Positively Paris

There has been a noticeable lack of peevishness in the French capital of late.

After their uber-long summer holidays, the French normally return home in early September full of energy. Here in the capital, that generally means a month of huge demonstrations and a few crippling strikes.

Not this year. The usual manifestations of malcontentment were notably absent.

“I wouldn’t say they seemed happy,” one friend said when I asked her if Parisiens seemed to be in a better mood this year. “But it’s true that I can’t recall a single instance of someone berating me last month.”

That’s a stronger statement than it might appear.

The French are likely never going to seem happy, nor do they want to. They regard American-style sunniness with deep suspicion, at best. They see us as a nation of Pollyannas who lack the ability to think critically. The contrariness you find in France is intentional, and valued. It is proof that they use their brains. And griping is seen as a perfectly acceptable way to open a conversation. If you agree, what is left to talk about?

While I have come to appreciate the space to express and debate my views openly, without the same concern that a difference of opinion might be a friendship ender that I might have in the US, I am generally a glass-half-full girl and can find the constant carping tedious at times.

"Do you really have to complain about everything?” I asked someone who has, on more than one occasion, used a criticism of something as his opening salvo, before even saying hello (the bonjour is sacrosanct here).

“Of course,” he replied. “I’m French.”

Indeed he is, but he may soon be a throwback. It seems the French might be changing.

As evidence, I offer the recent popularity here of “Emily in Paris”. When season one debuted in 2020, French critics outdid one another in heaping scorn upon it. Le Parisien said it was disconnected from reality. For a French person, watching it was “enough to make you feel insulted,” bewailed Premiere.

Recently, though, France has fallen in love with the frothy show. according to The Economist. When the first five episodes of the latest season dropped, the series went straight to the top of the list of most-watched series in France. Even the critics had nice things to say.

I’m on a group chat for the business school of the university I went to and the members recently shared their own assessments of the series. One person said the skies were too blue and sunny (“sort of a Paris-in-Florida look”), another harrumphed that Emily takes a luxurious night train to la Côte d’Azur when, in actual fact, it is a 12-hour local affair.

But then someone piped in to say that he and his wife loved the show, despite the inane plots. “The scenery in Paris and elsewhere is irresistible!” he enthused. “Paris is amazing even in the rain, 🌧️ as shown in recent Olympics,” kvelled another.

“Do you think Parisiens seem like they’re in a better mood this rentrée?” I asked a French acquaintance as we sipped Chablis on the terrasse of the Café du Trocadero, sheltered under an awning to avoid the drizzle.

He did. His theory was that the Olympics helped the French rediscover the beauty of their city, helped them see it through the eyes of outsiders. “And did you watch the closing ceremony and the handoff to Los Angeles? They went from Paris to a nothing cabana on the beach! It was ridiculous.”

He began enumerating all the ways the city has improved since the JO, as they call the Olympics here. When he included vastly improved metro service on his list, I had to conclude that his French pride was clouding his judgement. The past few times I took the metro (I try to walk or bike when possible), I was crammed in like a sardine—and it wasn’t even rush hour.

Paris was, however, left with what is clearly one major public transportation plus: Ligne 14. It now goes straight to Orly airport in only 25 minutes from the city center, making the southern aerian hub far easier to access than the Charles de Gaulle airport. What’s more, the line is fully automated, making it strike proof. Because let’s be real, it’s only a matter of time before people start walking off the job again.

I worry that new arrivals are not getting a fully authentic experience with all this positivity (though the pickpockets remain as attentive to tourists as ever, so beware).

A friend I made decades ago on jury duty is a long time Paris aficionado and moved here from New York last month. We had planned to go to a concert together but as he was waiting for me to turn up he realized that the tickets were, in fact, for another night.

“Let’s go to Balzar and get abused by some grumpy French waiters,” he suggested, referring to the historic brasserie near the Sorbonne where Sartre and Camus used to hang out.

“You might be surprised,” I warned as we walked in.

“Do you have a reservation?” the person who greeted us asked.

When we said we didn’t, we were met with the pained expression that is usually followed by a '“ce n’est pas possible.” Not this time, though. Her knitted brow was not an indication of the annoyance we were to her but of the thought process she was going through to try to figure out where to put us. After a moment’s reflection, she smiled and led us to a table.

We split a lentil salad and, because they were out of the sole meunière, ordered two skate. They were delicious. We decided to share a crème caramel for dessert, each thinking we’d have just a bite or two, but once we had dug in, we couldn’t stop ourselves. We polished it off.

Walking home across the Seine, I thought once again, as I do almost daily, about how fortunate I feel to be living in Paris. This is my second stint in the city and this time I’ve been here nearly a decade, but the wonder never wears off.

That Paris is lovely is obvious, but a friend inadvertently reminded me that there is beauty everywhere if you take the time to find it. Knowing how much I miss the sun during the interminable gray season here, he recently started messaging me a string of sun emojis every morning, hoping they will translate into real-life sunshine. In return, I spend my days on the hunt for a single ray of light that I can photograph and send back as proof that his well-wishes have worked. And you know what? On even the bleakest of days, there is usually a moment of brightness. You just have to look for it.