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Voila!
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| Paris Again |
| By Mary Lou Sanelli |
| February
2005
Seattle,
Washington
After learning
that I had accumulated enough mileage credits to fly to virtually any destination
imaginable, it took me only a few seconds to say aloud the word, Paris.
Years ago, I’d visited the city like so many other hippy kids with a backpack
and a hundred bucks that needed to last me. It wasn’t the right time in
my life to experience a city refined as Paris, yet how it felt to walk
its sidewalks and to weave through its ancient neighborhoods has been alive
in me ever since, lodged in mind like a scent. |
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| On the way
to the airport, just the thought of sitting in a wicker bistro chair while
enjoying a glass of vin with lunch, vin with dinner, and vin in between
(always served in a glass, never, ever in plastic) was enough to
transport me, and as my taxi sped by Seattle’s Boeing Field, I let my gaze
fall over the skyline until the rise of aircraft hangars became the hills
of Montmartre, Harbor Island the Left Bank of the Seine, and, voila!, Paris
unveiled itself once more.
I suppose
I have, in a sense, adopted Paris as my alter-ego city.
Its maze of
boulevards with the world driving humbly by in mini-cars couldn’t be more
dissimilar to my Belltown newly-sprung neighborhood where SUV’s nearly
the size of my studio condo wedge in along its streets. And while it’s
true that Paris has its share of municipal aches and pains, it’s so historically
and culturally alive that its contrasts to the American aesthetic pours
into your psyche and takes root.
Any of my friends
would tell you that another reason I love Paris is because I’ve always
been a shoe afficionado, heels specifically. |
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| The combination
of my being five feet two and wanting to look others squarely in the eye
and that I’m Italian, born to immigrants from Naples, so that my encyclopedic
knowledge of shoes is as natural to my small-talk as the subject of weather.
Still, I had my concerns before this trip to Paris, the fashion Mecca of
the universe, that too many years in Seattle might have anaesthetized my
ability to click along confidently on pavement in two pointy high heels.
Because no way was I going to be one of those Americans-in-tennis-shoes.
“Pointy”
comes and goes in American shoe aesthetic, but is staple to the European
sense of style, always. (I’m forever telling people in Seattle who stare
with fixed eyes at my feet that, no, I don’t squeeze my toes into the point,
the point extends past my toes.) But what I found was, other than
on vogue run ways which I, of course, was not privy to, the women in Paris
are not overly fashion-conscious like I feared. In actuality, French women
have far less disposable income then Americans. |
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Offshore Resources Gallery
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| But they are
noticeably more original, used to presenting themselves with flair and
individuality; unafraid to stand out or to dress femininely. Paradoxically,
fashion doesn’t appear to dictate in the fashion capital. Creativity, however,
does.
But not
once, other than when I visited the gym, did I see a French woman,
young or of age, wear a shoe other than one made of leather, usually with
some degree of heel. Why, I often wonder, have so many Seattle women grown
accustomed to the athletic shoe, jeans, and fleece-sweatshirt habit? Do
they realize, in terms of the art of dressing, how bored they may have
become?
Fortunately
for me, as soon as my airplane touched down, I felt as though my feet
belonged. Yeah-hoo, I thought, the natives are friendly!
In a city that’s
all about the outdoor-inspired-R.E.I. look that Seattle clings to, I have
taken my share of flack for the Euro-pointy shoes I prefer. In fact, as
I recently stood on a Wallingford sidewalk chit-chatting with a friend,
another woman walked by, stopped, backed up, looked down, pointed at my
shoes and said, “why are you wearing those? This is Seattle!” reminding
me that even in our most liberal of cities, shoe-tolerance in the minds
of some, is moo. I sighed... Birkenstockies. |
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| While some
travelers recall the names of restaurants with pride, the loft of my memory
is filled with the images of village shops on narrow, winding streets where
a pair of shoes caught my eye like a luminous gem, a deep bellied excitement
sweeping over me.
France is
situated between two major shoe-exporting countries, Italy and Spain.
So it’s not unusual to see shoes displayed like high art (actually they
are high art, not a subject I wish to defend) on pedestals, proper
lighting cast just so. And the prices! Far below the cost at home. I limited
myself to four pairs because I always travel in the make-do-with-one-carry-on
mode, which is sometimes easy, sometimes dismaying, but always necessary
to my peace of mind.
Here is my
pick of perfect vacation shoe memories that I will call: Perfect Vacation
Shoe Memories: |
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Offshore
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| A pair
of strappy black heels from Paris. Believe me, every intimate desire
I’ve ever imagined is gathered en masse and interpreted in these glossy
heels and when the day comes I can no longer manage to walk in them, they
will continue to shine like their own bright star from my closet. Butter-soft
boots from Provence that, when first the shop owner could not find my size,
I would not accept the catastrophe and demanded he look again. Which worked,
by the way. (I am American, after all.) Two Spanish shoes-slash-gloves
from Cassis by the sea, the Italian slip-on sandals from Nice, a flower-swirl
of leather like a star collapsed inward on each ankle strap tough but not
hard.
Whatever
the explanation for a woman’s fancy for shoes, perhaps the fact that
in France it is illegal to work more than 35 hours a week and that each
worker is given six weeks annual vacation time lends itself to a healthier
balance in life. In fact, this fine sense of equilibrium is even considered
vital to political platforms. Which may be why the women I saw had time
to consider themselves in the mirror and were quite comfortable walking
along in heels at a pace unhurried.
Just before
I left the city, I stopped to listen to an accordion player fill the
air with music. On his feet, a pair of pointy-black dress shoes, no doubt
ten, twenty years old, but still polished for his performance. So, along
with all the change in my pockets, I threw him the kind of kiss where you
scrunch your fingers together at your lips and release in an exaggerated
gesture, letting your hand spread wide as you brandish your show of affection
and gratitude. But not before yelling, Bravo!
Back home
in Seattle, I wear my heels that step with pride over the looks they
draw, and kick away even the slightest possibility of settling for shoes
that belong, to my eye, only on the basketball court.
In Paris
I was reminded, thankfully, that everything can be said with the feet.
And how perfectly parfait it is to sit and admire the ease with which they
say it.
Mary Lou
Sanelli is a columnist and writer living in Seattle. Her work has appeared
in The Seattle Times and is periodically aired on Weekend Edition,
NPR. Her latest book is, Craving Water (PBStudio Press, NY, NY,
2005). |
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