For some “chilly” reason I’m asked to write about romance in Paris every February — a month in which strangely enough I find myself grumbling far more than blowing kisses. Perennially, many of us “permanent fixtures” ask ourselves why would anyone choose to live in a place so gray and wet, so seasonally unfriendly?
After all, there’s Key West and Mexico City, Dakar, Beirut, Alexandria, San Antonio, Goa, or Guantanamo – where unlawful combattants are welcome. Somehow, even those of us who should know better, continue to believe that being in love is better in Paris. Or that it’s easier to fall in love here... Or, that the mysterious hormones that put us “in the mood” act differently when one approaches the Seine.
Nice ideas. Remember that bumper sticker — “Virginia is for Lovers”? Brilliant marketing, but what does it mean? Do people love each other any more anywhere in particular in the world? Some couples swear by Venice to renew the chemistry. Perhaps, the real truth is that — when it comes to the “L” word — Santa Monica, Neuilly-sur-Seine and Khandahar are all pretty much the same, not counting rollerblades, the American Hospital and the absence of Starbucks — respectively.
In all truth, I would love to be able to report from Paris this month that “love is in the air.” But, I just got back from the local pharmacie, and the cruel reality is that right now there’s a lot more viral tetracocsis and gastroenteritis floating above our beloved “city-state” than the warm, fuzzy stuff that cupids are supposed to keep in their love-quills — and shoot into the nostrils of targeted lovers.
To be sure, in Paris the romantic intensity of local Valentines’ Day gifts outstrips cute clichés à la Hallmark. Chocolates — with 71% cocoa — make the heart race as does anything dainty and skimpy with an Aubade label on it, but the bottom line is that it’s hard to feel hot and “bothered” by anything at all in Paris, in February. Even given this city’s generally recognized higher level of tolerance for “public affection,” as it happens — February just doesn’t “cut it” for public snogging.
February, to be fair, is a month that’s fine for sipping hot chocolate at la Maison du Chocolat, which I’ve actually come to prefer to my former rue de Rivoli favorite — Angélina’s... where these days you end up feeling like you’re stuck in a Burberrys ad. There are just too many compatriots there, with guidebooks! As you sit there you realize that the only reason you’ve wandered in is for that famous “chocolat chaud.”
This month is pretty good for tracking down hidden tables in dark, plush cocktail venues. I, for one, like “February flirting,” notably in the lounges of hotels too expensive to stay at. That feels good... A night at the Hotel Lotti seriously dents your wallet, but an afternoon with a pot of Earl Grey amid Michelangelo-style frescos, certainly makes you feel like a prince.
I conducted a survey among friends and colleagues, and the results were quite conclusive. During the winter, Paris café life is characterized by gas heaters that warm customers up within a circumference of 30 inches. February is a month in which to huddle together. It’s much the same when it comes to bathrooms. In the cheap rented accomodation on the fifth and sixth floors of Paris’ high-ceilinged apartment buildings, the bathrooms have been squeezed in as an after-thought. You know — if I’m talking to you. The caulking of their windows is reminiscent of some obscure black and white movie from the ’40s, and the initial draught requires you to squeeze your shoulders down as if “into tepid bath water” in that dinky half-tub called a “sabot,” designed exactly for you when you were twelve-years-old.
I remember, once in February... having to type my stories with wool gloves sawed off at the first knuckles to enhance writerly dexterity — and I’m considerably younger than Ernest Hemingway. Romance, huh? You climb in between the icy sheets at night, cloaked in your college sweat shirt and pants, and Champion socks. It takes lots of motivation to remove any of that garb regardless of who’s coaxing you... and, to convert goose bumps into waves of heat. On some occasions cognac and Eluard’s Love Poems have helped, but usually they didn’t.
As we “transplanted” Parisians settle down to new lives... battling terror blindly, swallowing grotesque “abuses of power” and Enron and Andersen-style capital movement, our role models everywhere have crumbled. It struck me — in this land where the “Digiman”-like check-out person mindlessly breathes onto the magnetic strip of your US credit card claiming it doesn’t work when you know it works — that Dorothy’s heart-warming edict, “There’s No Place Like Home” has, well, dried up.
We’re not there, and we’re not here. There’s no place like… “no place”! And, the substance is the surface. If you’ve been in Paris a decade without a break, perhaps it’s time for a sabbatical... Write to the Icelandic Department of Agriculture for a job. Think about climbing that mountain in Chile. Or, alternatively... Why not propose marriage on the metro, just to see what happens? If you’re polite — who knows? You may end up being surprised... Then, you’ll love February for life!
(david@paris-anglo.com)
David Applefield is the author of Paris Inside Out, The Unofficial Guide to Paris, and the free online newsletter My Mercredi (www.paris-anglo.com). He also publishes the literary journal FRANK (www.ReadFrank.com).
