Queer n There	Queer n There Archive

I first came to Paris in 1962. I visited several times in the '60s and '70s, and again about 12 years ago. On that last trip, I was with an American friend on his first trip abroad. We stopped for a glass of wine at a terrace bar we encountered in the Left Bank. Random selection of restaurants or cafes is not a good idea in Paris -- two glasses of wine cost us over $40. Though living in Europe recently, sometimes changing planes at Charles de Gaulle, I avoided Paris since, because I remembered it as always expensive, off-putting, and just too large.

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But I tried again this year. In the meantime, I'd picked up some French, which was a big help. Paris surprised, even overwhelmed me with its amazing vitality and variety. It was like suddenly seeing individual trees and stands of pine instead of a huge undifferentiated dark forest. And I found that if I was careful, Paris doesn't have to be expensive either. Even in Paris's choice quartiers (Les Halles, Marais, Rive Gauche, Pigalle, Bastille), it's possible to find a good supper (steak-frites and coquilles St. Jacques are my favorites) for under $10, and an excellent glass of red wine for less than $3. And there are also hotels scattered about for under $50 a night.

This time, I noticed all the smiling, curious people who look you in the eye and even strike up conversations now and then. Yes, Parisians are rude in the Metro. They shove and push even more than New Yorkers, and cut in front of you at subway doors that slam shut dangerously fast. But they are not aloof or arrogant, and are actually often quite promiscuous in their sudden intimacy with strangers in the street. As I eyed the always delicious array of pastries in a bakery, a young woman struck up an animated conversation about the different varieties of chocolate eclairs. Outside a butcher's, two boys told me I could find better cuts at another shop up the street. Both of these situations led to further conversation -- about the neighborhood, French and American differences, hip-hop music, and the art world.

The pictures: they're true!

One thing struck me immediately -- how many of the people looked as though they had stepped out of the 1930s postcards available at all the shops: their exaggerated facial expressions, arched eyebrows, and alternately pouty and erotic lips -- and also their dress. The fat, double-chinned old men in high black turtlenecks. The elderly women arm-in-arm in long, brightly checkered coats. The sleek young women in elegant gowns. The young men in berets and sweaters, and others in ties and double-breasted suits. And everyone with a foulard, a long scarf wrapped loosely around their necks and hanging down or flipped over a shoulder.

The children, too, are from such postcards. In the working-class building where we took an apartment for a week (a fairly cheap and comfortable way to stay in Paris), there seemed to be an ad hoc nursery in a woman's home, two or three winding flights above us. (The building has eight stories and no elevators!) Every morning and evening what seemed like dozens of children, with layers of colorful sweaters and scarves, waddled up and down the stairs, accompanied by either moms or dads coming to and from work. One must not neglect to mention the omnipresent little boys proudly carrying huge baguettes home to maman, another image that has changed very little over a century or more.

Every neighborhood I visited was a treasure of sights and sounds and smells. Bakers, butchers, poultry shops, fruit and vegetable stands, as well as jewelers, carpenters, potters, and basket makers. The apprentice system is at once noticeable to Americans: young people, outfitted in costumes, getting started as fruit-sellers', bakers', and shopkeepers' apprentices. Many of them hawk their masters' wares with little songs or dances.

One fishmonger's assistant in la rue Montorgueil (a street that is a hive of commerce from early morning till nine or ten at night) was especially dramatic. With curly, dark blond hair, he literally seduced women of all ages to buy his fish by offering a board with some particularly fresh, silvery samples before him. Simultaneously, he'd thrust his pelvis while performing a little dance step, so that it was unclear what exactly he was proffering. Again and again he lured the women in to complete a sale.

Around every corner lies a surprise. Just off the busy Rue Montorgueil, one block up Rue Marie Stuart, one finds the ornate, centuries-old Passage du Grand Cerf, a long arcade of shops with buttons, bottles, Indian cloth, Buddhist religious paraphernalia, and every kind of curio.

The way of all flesh and fur

At the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, we joined a motley crew of pilgrims to visit the tombs of Chopin, Balzac, Edith Piaf, and Oscar Wilde, among other notables. There, we found characters who appeared to be right out of some old French film.

One was Fifi, a sweet lady of at least 75, wearing a lovely pink silk scarf over her threadbare coat. She feeds the cemetery's many cats, whose numbers are diminishing with a campaign by the city fathers to neuter them. ("Not a bad idea, you know," Fifi said sagely.) She helped us find Proust's grave, which is a challenge. There, someone had placed a fresh flower and another had left a fancy card with his signature and the date. "Such a waste, you know," Fifi said, "but that is the way people are -- sentimental!"

Paris has possibly a dozen sleazy red light districts. You'll find one not far from Les Halles, along Rue St. Denis between Sebastopol and Berger. I counted at least 20 sex shops with peep shows in that stretch alone. Several were busy with cruising, sex available in the booths, sometimes for a few euros, sometimes just for fun. Frequenting them were all types of men, from prim middle-aged business types to Gypsy and Arab youth. Among the sex dens are tattoo parlors, piercing emporia, and used leather and clothing shops, popular with guys of every ethnicity and class. One very tall Arab youth of 20 perused the coats, but also the other clientele, to whom he smiled seductively. A couple of long-haired, cherubic French garçons, checked out earrings and coats as they affectionately touched each other. The ambiance reminded me of Chicago's Loop, Times Square, or the Boston Combat Zone of 30 years ago -- a world that has vanished elsewhere, but seems wonderfully sustained in Paris.

The several gay districts, such as the Marais, are packed with handsome French men from early afternoon to the wee hours of the morning. Chic cafes or drag bars are mostly devoid of the attitude one might expect. They are friendly and inviting to men of all ages, the elderly as well as the young.

There are indeed many foreign tourists in Paris, and, yes, the Americans. One hears American-accented English far more in Paris than in most other European cities these days. But somehow this seems appropriate, too -- it has long been so in Paris. And none of this detracts from the uniquely and seemingly ageless French atmosphere of this amazing city.

I've obviously changed my mind about Paris. I've decided all those romantic novels and travelogues are right: Paris is still Paris, eternal and vibrant, an experience not to be missed by anyone seeking relief from today's repressed America. Vive la différence!