The City of Paradoxes

Today I went for an ice cream with a family friend whom I was meeting for the first time (I'll refrain from boring you with the actual definition of our relationship) and I got a much desired earful on everything Parisian and French. Two recurring, helixed themes of the chat were the sacred life/work balance for the French and the public/private persona of the French.

These ideas don't require much explanation, but in the name of due dilligence, there is an ongoing debate about working on Sundays here. Is it an infringement on worker's rights to ask them to spend their Sundays in the service of others? There is tension between the socialist ideals and the capitalist reality. "If you want worker's rights, don't complain for lack of business," says logic. Following from this worker oriented train of thought, the service, in general, is less consumer oriented. Why should a fully grown man smile and nod and coddle you for an extra fifty cents? This is just a job. And while he may be the most affectionate, doting uncle to his darling g niece and nephew, you do not call upon that part of his identity as an American with an aggressively bad french accent.

An interesting group of thoughts, but definitely not the only paradoxes that capture the contrast of the idea of Paris and it's reality (which is the biggest paradox of all). Much of the romance of Paris, for me and I'm sure for many others, is all of the art that has been forged here. Whether it was dancing or painting or writing or pretending to be s statue until someone drops a Euro into your hat, it is a city that conceptually embraces the creative. And the city seems to embrace that legacy as part of its appeal. But in reality, institutionally at least, it rejects the outsider. The student visa was the most trying travel experience I have ever had. Imagine trying to actually move her...start a life. The city, at least, operates on the premise of permanancy. You can not rent unless you have a French bank account, a history of residency, a wealthy guarantor. How do you get those things without renting? I can't even get a monthly metro pass without a letter, national identity card copy, and electric bill from my landlady. 

I can't imagine that it was always this hard to get going. Otherwise,  why would all of those creative types from fin de siècle settles here? The only remaining explanation that I have is that Paris is a city that rewards the struggling. You bumble through but ultimately find yourself lifted by a view of Notre Dame at sunset or the elegance of a side street artistically spaced with patisseries and pedestrians and mopeds. It is the sense I get in most cities: If I'm going to miserable no matter what, why not be miserable here? There is a comfort in the constant rumbling of cars and buses,  the rattling of the metro under foot, the chirping of birds outside 4th floor walk up windows. But perhaps the smell of fresh bread, the wafting aural aroma of that guttural Parisian "R," the wrought iron balconies and flowerboxes and craftsmanship at ever turn, perhaps they all combine to allow Paris greater success than most cities at making urban anonymity feel like a club house, one where only the cool kids are allowed to hang out and, look at that, you made the cut.