Voila!
Paris Again ~ by Mary
Lou Sanelli
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| 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.
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. |
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Any of my
friends would tell you that another reason I love Paris is because I’ve
always been a shoe afficionado, heels specifically. 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. 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.
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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: 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.
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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.
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| 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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