The sun crept slowly over the wing of the Pan Am 747 as the sky turned from a deep, soulful purple to a cool, pastel blue.  On the horizon glowed a distant strip of flaming red where the sky met the sea. At the unripe age of 22, fresh out of my college graduation and an extended summer job, I was 30,000 feet over the Atlantic, absorbed in anxious thoughts of the future as I viewed my world from an entirely new perspective.  It was the fall of 1971. Behind me lied my torn and battered country, the United States of America, still very much at war in Southeast Asia, at war with itself.  I myself was wounded from years of frustration and despair, fighting the battle at home.

            As the flight attendant poured the coffee, the water below had turned to land. We were flying over western France. As we descended into Orly Field, the red streak that had lined the horizon at dawn suddenly became a drab, grey haze that defied definition.

            At the terminal building, the unwanted news had been spreading that the Metro, the subway system of Paris, had ground to a halt due to a strike. Eventually, the words were translated into English so that I could understand what the source of all the unhappy fussing was.  For nearly two hours, the airport bus crawled through impassable, rush hour traffic until it finally freed us, its weary human cargo, at the downtown Air France terminal, releasing us into a sea of chaos as Paris became paralyzed in a state of crisis.

            Finally escaping from the crowds and confusion at Air France, I hoisted my large, heavy pack onto my back and began walking along the wide River Seine. Once liberated from the stifling bus and away from the mobbed terminal, I could breathe again, but the quality of the Parisian air was far from pure, probably as a result of the increased number of cars on the streets which created even more pollution than usual.

            Despite the dramatically increased level of smog and traffic, walking in the French capital became a surprisingly uplifting experience for me.  On one side flowed the peaceful waters of the wide river, creating an instant, unobstructed sense of open space that I had not experienced from my hikes through many American cities.  Conspicuously absent from this urban scene were the oppressive shadows cast by very tall buildings that often served to stifle  my inner spirit.

            “Parlez vous Anglais?” I found myself anxiously and idiotically repeating to amused passersby on the street.

            Eventually, I was directed to Boulevard St. Germaine in the heart of the vibrant Left Bank district.  Exhausted by then from the weight of my pack, I removed it and momentarily paused to observe the ornate, iron balconies and sidewalk cafes that lined the avenue, listening to the music of the French language that flowed naturally from the conversations of pedestrians all around me.  The October morning grew warm as the sun slowly burned through the contaminated haze.

            Randomly choosing a table at one of the tempting outdoor cafes, I finally rested from what had been hours of perpetual movement as a waiter in a short, red coat approached me. I ordered tea with lemon and a croissant because that was all that I could remember in French at the moment. Although I could have lingered at the café for half the day, once rejuvenated I was anxious to find a hotel, a place to call home even for one night.  Mounting my pack, I climbed a long hill and found Hotel des Grandes Hommes, which had been recommended to me by a Parisian professor in the states, mostly because of its central location. Although the rates were more expensive than I expected, as was everything else in the city, I agreed to take a room there until I could find a more economical alternative, which, for one reason or another, was never to happen.

            Following a pale, silent girl up three, narrow flights of ancient, creaking stairs, I was shown to a small, single room with a sink.  The toilet was one flight down, and the bed sagged to the floor, but I loved the little balcony that revealed a dramatic view of the Pantheon, the Sorbonne, and the Palais du Justice that graced the green banks of the Seine in the distance. Throwing open the doors of the balcony, stepping outside, and deeply inhaling the imperfect air of Paris, I stood before the city.  At last the waiting was over and, somewhere beneath her mysterious veil of haze, Paris was waiting for me.

            “Which way is Paris, Mummy?” asked the little English girl standing beside me at the top of the Eiffel Tower. The view of the city was nearly obliterated by the heavy, smog-filled air.

            “Honestly, Charles, I never thought that it would be like this,” responded the disappointed mother as she turned to the man next to her.

            “But I can’t see, Mummy! I can’t see!” whined the child persistently. The sad truth was that no one else could either.  Eventually, the English family faded into the obscurity, never to be seen again.

            From the top of the tower, Paris was far too remote and abstract. It was time to descend. Surely somewhere along the banks of the Seine or her wide boulevards, there was a more accessible, more human Paris awaiting to be discovered.

