Paris, City of Dreams....

Ah, Paris. the eternal love affair. But like all great cities, it's constantly changing. So, in the first of our occasional visits we look at just how much of the old magic remains.

If, to misquote a popular observation, 'everyone has two countries, one of them being France.' then it's hardly surprising that a visit to the capital once in awhile can feel rather like coming home. In my case it's been far too long. As the mid-afternoon TGV glides serenely into the Gare Montparnasse with unnerving punctuality, it's hard to believe that just twelve minutes and several tunnels ago we were streaking through productive, open farmland. Try that by car. Armed with a carnet of RATP tickets, I advance towards line 12 of the Métro on an airport-style moving walkway. By the time I surface in Place de la Concorde, I'm aware that the Parisian public transport system is as efficient as ever, is just as effective a social leveller and still harbours world-class street musicians. No changes there, then.

My hotel, however, just a few steps away in rue Boissy d'Anglas, opened its doors just three years ago and is the very embodiment of post-millennial Parisian chic. Le Faubourg is located between the Place and the Faubourg Saint-Honoré (and both British and US embassies). The style within blends Art Déco with classic French town and country, with a twist of Feng Shui. If the regular clientèle regard this as their 'home in Paris', it's easy to see why. It's the home we'd like to have. Were I to possess one, le Faubourg would fit like a much-loved cashmere sweater.

When I eventually re-emerge it's to cross the Place de la Concorde, grateful for the traffic lights which make this otherwise suicidal act possible. In the centre I wander among the tourists eagerly photographing each other among the statues representing the cities of Bordeaux, Brest, Lille, Lyon, Marseille, Nantes, Rouen and Strasbourg. Nearby, sea gods and water nymphs frolic in the fountains flanking the 3,200 year-old Luxor Obelisk, given by the Viceroy of Europe in 1836 (thereby putting an end to protracted political squabbling over what monument should enjoy top billing in the former Place de la Revolution). It's a familiar scene, enlivened still further by the sight of some lone individual from out of town blithely attempting to drive against the relentless, anti-clockwise swirl of traffic. The ensuing chaos provides an ultimately harmless entertainment on the spot where Louis XVI, Marie-Antoinette and almost 1200 others met their macabre deaths on the guillotine.

Across the river I reacquaint myself with another famous landmark. In a former life the Musée d'Orsay was an ambitious railway terminus, designed by Victor Laloux and opened in time for the Paris Exhibition of 1900. The vast façade, complete with two clocks each the size of Big Ben, still bears the proud names of former destinations in its elaborate decoration: Angers, Lorient, Nantes, Vannes... When The Observer's architectural correspondent Ian Nairn passed this way during the late '60s he found a forlorn shell threatened with demolition in the name of 'l'urbanisme'. Miraculously (and following widespread protest at the controversial redevelopment of Les Halles), however, it survived and found a new lease of life as a fine arts museum. Mondrian is showing as I pass.

I press on, reaching the Pont de l'Archevêché as the failing light is being replaced by nocturnal floodlighting on the Ile de la Cité. It's the time when the bateaux-mouches are at their most active, the passage of each of these giant floating greenhouses projecting a formidable sodium glow onto the quais, ponts and, of course, the vast flanks of Notre-Dame. It's also the time when the city turns the full force of its old magic on the unsuspecting visitor. No matter how many times it happens, the effect is always the same: is it real or just a dream? By the time I've dined in Place Saint-Michel, made my way back to le Faubourg and fallen into bed I've decided that it's actually both.

The following morning I wrench myself reluctantly from the Epicurean pleasures of the breakfast table and head off on the Métro, in search of a very different world. This time I'm heading northwards, beyond the Périphérique. As we roll towards the suburbs the train assumes an ever more cosmopolitan mood. Even so, the street-scene as I emerge into daylight still comes as a jolt for which there is no adequate preparation. The Marché-aux-Puces de Saint Ouen is world famous, but first you have to get there. The Marché Malik area between it and the Porte de Clingnancourt Métro station is a common point of contact for those with money to spend and just about anyone with something - anything - to sell. Middle-eastern bazaar traders look positively shy compared to the in-your-face tactics of these guys, and I avoid eye contact until the seedy rite of passage is completed. Ultimately, though, it's all worth the effort. In fact, there's not one antique-market but nine or so, each with its own distinctive character. The Marché Dauphine is housed in a modern purpose-built hall on two levels, and brings together furniture and carpet dealers, print-sellers, bric-a-brac stalls and various collector shops. The sheer breadth of what is on offer is dazzling, and much of it is genuinely unique. The nearby Marché Biron enjoys a more traditional mews-like setting and sets its sights firmly up-market, with shop displays worthy of the V&A. To bemoan the fact that there are no longer any apparent bargains to be had is to miss the point; if you want a piece of signed Gallé studio glass or a chandelier which wouldn't look out of place in the Palais de Versailles, then you're spoilt for choice. It's irreplaceable and it's here. A market price for the priceless? That's a bargain. I leave Europe's largest flea-market a wiser man, and return to the Métro, this time on the other side of the street, well away from the madness.

Elsewhere things are calmer, of course, and many of the best ones are still free, like the classic sights, which only sound like tired clichés until you're actually there. I still find it impossible to stand in the Champs de Mars at nightfall and remain unmoved while the Tour Eiffel lights up, as if poised for lift-off. Later, at the Pont des Arts, I pause on the graceful wrought iron-and-timber extravaganza, fired by the shared sense of wonder of everyone present at the sheer spectacle playing out before us. A slow pan takes in the familiar landmarks: the flags flying proudly from the summit of la Samaritaine, the red tail-light blur of the Right Bank traffic, a tantalising glimpse of the towers of Notre-Dame, the house-boat community tied-up along the Quai des Grands Augustins. Centre-stage is the western termination of the Ile de la Cité, looking like the prow of some vast ocean liner grounded in midstream. It's all as irresistible as ever, like the aroma from the old-fashioned chestnut-seller nearby. Or the energy of the city itself, its steady pulse joined tonight by the intricate cross-rhythms of two African drummers.

I round the evening off with a final walk beside the river, feeling like an extra from Les Amants du Pont Neuf, as the reflections of the city lights sparkle in the waters of la Seine like a celebratory starburst. The route back to the hotel crosses both the Place du Louvre and the Jardin des Tuilleries before joining the tail end of the mile-long arcades of the rue Rivoli. On the way I ponder the impression that Paris by night still means many things, none of them boring.

At the Place de la Concorde the fountains, statues and obelisk are now illuminated, with the Tour Eiffel providing the perfect complement to the classic scene. The night is yet young and just yards away a crowd is gathering outside The Buddha Bar, one of the hottest new nightspots. But they're missing all this.

 

© Words and pictures Roger Moss
This feature first appeared in everything France magazine Issue 7

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