Scenes from the City of Lights: Part One
Tartine au Chocolat. The words leap out at me off the menu as though they’ve been highlighted, and I instantly decide that I have to have it. I’m not entirely sure what it is – I know that a tartine is a slice of baguette or bread that’s topped with various confitures in the morning, or with all sorts of savoury toppings (my favourite involves warm goat cheese, mushrooms and tomatoes) for a light lunch – but I’ve never seen a version involving chocolate. Will there be chocolate in the bread? A chocolate topping of some sort? I take a leap of faith and order it, along with a café crème, because in Paris, continuous caffeine intake is a requisite, ritualistic part of day-to-day life.
A few minutes later, the mysterious tartine au chocolat is slid onto my table by a white-aproned waiter. It’s a baguette – just a baguette – toasted to perfection but otherwise plain, and for a moment I’m disappointed. Then I notice the little glass sitting next to the baguette. It’s full of chocolate; thick, molten, wonderfully warm chocolate. There’s a little spoon sitting next to the glass, and I briefly contemplate skipping the baguette altogether and just spooning the chocolate directly into my mouth, but then I decide to stick with proper tartine-consumption protocol and start to spoon generous dollops of chocolate onto the bread, making sure that it properly coats every available surface and has adequately seeped into the baguette’s many holes. I take a bite. It is sublime, as anything coated in molten chocolate tends to be.
For the next twenty minutes, there are only two problems in the entire world: How to properly maintain adequate chocolate coverage throughout the entirety of the baguette without running out of chocolate too soon, and how to avoid smearing chocolate all over my face and hands under the appraising gaze of the white-aproned waiters.
The mannequins in the shop windows know something that I don’t. Their expressionless faces somehow look smug as they stand there in a neat line, winter coats cinched snugly around their waists, thick stockings tucked into boots, scarves wound around and around their plastic necks. They are dressed for winter.
Outside, on the sidewalk where I’m standing, it’s still very much summer. The air is hot and humid; the headlines at a nearby newspaper stand scream out “hottest week on record”, “heat wave”, and “extended summer”. I’m sweating in a thin tank top and a fluttery skirt, sweating just by looking at those mannequins in their heavy woollen ensembles. Surely the shops should have extended their summer displays just a little bit longer? The Parisians, too, seem to not notice the heat. The sidewalks, cafés, and Métro cars, all approximately the temperature of an oven, are full of trench coats, black jeans, and ankle boots, which look slightly inappropriate under the cloudless blue sky.
The next morning, there’s the slightest hint of a chill in the air. A few leaves have turned brown, and they drift delicately down to the ground. Two days later, I wake up to the sound of rain rattling against the windowpanes. It’s windy, and the air has a damp bite that seems almost foreign. Suddenly I’m rummaging around in my suitcase for a pair of long pants, layering a sweater under a jacket, tossing aside the lightweight scarves and reaching for the heavier, woolier ones. I’m shivering on my way to the café in the morning, pushing my hands into my pockets as I ascend from the Métro, wishing I had a steaming bowl of café au lait to warm my fingers against.
In one dramatic swoop, autumn has arrived. The mannequins in the shop windows don’t look so out of place anymore.
The Parisian sidewalks are like a complicated game of chicken. For the uninitiated they can be downright scary; there are the usual crowds that go hand-in-hand with life in any big city, but then there are also bikes, the scooters that consider the sidewalk their own personal extension of the roadway, and the odd parked car. And then there are the Parisians themselves. They will walk in a straight line, intent on getting to their destination as directly as possible, and they will not move over for you. You move over for them.
Last year, I spent my month in Paris perfecting the art of weaving my way down the sidewalk. Sidestepping determined old ladies with grocery-laden carts trailing behind them, jumping off the sidewalk to avoid leggy, model-esque women dressed in head-to-toe black, men wielding baguettes like swords, packs of teens, mothers with impeccably-dressed children in tow. This year, I decided that I would try an alternate tactic: I would make the Parisians weave their way around me. I would, essentially, beat them at their own game. I may not be able to open my mouth and speak without giving away my foreigner status, but out on the sidewalks of Paris it was anyone’s game, and I planned to win it.
There are three rules in this game. They are easy to understand but tricky to master: First, dress as chicly as possible. Black, and lots of it. Slim pants, a trench coat, and don’t even think about venturing onto the sidewalk without a scarf. Secondly, do not smile. Do not make eye contact. Do not look apologetic or anything less than utterly unwavering. Finally, walk as though you own the sidewalk.
And so, armed with these (admittedly self-deduced) guidelines, I stepped out onto the crowded sidewalks of the oh-so-stylish Marais neighbourhood. At first, I wavered. I held my ground until the last possible second before darting off to the side and offering up a hasty “pardon!” – I was envisioning ballet flats colliding, handbags crashing against each other, and I was not ready for the consequences. And then, finally, I did it: I found myself on a direct collision course with Madame Chic herself, a severe-looking middle-aged woman checking off all the boxes of the Parisian cliché: Baguette tucked under one arm, dog leash clutched in the other, dressed in head-to-toe black and wearing boots substantial enough to inflict serious damage should a collision actually occur. She was striding, I was striding – and, before I knew it, we were almost toe-to-toe. I held my ground. We drew even closer. Finally, with barely a millimetre left to spare, she pinched her lips together into a tight line and swerved off to the side while I strode straight on by.
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