Hausmann’s Top Ten Things to Do – and Not Do – In Paris

#7 GREAT BUYS

We dragged Lincoln and Genevieve through 12 centuries of European paintings in the Louvre.   Winged Victory soared on marble wings above the mob clamoring on the staircase.   You could hardly get near the Mona Lisa.     I attempted to explain medieval iconography, Flemish landscapes, and El Greco’s luminosity to children visually impaired by Sponge Bob.

“How much longer?”  Genevieve groaned, lagging on the forced march.

Isabelle and I exchanged glances, and shrugged. We’ll try again. Beating a hasty retreat, we stumbled on African sculptures and Micronesian masks.   The kids were captivated by non-Western art: fantastical, charming, grotesque, mischievous… and utterly accessible.    So-called primitive art touches something deep inside young savages, and triggers the unconscious to reveal itself to so-called grown-ups.  It’s a drag being parents charged with the task of civilizing children.  Repressing their instincts.   When you’re really trying to recapture your own.

A blue man with a downturned face, narrow shoulders, and a long pointed chin reminds me of my father’s downcast moods, and my own depressions, bearing the burdens of life on our paternal shoulders.    My father with his white beard now looks like his father did as an old man, and I am pushing sixty, with children ages 7 and 9, still under my wing.  Their wiles keep me young, dancing to the beat of primal drums, though I’m only postponing the inevitable.

Outside in the fresh air, a street vendor was hawking mini Eiffel Tower key chains.   Lincoln scored three — black, silver, and gold — for 1 Euro.

“What did you think of the Mona Lisa?” I asked him.

“Huh?” he grunted, twirling the mini Eiffels around his fingers.  He won’t remember the masterpieces of European painting, but he’ll never forget his trinkets.  Nor will I forget him spinning gold and silver from his fingertips.

To go Parisian, you need a beret.   I purchased a genuine wool beret in crimson – to match my bloodshot eyes – for 9 bucks American.  Now, no one will know I’m a tourist, I tried to convince myself. I’ll sit at a café like Sartre, and ponder life’s meaninglessness, existentially.

“Do you see many Frenchmen wearing red berets?” my father asked probingly, from a safe distance in Denver.

“No, Dad.”  He just doesn’t get it.

Passing my reflection, I looked like a cross between Che Guevara and a toadstool.

Genevieve scored a pair of jeans, with stars and fake rips; and a soft crème-colored sweater with a braided pattern.   She beamed, showing off her new wardrobe.

“Wow!” I nearly fell over with excitement.  “You look so cool. Where’d you find ‘em?”

“The GAP.”

I smiled through my teeth.  Why go to Paris and buy torn jeans from an American chain store is beyond me.  But then… I’m not a “tween.”

Isabelle steered us to Bon Marche department store, a nineteenth-century architectural gem, with wrought iron columns designed by Eiffel, and tastefully renovated to contemporary standards.

“What makes Parisians so chic?” I asked Isabelle, people-watching at a café. “They dress in so many different styles, but always seem stylish.”

“Body consciousness – you don’t see grossly overweight women,” she replied, admiringly. “And scarves.”

Isabelle purchased a scarf, a rare gift to herself.

Lincoln dragged me down the escalator to the basement toy store, where he was attracted magnetically to a rack of Bakugans.  If you haven’t been watching exploitive ads on cartoon channels lately, unlike my model youngsters, Bakugans are warriors from outer space that curl into balls and love to brawl.  When you roll the plastic balls on magnetized cards, they click the balls open, and scary looking action figures pop out.  Lincoln has a Bakugan collection in Basel.   To encourage his reading, we said, “If you read THE OFFICIAL BAKUGAN HANDBOOK we’ll get you a Bakugan in Paris.”

Lincoln is in first grade, grappling with Oxford little readers, with titles like BIFF’S TREE HOUSE.  The Bakugan handbook is geared for third or fourth grade reading levels – and adult morons – far above his expertise.  But that didn’t stop him from manfully sounding out such gnarly sentences as, “Bo-reed dep blow a blank of dark way-ters, a de-kev-ing ire of tra-nunk-lity fills Aquos.”    Translation: “Buried deep below a blanket of dark waters, a deceiving air of tranquility fills Aquos.”

