Lesley Tellez

Two things I didn't know about Parisians: they love creamy potatoes, and a gamey, intense pork sausage called andouillette. That's it above, from a restaurant called Gallopin.

I meant to do a lot of research on Paris before we traveled. What was the history of the city? What is it like now? What were the top things to do and places to see? Alas, my schedule blew up and the only research I did involved a dinner with Parisian friends who now live in Mexico City. (Thank you, Luis and Elodie.)

Several things struck me about the city — first off, how clean it was. I was staying in the 7th arrondissement, which is near the Eiffel Tower and apparently Paris’s equivalent of Polanco. The buildings practically sparkled. How could it be that they were built in the 17th and 18th centuries? Even when we traveled away from the Eiffel Tower, things never looked extremely gritty. Maybe I didn’t find those neighborhoods.

The gorgeous -- and clean! -- Pont Alexander III, one of Paris's prettiest bridges

A few other things that stuck out:

1. Parisians are nice. Crayton and I had steeled ourselves to expect the worst. We’d read all the horror stories about snooty Parisians. But the people we encountered were friendly. It might’ve helped that we tried to speak French as much as possible — we said “bon jour” or “bon soir” every time we entered a restaurant or shop, and “Merci au revoir” upon leaving. (Several times I also confidently asked for the check:”Si’l vous plait, l’addicion!” Loved doing that.)

We found an extremely friendly wine guy at a shop on Rue Cler, and nice waiters at the bar-tabacs where we’d stop for beer or fries or paté or whatever. Whenever possible, I tried to smile and look charming and say merci a lot.

When I told Erik and Jesica, our American-French-Mexican friends living in Paris, that we were treated very well, Erik said, “You should blog about that.” They also said Parisians were working on being nicer to tourists. So, Parisians: merci. It’s working.

2. Parisian women are as stylish as you’d think they’d be.
I don’t know why I thought, pre-Paris trip, that Parisian women wouldn’t be all that fabulous. Maybe this had to do with me not drinking the Paris Kool-Aid. Once I actually arrived in Paris, though, I realized the stereotype was true. Most Parisian women I saw were slim and chic. They walked around in cropped jackets and fitted jeans, and scarves knotted around their necks. Some women — a small, devastating group — wore five-inch heels and dresses that accentuated all the right parts.

Not a day went by that I didn’t gape at some Parisian woman walking down the street. And then my eyes would drift to my own sneakers and jeans, and I’d tell myself that I had to wear sneakers, because there was no other way to burn off the French pastries.

Seriously: even the toddlers look good here.

3. The city is entirely, charmingly French.

So much of the Western world has embraced and copied the French style, especially in architecture and food, that for some reason I thought that the Parisians would’ve eschewed the tradition by now in favor of something more modern and unique. This isn’t the case. Paris looks exactly like it does in the movies: There are cafés on every corner, and they all have the rattan-and-cane bistro chairs that face the street. Narrow streets are lined with boutiques, bistros, butchers, bakeries, cheese shops, patisseries, small, maze-like supermarkets, and stores that sell the most stylish baby clothes ever.

Parisians really do say “Oh la la!” when they’re delighted by something. And they say “Oh la la la la la la” when they mean, “Oh boy.” I realize, by the way, that eschewing the traditional for something modern and different is an American sensibility, but that fact didn’t hit me until after I got there.

4. Paris, for a city of two million people, is actually quite… tranquil. Maybe it was the pesero driver who recently hit Crayton and drove off (he’s fine, by the way), or the cars that cut me off when I’ve had the light, missing my body by inches; or the cracked, uneven sidewalks, or the motorcyclists who ride on the sidewalks in front of the police — but I’m reminded on a daily basis that rules don’t really exist in Mexico City. Sure, there are tranquil pockets. But the city, at its heart, is chaos. Most of the time I love the chaos. Other weeks, it makes me want to bang my head against the wall.

Paris, somehow, is exciting and orderly. There is no snarling, horn-blaring, parking-lot traffic. Or if there is, I didn’t see it. Cars go only one direction inside a roundabout, not two. Jesica told us that the police once stopped her for running a red light on her bicycle, something that gave me a pang, because that would never, ever happen here.

Crayton and I talked a lot about how Mexico City could eventually be like Paris. That’s in another post.

A few more photos:

Outside the Louvre, late afternoon

Les escargots -- one of our last meals in Paris

Tuileries Garden

A sunny day at the Luxembourg Gardens. Parisians are fanatical about picnicking.

Another view of the Luxembourg Garden

And yet more Luxembourg Garden...

The Louvre at sunset (taken from inside the Louvre)

When I told friends I was traveling to Paris for a week, they’d always ask: Is it your first time? I’d say yes, and then the person would get this faraway look in his eyes.”Oh, Paris. You’re going to love it.”

I didn’t doubt that I would like it. But I secretly thought: Is everyone drinking the same Paris Kool-Aid? It can’t be that great. They probably mean it’s nice if you have money and can stay at some big fancy hotel. Or it’s nice if you speak French well. Crayton and I have traveled to several big cities and I’d never felt wholly charmed by any of them. Excited and intrigued, yes. But enamorado? Eh. Mexico City didn’t so much seduce me as physically grab me — somehow I knew I belonged here.

Paris, on the other hand, hit me like a crush. I was infatuated immediately. The buildings were so clean! The monuments so well-kempt! The narrow streets, the bakeries, patisseries, boucheries, the-old timey streelights — they looked like they’d come from a storybook.

And then there was the food. It really was as good as people said. I put a small ice-cream-scoop of salted butter on my baguette every morning, and I even buttered (horrors for my cholesterol) my croissant, just because I felt heady and in love. For lunch at almost every meal, I ordered a slab of paté as an appetizer and dug into the ceramic crocks of cornichons. Then came the french fries dipped in mustard.

It was easy to get around, because there are bus and Metro stops everywhere. Most of the time we walked and took some time to gaze out at the water.

Sometimes I’d walk down the street and just stop and stare. I kept taking pictures of the buildings, until Crayton said, “Wow, you’ve got a lot of pictures of buildings, don’t you?”

I took photos of the food too, of course.

My first pastry in Paris: a chocolate eclair.

A fig tart -- one of my mid-afternoon snacks.

A regular croissant, a swiss croissant with chocolate, and an almond croissant -- known in the French cannon as "Viennoiserie." This was breakfast one morning.

A pear tart with chocolate chips.

By the end of my first day in town I thought: No wonder Porfirio Diaz loved this place.

More pictures tomorrow.