Civil Society
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ones with a stuffed giraffe poking its neck through the floor.) One of the points of Overbooked is that cities with the most successful tourism plan for the people who live there, and any added infrastructure is built to be accessible to all. Paris’ public bike system is clearly a hit with the locals, who cruise from one arrondissement to another on the sturdy frames all day long, silk scarves streaming behind them and front baskets overflowing with fresh baguettes. Abandoning the grandparents and kids to each other one afternoon, my husband and I rented a pair at one of the kiosks pas de problème and rode to the Eiffel Tower along a well-marked bike route. Though apparently bus drivers also like to use this lane, too, which gave me occasion to use the filthy French I’ve been saving up all these years. On another note, I’m so pleased to see on the Savannah Bicycle Campaign’s new bike map that our city plans to offer several more public bike outposts around the historic district. That isn’t to say that Parisians don’t have their issues, and they aren’t afraid to march about them. A 20,000 person demonstration against President Hollande’s labor reforms at the Place de Bastille near our metro stop closed down the streets for hours as gerdarmerie in
A word on multi-generational travel: It can be hard to herd everyone at the same pace, especially when the spry septuagenarians forge forth and the teenagers trail behind with their faces in their phones. full riot gear directed traffic. Several more protests cropped up during the week, and the French Robocops gave them a wide but impenetrable berth when we tried to look on. But even with a recent garbage strike, there was still way less litter on the streets of Paris than the gauntlet of discarded fastfood bags along Abercorn. And the only shots fired were by feet at goalposts. The less demonstrative locals appeared to take it all in stride as they lounged in the cafés in those pretty cane chairs, smoking hand rolled cigarettes and rolling their eyes over Brexit. I mean, these are the people who perfected the art of blasé, although I noticed with great consternation that the chic-est among them paired their tailored frocks with Adidas sneakers. Underneath the jaded façade, I found
that Parisians are a generous lot, eager to share their pride of place as well as food and drink. (Kind of like Southerners, though I don’t see that kiss-on-bothcheeks thing happening around here.) My brother had the good fortune to marry a gorgeous French woman a few years ago, and we spent an afternoon just beyond la peripherie of the city in her mother’s glorious garden with our extended family and friends, savoring saucisson and more rosé (Savannah’s Best Sommelier Jason Restivo promised me back in May that the whole world is drinking pink wine right now, and he was right!) Yet even on another continent, my own city was never far from my over-stimulated mind. Surrounded by centuries stacked around a city bustling with people working
and living, I couldn’t help but see shades of Savannah everywhere: Sitting in the grass of the Place de Vosges, the oldest planned square in Paris bordered by fabulous homes built for the friends of Henri IV. Peeking through wrought iron gates to glimpse secret jardins or hanging laundry. Looking out onto the steeples and skyscrapers from the roof of the ultra-modern Centre de Pompidou and sensing that past, present and possibility somehow can exist at once. Even Le Marais translates as “the marsh.” My provincial perspective was surely boosted by the sight of actual other Savannahians: One magical evening, just after the nightly sparklefest at Le Tour Eiffel, we ran into Geoff Repella with partner Warren Bimblick and daughter Grace. Later in the trip we took the fast train to Provence, where the SCAD family welcomed us to its magnifique Lacoste campus, housed in a mountainside medieval village with its own chateaux and rosé vintage, the bee flag flying above the lavender fields. So maybe the French connection isn’t so far-fetched, and when it comes to a blueprint for a wondrous destination that gets it right, we’ll always have Paris. Still, it was nice to get back to the real marsh, where ordering ice in your wine isn’t such a faux pas. I guess it’s true that there’s no place like home—or your own bed. cs
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