paris - the tour

I’ve always been sceptical. Paris feels like one of those over-sold products, like a novel advertised as so mind-blowing that I know it can’t possibly meet my expectations. But then, it seems not to meet anyone's; I’ve also heard those rumours it’s smelly and dirty, overcrowded and overrated (you know the ones). I thought Paris was bound to disappoint. I was basically determined to be unimpressed.

We arrive in the afternoon. With only three days in the city, the push is to see the classics. We don our backpacks, sling our cameras around our necks, and slip into walking shoes. Convinced I’ll be back in the not-to-distant future, I'm just fine with doing the happy-snapping tour this time.

Le Tour Eiffel

I see the Eiffel tower first by sunset. Against the darkening sky it’s lit orange. We turn the corner and it comes into full view, then it starts to sparkle. Every hour the length of it is lit by hundreds of twinkling lights and it sparkles like stage jewellery. I guess I think it's a bit cool.

By night, the park beneath the tower is scattered with people. Crowds flow under and leave in their wake the sugary smell of Nutella crepes and fairy floss. Men wander through the mess jangling Eiffel tower key rings on loops of wire, or selling bottles of booze from plastic bags. They move between the groups and the couples on the grass and when a policeman appears they pull back silently into the darkness of the treeline like they’re drawn by magnets.

We are blessed with three full days of sunshine. In the heat that is already noticeable by nine am, we climb the tower to the second story to see the hazy expanse of the seething city spread below us. The rivers and roads wind away and through the smog we can pick out the Arc de Triomphe, the Notre Dame, the low U shape of the Louvre.

The park below is warm and sprinkled with early morning tourists. Runners still flow along the edge of the Seine. The creperies are opening their doors.

 

Le Louvre

At the Louvre, we're warned about pickpockets. We're warned about pickpockets every five seconds, with little red and black signs that hang on the walls like they’re art. The collections are huge and incredible, their number exceeded only by the number of tourists viewing them. An art lover could spend days in the place, if they could tolerate the population. Paris city has a permanent population of just under 2.5 million, and an annual tourist rate of 27 million. They are all at the Louvre. Most of them are listening to the audio tour, which I spend half the visit trying to figure out how to use and the other half adamantly refusing to use because it is the least user-friendly technology I’ve ever encountered. They’ve taken a Gameboy 3DS – designed to be appropriate for children – and made it the singular most difficult program in existence. Well, it does know when you enter a new wing of the museum and give a useful rundown on the exhibition. That’s nice, I suppose.

 Arc de Triomphe 

We walk from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe, along the long, straight Avenue des Champs-Elysees with it's eight lanes of peak hour traffic driving into the sunset. The footpaths rival the road for traffic volume. We buy postcards from a street stall and we're buffeted by passing businesspeople while we choose our favourite A5 rendering of the Eiffel Tower. There is something about the oh-so-Paris standoffish bustle of the crowds that forces me to forgive it. Even the fact that this is the first place in months I feel compelled to buy a postcard attests to something inherently charming about this city.

 Notre Dame

We don’t go inside the Notre Dame. There is a snaking line of people waiting to enter the darkness visible through the grand doors. I can’t help but think it will be significantly more depressing than it could be enlightening to see this most famous of cathedrals with its every quiet crevice hiding a sweaty sandwiched body. We sit out the front and watch the crowd flow in and out. Two toothless beggars make their way up and down the line, clattering coins in paper cups. Parents let their tired children fill the cups with five cent pieces, or else draw them swiftly into the centre of the crowd like elephants protecting their young.

Le Moulin Rouge

To love the Moulin Rouge in its present state requires a certain amount of imagination, mingled with a distinct appreciation for the grubbier side of life. The iconic red windmill sits innocuously at the end of a flashing tunnel of sex shops and strip clubs. At sunset, the central footpath of the Boulevard de Clichy is lined with the men who will later be inside. We walk through quickly with our eyes straight ahead and take note of the much closer metro stop that spills diners onto the footpath right beside the Moulin Rouge. We don't see the show, mostly because a ticket is double our daily budget before you even consider adding a meal. The whole place feels small and seedy, and the noticable absence of Ewan McGregor doesn't do it favours. Groups of youth clutter the square outside the building, taking photos and adding noise to the seedy night. We eat in Montmartre. The waitress puts a plate unapologetically in someone's eye and I think how I love the French. I totally know where she's coming from.

La Conclusion

Paris is sprawling and so busy. The metro is always full, and the restaurants seem, for the most part, overpriced. The tourist traps are saturated with trapped tourists and trinket pushers and pickpockets. But through all this, and against everything I was determined to think, the city retains such a sparking charm. The tower and the triumphant monument and the church and the museum -- all the very essence of traditional tourist sights -- are just so French. The people are French. It's Paris, France, exactly like you've always been told. A little bit beautiful and a little bit overrated and even a little bit romantic. Even the girl determined to be unimpressed kind of likes it.