            “Look, Liliana, I’m sorry that you didn’t find my country to your liking, but, in all honesty, I don’t find Americans to be any more pretentious or materialistic than most of the Europeans I have met.  How can you make such sweeping generalizations about a nation as diverse and as large as the United States?”

            Having been in Paris for no more than 48 hours, I was already staunchly defending the honor of my country against an onslaught of criticism, including vicious accusations of imperialism, greed, emptiness, and selfishnesss, just to name a few. Seated at an outdoor café on a beautiful autumn day, I was in the company of three Serbs who had immigrated to Paris with the promise of more lucrative career opportunities than their native Belgrade could offer in the former Yugoslavia, which was still under Communist rule even if it were a liberal form of Communism.  Lovely Sofia, an architect and art enthusiast, was the sister of a college friend of mine.  Her husband, Alex, was an engineer, and their vehemently anti-American friend, Liliana, was an art student.

            “You know, when I visit America, people are so fake!” charged Liliana.  “As soon as they hear my accent, they are very curious about where I come from, but when I tell them they know nothing at all about my country.  They know not who Tito is. Nothing! In Belgrade, we learn all about America and Russia too, but Americans know nothing about us.  Maybe that Yugoslavia is Communist but nothing else.  They are curious on a very simple, fake level. Is true!”

            Although I understood at least some of her observations, I instinctively felt compelled to defend my country against foreign attack.

            “Listen, Liliana, aside from Canada, this is the first foreign country that I’ve ever visited,” I responded with annoyance. “I’m no expert, but I’m not convinced that life in America is any more shallow or meaningless than in other places or that Americans are any more ignorant or less sophisticated than people anywhere else.  Sometimes I think that the world expects too much from us. No matter what we do, no one ever seems satisfied with us.”

            Before Liliana had the chance to react, Sofia tactfully succeeded in switching the subject in spite of her faltering English.  Her gentle, green eyes, soft facial features, and long, golden hair were a soothing sight to my weary eyes.

            “You know, Frank, I am so sorry that you come to Paris at such an awful time!” She spoke English very carefully, pausing periodically after a sentence to question its correctness. “You have much troubles because of Metro strike?”

            “Well, in all honesty, I have been pleasantly surprised at how helpful so many Parisians have been to a stranger at a time of crisis.  It’s easy to get a ride now, as long as I remember to keep my thumb down instead of up when I hitch-hike in France.”

            “Hitch-hike?” Sofia asked quizzically, wrinkling her brow as she struggled t understand my words.  Her husband was more proficient in the English language.

            “It’s unfortunate for you,” remarked Alex. “The traffic is impossible now. The busses are always full. The air is bad. So many attractions are closed. You should return to Paris at a better time.”

            “Actually, I don’t regret it,” I replied.  “On foot, I’ve learned so much more about Paris than I would have experienced riding the Metro. I feel very positive about the city and its people.”

            “Oh, I do not!” protested Sofia once she grasped the meaning of my words.  “I think that Paris is very cold city. Too big. Too proud!”  

            “You know, before coming here, I had heard so many unfavorable impressions of the French from Americans back home,” I responded. “I don’t understand why so many Americans have a difficult time here. People have been very kind, even when they know that I’m an American. Maybe I’ve just been lucky, unless I caught them off guard as they struggle with the hardships of the strike.”

            “You said before that the world expects too much from Americans,” shot back a belligerent Liliana, “but I think Americans expect too much from the rest of the world.” She would not, under any circumstances, retreat from battle. “The French are very proud.  American tourists demand too much.  When Americans come here expecting the comforts and culture of America, the people are insulted! You also expect everyone else to speak your language. You, for example, do not speak French. Correct?”

            “Well, at least I try to make some effort and don’t assume that anyone speaks my language,” I answered. “In America, we just don’t have the opportunities to speak foreign languages as you do in Europe unless we visit Quebec or one of our Spanish speaking areas. I’ve got nothing against the French language.  I’m just frustrated because I can’t speak it or understand it very well.”

