EVERY great city has its own vibe, its own feel, its own special je ne sais quoi.
In Los Angeles, everything seems possible. Perhaps it is the unique quality of the light there which generates that feeling. The sun seems more direct, more immediate, as if you are closer to the center of the universe. Perhaps the feeling comes from the creative energy of the people who live and work in Los Angeles. Sometimes it feels as if everything new is born in LA and then leaves to grow up elsewhere.
London seems to grow upon itself like a reverse archaeological excavation. The new overtakes the old and rounds it out. The weather feels consistently dank. It never strikes me as dreary, however, but rather as comforting: an enveloping dampness like a cocoon or a nurturing womb. The ages of growth in London blend together in a reassuring embrace. What should appear disparate or disjointed in London is oddly congruous and harmonious.
In Paris, the atmosphere is different. Although the city is ancient, its buildings seem to have sprung up, fully formed, all at once. To me, Paris has its own taste, its own scent, its own upbeat mood. Paris has a sharp, metallic, ozone-like odor. The feel in the air is one of vitality and order, innovation and creative destruction, dissent and consensus at once. Paris is a place of contradictions: a city of tradition and transition at the same time.
Last night I had dinner with members of my family at a restaurant near the Louvre Museum. The cuisine was classic bistro fare: French comfort food. The chef was apparently of Arab abstraction, and the waiter and busboy were his children. The brasserie was small, and the tables were rearranged to fit each dining party as it was seated. At the close of the meal, as I was leaving, the father, proudly wearing his white chef’s jacket like any self-respecting skilled French cook, accepted my compliments at the door and shook my hand. It was a small gesture, but it felt large in such an intimate establishment.
Oscar Wilde said that when good Americans die, they go to Paris. I’d like to think that’s true. And I agree with Audrey Hepburn’s observation: “Paris exists to remind you that all your dreams are real.”
