Americans say, is a great pleasure. But honestly, while the Champs-Élysées bustles with activity, there aren't many handsome men and beautiful women. Occasionally one or two appear and vanish in a flash, slipping into a car or métro, leaving one wistfully longing. To think I crossed oceans and traveled thousands of miles to Paris eagerly hoping to feast my eyes on beauties, only to end up with an empty dream — truly moonlight illuminating a ditch. While lost in these thoughts, suddenly a French woman behind me shouted, "Pied, pied!" I glared at her, thinking, how rude, shouting so uncivilly on your capital's main street. If this were Chang'an Avenue, you'd be thrown into jail for a week. Then it occurred to me: Chinese is broad and profound; even this middle-aged French woman knows some classical phrases — not simple. But she kept shouting and pointing at my innocent-looking son. It turned out the little guy, unable to spot any cute girls, was bored out of his wits and instead of reflecting on his troubles, he was kicking his legs restlessly, sullying the woman's posterior. I apologized profusely and dragged my precious son away. He even grumbled, "She's so big, had to squeeze next to me." That kid — if Cindy Crawford sat next to him, he'd grin from ear to ear.
Back home, I checked the French dictionary: "pied" means foot.
After settling the children into bed, we returned to the Lido theater on the Champs-Élysées to see the late-night cabaret show.
Paris has many cabaret shows. The famous upscale ones are the Lido and the Moulin Rouge. The Lido is right on the Champs-Élysées — convenient and safe. Tickets are expensive: even without dinner, 600 francs per person, though each couple gets a bottle of champagne. Our seats were upstairs, in a four-person booth with a table for drinks and snacks. Once seated, someone came selling souvenir programs — beautifully printed, costly. I bought one for 60 francs, filled with topless showgirls, stunningly gorgeous. The white couple across from us didn't buy one and borrowed mine to flip through, clicking their tongues in admiration. After returning to the U.S., I gave it to a coworker, Timothy; it caused a stir in the office and got me a warning from Human Resources (equivalent to China's personnel, organization, and cadre departments) not to do it again.
The lights dimmed, the performance began. The spectacle was truly magnificent. How magnificent? I'm not being coy; it truly varies from person to person, and you have to experience it yourself. But don't be disappointed, gentlemen — I have a few pointers. First, it's topless, not pornographic; second, it's performance, not provocation; third, bring binoculars — glasses won't suffice; fourth, it helps to know some ancient Greek and Roman myths, as they form the script; otherwise, you'll be totally baffled. Speaking of puffs, those sitting in the front rows really must be careful. The first act, The Birth of Venus, had water spraying from the naked Venus, and the nymphs beside her also sprayed fountains. The sprays crisscrossed, accompanied by colorful lights, music, fine wine, and dazzling female bodies — probably the most appealing sensual pleasure on earth. Though it's a nude revue, it's joyful without lewdness, not likely to make your blood boil uncontrollably. Maybe I'm just getting old. Sneaking a glance at my wife and the couple across, seeing them all absorbed, I felt at ease enjoying the show. Honestly, the Lido's performances have endured for decades and are situated on Paris's Champs-Élysées — equivalent to Beijing's Chang'an Avenue — truly not unearned fame. The beauties in the troupe, to quote writer Lao She, really have 'arms like arms, legs like legs,' nothing to fault. Since it's a nude dance, I'll be blunt: the Lido's beauties indeed have 'breasts like breasts, navels like navels,' genuine and uniformly sized, showing the director's strict selection. This may sound unartistic, but let's be frank: since nudity is their selling point and that's partly why we came, there's no need to be coy. Travelers able to do so should not miss the Lido revue. Not meaning this nude show should be advocated, but to see that a topless revue can indeed be non-vulgar and even rather tasteful — no need for lewd thoughts. Public-funded travelers excepted; they should at least pay for their own tickets rather than seeking ways to claim reimbursement.
XII. Farewell, Paris
Paris is wonderful, but Parisians aren't necessarily. Just as Beijing is nice, yet many Beijingers are not so nice. Many Beijingers think Beijing belongs to Beijingers, not to outsiders — a very narrow regional mindset. Without China, where would Beijing be? Likewise, without France, where would Paris be? Many Parisians discriminate against foreigners. Little do they know that without Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, an Italian painter, the Louvre would lack its treasure; without the passionate playing of Polish pianist Chopin, Paris would lose its musical soul; many Chinese painters, writers, musicians, even political activists have also left their traces in Paris, such as Xu Beihong and Zhang Daqian. In this sense, Paris belongs to the world as well. Otherwise, how could it claim to be the capital of the world?
Travel writings on Paris are as numerous as ox hair, so I've omitted many places — the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, the Centre Pompidou, Fontainebleau, etc. The list could go on. Paris may have the most monuments of any city in the world; Rome might come close, but Beijing certainly can't match. Simply put, theirs have suffered less destruction and been better preserved. Our Yuanmingyuan could have rivaled Versailles, but the French and British destroyed it — truly teeth-gritting. I'd like to question the French here: why do you preserve your own things so well, yet invade everywhere and destroy others'?
There are plenty of shortcomings in Paris, but we travel not to find faults. Let's look at the good. So, Paris, farewell.