            I walked with the Serbs to the foot of Pont Neuf which dramatically arched over the Seine from the area of the Louvre Museum to Ile de Cite.  Saying goodbye to my new acquaintances, I wandered  through the island, passing the iconic, gothic towers of Notre Dame Cathedral and somehow found myself lost within the dense network of narrow, cobblestone streets on the neighboring, smaller Ile Saint-Louis until twilight descended upon the city.  Returning to the Left Bank, the aroma of a hundred restaurants, both native and foreign, filled the air, indisputably announcing that dinnertime had arrived.  My tight budget compelled me into an economical, self-service cafeteria on Saint-Germain. When the woman behind the counter asked what I wanted, I could only point idiotically with the usual apology for my language weakness.

            “What do ya mean that you can’t get me a first class ticket on that flight to New York?  It’s very important that I be there tomorrow for a meeting. I have very influential contacts here, and I’ll be sure to notify them about this!  I don’t see why I have to stand for this abuse!”

            As an experienced American Express agent, the man seated behind the counter knew better than to match the ire of his American customer.

            “I am sorry, sir, but, as I explained to you, there is only coach available on that flight, and you are fortunate to get even that at this time,” responded the agent calmly but firmly.

            After resentfully purchasing the available ticket, the angry American in the colorless trench coat stormed out of the crowded lobby as other travelers were preoccupied with their own, personal matters.

            “No, no, that’s impossible!” protested a pudgy American woman as she awkwardly leaned over the busy mail counter at the head of a very long line of homesick travelers in a strange land, anxious to receive comforting, reassuring words from home.  As she leaned forward, her tight jumpsuit of unspecified stretch fabric exposed her enlarged derriere, a prominent panty line highlighted beneath the glaring overhead lights.  “I’m sure that you’re not spelling my name correctly.  It’s ‘Travers’, not “Travis’.  T-R-A-V-E-R-S! Please check again!”

            We stood behind her, a long line of lost souls desperate for some indication that someone, somewhere loved us and missed us in a cold and unfeeling world.  From somewhere among us came a loud, unsympathetic, male voice,

            “Hey, lady, why don’t ya come back tomorrow! Can’t ya see that you’re holdin’ up the line!”

            “Oh, brother,” added another American man behind me, “what a crazy time to be here! This whole, freakin’ city is a total madhouse! And ya know they ALL speak and understand English, right?  They just like to give us a hard time. And after all we did to help them during the war. Ya’d think that they would show some gratitude!”

            I hadn’t initially realized that it was too early in my trip to receive any mail, so why was I standing on this ridiculous line for no purpose? I suppose that I was as lost as everyone else at the American Express office that day.  Once outside, I was relieved to be liberated from that base camp for the exhausted, disappointed, and malcontented wanderers of the world.  Weren’t any Americans having a good time in Paris? I believed that I was.  As I wandered happily and aimlessly through the unrecognizable streets of a totally unfamiliar, foreign city, I felt gloriously free.  For once in my life, I didn’t have to be anywhere at any specific time, I was certain that I could be totally anonymous and not bump into anyone I knew, and I was totally oblivious to all of the words and all of the conversations that were spoken around me.  I was in bliss, at least for the moment.  Unlike my unhappy compatriots at American Express, I had no desperate need to hear word from home. Perhaps I had not been on the road long enough. Time would tell.

            “But what will you do when you return to America?” asked Alex over dinner on the next evening at a small, excellent Polish restaurant located somewhere within the maze of narrow, cobblestone streets of Ile de Cite, not far from Notre Dame.

            What would I do? I thought to myself.  The Serbs were very focused on their specific professions. They were much more disciplined than I was at the time.  America seemed so far away, as well as the decisions of planning a career and an adult life. Was I supposed to be thinking of the future? It might have been the last thing on my mind at the time.  If I ignored these questions, would they go away forever?

            “I think that you both should come to America one day soon,” I responded while dodging Alex’s dreaded question.  “Once all of this mess in Vietnam is over, we’ll be a normal country again. It’s just not a fun place anymore.  You must come and visit my home so that I can return your hospitality.  You have been unbelievable.  Here I come, a total stranger, some friend of Sofia’s sister, Ana, in the states, and interrupt your lives, and you have shown an incredible kindness to me.  I don’t deserve it!”

            “Ana always writes about how Americans, such as yourself, have been so helpful to her in the States,” responded Sofia. “We do owe it to you, Frank.”

