City of Lights

There are precisely zero cities on the planet that I love more than Paris. Its architecture makes me wonder why anyone else even bothered architecting; its food is (mostly) incredible; the Eiffel Tower, as cliché as it is, is the Eiffel-fucking-Tower; same for the Louvre, the Arc de Trimphe, ad nauseum.

As evidenced by lesser cities everywhere who claim to be the Paris of ______, the City of Lights is rich in wonders that make it, well, a Paris.

With so many things that make this an amazing place, my favorite part of the city is Parisians. Most visitors to Paris will tell you how rude Parisians are; their icy stoicism can be enough to make babies cry; store clerks in Paris have one shared favorite expression (It's not possible) and will rarely rise from their chairs behind registers to offer help. People on the street won't stop to chat with strangers, and they have a cynicism that might only be rivaled by a manic-depressive on a bad day.

Ask Parisians about their politicians: "Assholes."

Ask Parisians about France: "Tumbling into hell."

Ask Parisians about Paris: "It's a rotten city."

And then ask them where else they'd rather live and they'll smirk and tell you: "Pfffff, nowhere."

Parisians epitomize the French paradox. Not that lame "they eat bread and cheese and never get fat" paradox, but the "everything is hideous and beautiful" paradox. Parisians don't love things until they've hated things, or maybe they won't love things without hating them.

What I admire about the French (or Parisians, I should say, since I haven't spent much time outside of Paris) is that they're realistic. To them, Paris is a cesspool of crime, an ornate vestige of a collapsed empire, a place whose moment of glory has long passed. And, by the way, it's also the best city on the planet.

It makes me wonder whether realism has continued to shape French culture since the 1850s or if realism was just an expression of the way the French have been all along.

Whatever the reasoning behind it (persistent skepticism after crooked governments? experiencing incredible power and glory and then losing it?), Paris is a good lesson in being realistic.

The first night I arrived in Paris, I arrived into a train station covered in graffiti. When I went out later to get dinner, I was heckled by a voice that came from underneath a cardboard box blanket. I had to elbow my way through a crowd of livid protesters to get into a store, I was cut off in line twice. On my way home, I walked down a street littered with trash, through an alley where a dozen hookers lined the walls and then finally, through the courtyard of an apartment building where I'm pretty sure crimes have recently occurred.

But I was elated to be in the real Paris. Never mind some idealized caricature of Paris where the Eiffel Tower casts its shadow across perfect lawns, where the river winds and splits to reveal Notre Dame, where people clutch baguettes as they scurry past the Louvre and take seats at cafés to people watch. That night, the ugliness of Paris was played out on the beauty of its stage.

I hope that one day I'll be able to live in Paris and be a part of the city. And I don't want to live in a dumpy, up-and-coming neighborhood; I want to live where Napoleon played out his complex and built big, impressive things. I'm from a place where 100-year old buildings are ancient and I don't want to witness gentrification in action; gentrification is pretty much all I've ever known.

If my wish comes true and I get to live in one of Paris' idyllic neighborhoods, I'll be surrounded by beauty, but I'll never forget that I'm just a few metro stops away from a shitty neighborhood. I won't remember this by choice, of course, but because I'll be surrounded by Parisians and they'll be happy to pop my fantasy bubble with their reality needles any day of the week.