I've been listening tonight to a marvelous collection of French Cafe Music. Left Bank, Right Bank, we're not flying in a plane, we're walking along the Seine in one of the world's most lovely cities.
I remember Paris. It was the Spring of 1973 when I arrived there on my way back from my journey to India. Alone, very little money, but so much optimism. If I had one gift to give everyone it would be optimism. No matter how bleak things can appear one day, they almost always brighten the next. It is faith in this simple truth that allows us optimists to live well on such easy principles: never panic (thank you Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy), never forget to treat people the way you wish to be treated (thank you Mrs. Sanborn -- my Kindergarten teacher), and never look for the worst in people, only the best (thank you Mother).
Paris in March was rather gloomy. The city instantly captivated me nonetheless. Such history: such art: such architecture. I, a young man from New Hampshire, was in awe of this hallowed ville that most of us hope only to read about in a history or art book.
The people of Paris were shockingly rude, it seemed to me. They appeared to hold outsiders in contempt, though they beckoned each to enter their shops and cafes. This was my first encounter with the phenomenon now called Euro snobbery. Maybe we all deserved it, however, given how boorish so many Westerners had been in the 1950’s and ‘60’s. Either way, I recall having no problems with laughing and enjoying Paris’s citizens, as all one really needed to do was to remember the easy principles. All peoples of the world respond kindly to those who abide those simple rules.
Besides, some Americans really did act like asses back then. I recall being at the steps of Notre Dame, preparing myself to go inside to observe a service in this Cathedral of Cathedrals. Just gazing up at the gargoyles juxtaposed against the ashen gray sky put me in a trance. But my trance was broken by an older American couple who were yelling at a local nearby. “Where the hell is the Café Amercain,” the husband shouted at the poor fellow who clearly spoke only French. When the Frenchman explained in his own language that he did not understand the question, the American merely shouted it out louder. I stepped forward, pointed the couple to the appropriate direction, and then turned to the Frenchman and said, “Forgive them, they are insane.” The man laughed loudly, and then said in fairly perfect English, “I like you Canadians, you have a sense of humor.” He walked away convinced I was Canadian – I walked into the Cathedral convinced I was about to find God.
I didn’t find God. But I did find out why Notre Dame is considered such a fabulous church. From its flying buttresses to its interior sound chambers, it is unlike any church I’ve ever experienced. For the first time in my life, I actually was disappointed when an hour long service was concluded. I was flushed out into the street with the throng.
My next stop that day was to a sidewalk café, where an accordion player and his accompaniment on a guitar strolled table to table playing such mellow little tunes. These are the same tunes I am listening to here at home tonight. I am no longer in Paris. Yet my mind is brought back to that time, long ago, by the lilt of the tune and the tempo of the lyric.
There is romance in this music, in that place, in those times, in today’s events, and in tomorrow’s’ promise. We who appreciate that are the blessed ones. We are the optimists. We hear the music and believe that all things are possible. The adventure never ends.
I remember Paris. It was the Spring of 1973 when I arrived there on my way back from my journey to India. Alone, very little money, but so much optimism. If I had one gift to give everyone it would be optimism. No matter how bleak things can appear one day, they almost always brighten the next. It is faith in this simple truth that allows us optimists to live well on such easy principles: never panic (thank you Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy), never forget to treat people the way you wish to be treated (thank you Mrs. Sanborn -- my Kindergarten teacher), and never look for the worst in people, only the best (thank you Mother).
Paris in March was rather gloomy. The city instantly captivated me nonetheless. Such history: such art: such architecture. I, a young man from New Hampshire, was in awe of this hallowed ville that most of us hope only to read about in a history or art book.
The people of Paris were shockingly rude, it seemed to me. They appeared to hold outsiders in contempt, though they beckoned each to enter their shops and cafes. This was my first encounter with the phenomenon now called Euro snobbery. Maybe we all deserved it, however, given how boorish so many Westerners had been in the 1950’s and ‘60’s. Either way, I recall having no problems with laughing and enjoying Paris’s citizens, as all one really needed to do was to remember the easy principles. All peoples of the world respond kindly to those who abide those simple rules.
Besides, some Americans really did act like asses back then. I recall being at the steps of Notre Dame, preparing myself to go inside to observe a service in this Cathedral of Cathedrals. Just gazing up at the gargoyles juxtaposed against the ashen gray sky put me in a trance. But my trance was broken by an older American couple who were yelling at a local nearby. “Where the hell is the Café Amercain,” the husband shouted at the poor fellow who clearly spoke only French. When the Frenchman explained in his own language that he did not understand the question, the American merely shouted it out louder. I stepped forward, pointed the couple to the appropriate direction, and then turned to the Frenchman and said, “Forgive them, they are insane.” The man laughed loudly, and then said in fairly perfect English, “I like you Canadians, you have a sense of humor.” He walked away convinced I was Canadian – I walked into the Cathedral convinced I was about to find God.
I didn’t find God. But I did find out why Notre Dame is considered such a fabulous church. From its flying buttresses to its interior sound chambers, it is unlike any church I’ve ever experienced. For the first time in my life, I actually was disappointed when an hour long service was concluded. I was flushed out into the street with the throng.
My next stop that day was to a sidewalk café, where an accordion player and his accompaniment on a guitar strolled table to table playing such mellow little tunes. These are the same tunes I am listening to here at home tonight. I am no longer in Paris. Yet my mind is brought back to that time, long ago, by the lilt of the tune and the tempo of the lyric.
There is romance in this music, in that place, in those times, in today’s events, and in tomorrow’s’ promise. We who appreciate that are the blessed ones. We are the optimists. We hear the music and believe that all things are possible. The adventure never ends.
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Thank you. This was lovely reading.
ReplyDeleteJeanne Marie