“Great job, Lincoln!  What Bakugan do you want?”

This was serious business.   Towering above him: a dozen racks of Bakugans, each bearing 8 action figures, neatly arranged.  Lincoln pulled several dozen off the racks and minutely studied each one.   Twenty minutes later, he had narrowed the search to three, which we set aside.

Meanwhile, a little French boy sauntered up with his father.   I can’t reproduce how Bakugan sounds with a French accent, but I assure you it’s cute.

The boy snatched one of those we’d set aside.

“Hey, that’s my Bakugan!”  Lincoln protested.

“Lincoln, let the little boy have it.”

“No, zat’s okey,” said the father amiably.  He gently wrested it from his son’s grip, and offered it to Lincoln.

“Say, ‘merci,” I whispered, nudging him.

“Murky,” Lincoln mumbled, grudgingly.

But, once he had his Bakugan back, he offered the French boy another of his top three, saying, “This one’s cool.”

Next time I hear Americans complain about Parisians’ sour dispositions, I’ll remember how sweet that father was to my son.  I think the negative stereotype of the arrogant Parisian goes back to the post-war era, when France was humbled, and Yanks loaded with dollars threw their money around.

France has restored its place in the world.  Its deeply rooted and continuously evolving civilization is flourishing.  So they don’t feel a need to be nasty.

What do they think of Americans?

We happened to be in Paris the day the Nobel committee stunned the world by awarding President Obama the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize.    “Why? What for? What did he accomplish?” complained critics.

French President Sarkozy praised Obama’s “vision in favor of tolerance between states, cultures, and civilizations. “  And he spoke directly to American people.  “It recognizes the return of America to the hearts of the peoples of the world.”

Americans, it’s a good time to visit Paris.  And stop calling French fries, “freedom fries!”

***

#8.  Meet a Bug

Gazing from the top of the Eiffel Tower, it looks a Giant Potter modeled Paris out of crème-colored clay.  Drunk on Beaujolais, he dug out the riverbed with a giant stick, creating the sinuous Seine.  Carefully, he laid out the formal gardens, and troweled the flowerbeds.  Then he spat out the mud over his shoulder, making the grim suburbs.

“Who designed Paris so beautifully?” I ask the children.

“Napoleon?”

“Wrong.”

“I’ll give you a hint. What’s my job title?”

“A hausmann designed Paris?” Genevieve asks, incredulous.

“Not any old hausmann. Baron Haussmann! Spelled with a double ‘s’ and a double ‘n.’ He laid out the Bois de Boulogne and the avenues radiating from the Arc d’ Triumph,” I say, pointing out the landmarks illuminated by a sudden blaze of sunshine through the clouds.

Baron Haussmann is soon upstaged by a more amazing attraction.

“Look, a bug!”

I look down.  A bug with tiny wings is crawling on the railing.

“How did he get up here?”

“He must have flown.”

“No, he probably hitched a ride.”

Brave bug!  His tiny legs grip the wrought iron, buffeted by winds.  He leans over the edge, antennae wagging.  I snap a picture of him, silhouetted against the gardens surrounding the Eiffel Tower.

“He’s going to jump off!”

“Stop him!”

He flies off.

We take the elevator down.  We walk under the tower, its girders like a gigantic erector set.  The arches rise above us.  Dwarfed, we feel like ants. Where is our friend, Bug?

“I want to be an engineer like Eiffel,” says Lincoln.

From your lips to God’s ear, I whisper to myself.

I want my children to have advanced degrees and remunerative professions, so they won’t have to scrounge for an audience like their father.

Down on earth, I feel insignificant.   Yet Eiffel and Baron Haussmann are dead.  And I have these wonderful kids who need me.

I put on my cheap crimson beret.  Genevieve snaps my picture, silhouetted against the eye-full tower.

A hausmann in Paris.