            Joe drove us to Montmarte where we tasted authentic French crepes and listened to live music from the steps of Sacre Coeur as a million twinkling lights glittered in the distance.  This was the magic of Paris.

            “This place is just another rip off!” announced one of two American young women seated next to me on the exquisitely manicured grounds of Luxembourg Gardens.   “Seventy centimes just to sit on a freakin’ bench.” She sounded as if only Americans were charged the fee. I wondered why Americans came to Paris at all.  So that the worst of their expectations would be fulfilled? Why bother at all?

            After one full week of “Paris on Foot”, my own tolerance for a major metropolis in a severe and prolonged state of emergency was waning along with a chunk of my meager funds. If I wanted to see more of Europe, I would need to leave soon.  As long as the Metro strike persisted, moving around the city grew more difficult with each passing day. The busses stopped running at 9 PM and, even when operating, became giant sardine cans that crawled slowly and steadily through the congested streets of the city.  I preferred to walk, and I walked everywhere, so I became quite familiar at least with the major thoroughfares in the most visited areas.  My brand-new hiking shoes gave me large and painful blisters, which I had to soak every night, but it was all part of the adventure.

            Of all of the city’s museums, the only one that I found open was the Louvre, which was large enough and crowded enough to overwhelm me. The stunning, gothic chapel of Sainte-Chapelle was also available for the viewing of its spectacular stained-glass windows.

            On my last evening in Paris, I decided to return to Notre Dame. Finding a seat in Square Jean XXIII, the peaceful park behind the Cathedral, I admired the illuminated flying buttresses against a totally blackened sky.  At least for one, extended moment in time, the noise and confusion of a city in chaos seemed very far away.

            I arrived at the pier only minutes before the last cruiser of the evening departed for its journey down the Seine.  Despite the presence of a large, loud, and drunken group of Germans on the boat, I was able to focus my attention on the unmatched, majestic beauty that flowed beside both sides of the river. From the middle of the Seine, Paris became an entirely new city, a magnificent showcase of the finest architecture that the world has to offer.

            For me, Paris stood as at least three separate cities.  The first was abstract, impersonal, and distant, impossible to grasp, from the top of the Tour Eiffel.   The second was a lively, exuberant center of abundant human energy that rushed by my table at an outdoor café on Boulevard Saint-Michel. The third and most impressionable city was the Paris that revealed itself with dramatic, dignified beauty beside the peaceful waters of the River Seine.  Regardless of the presence of the boisterous and drunken Germans aboard the cruiser, it was this third Paris that would remain with me forever.  The obnoxious group was merely a disturbing reminder that I lived in a world that could never achieve perfection, not even for an instant.

            On that final night in Paris, I was suddenly awakened in the total darkness of my hotel room by the sound of very heavy rain that loudly pounded against the metal roof over my head. Walking to the small balcony, I watched the city from behind a thick curtain of cold rain and fog. I would be leaving Paris in the morning. Would I ever have the opportunity of returning? At times, I fooled myself into believing that I had achieved a feeling of intimacy with the city, but as I viewed her through the rain and the fog late that night, I suddenly realized that I was only a passing stranger who merely caught a brief, fleeting glimpse of all that she had to offer. Most of the people whom I had met were not even French.

            “Sofia,” I heard myself say quietly in the darkness. The lovely sister of my Serbian college friend had certainly left a deep and lasting impression on me. Each time when I managed to fall asleep, the heavy, pounding of the rain against the metal roof above awoke me again and again, as if I had earned no right to sleep on my last night in Paris.

       As the train departed from the station for warmer points south on the next morning, Paris moved before me for the last time.  While the crippling Metro strike would eventually end, would the special beauty of this extraordinary city survive the more permanent plagues of pollution, congestion, and unsightly urban sprawl? Surely, the eternal beauty that I witnessed from the River Seine could never die. This was the Paris that would remain with me until the end of my days.

*****

Frank Wiener was born and raised in New Jersey and graduated from Rutgers University with a B.A. in English. He also lived in five other regions of the United States and has traveled to all 50 states, all Canadian provinces except one, and 35 additional foreign countries. He swims. He bicycles. He reads. He writes. He watches classical movies. He listens to the music that he loves. He is deeply concerned about the world in which he lives.

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