Paris On A Slow Walk

July 1, 2026 My stay in Paris ended ten months ago, but I am still in the thrall of the City of Light. Paris is immersive, anchored by the Seine, elevated by the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame, the Louvre, and pulsating with thousands of small ordinary scenes.  The grand monuments will forever be alluring, but the slow walks cemented my love.  I was in Paris for a photography workshop; I arrived a week early to settle in.

Each morning for two weeks, I summoned the tiny elevator in my old building and rode it down from my fourth-floor apartment, through multiple heavy inner doors. I'd pause at the trash room to deposit the key in the lockbox for safekeeping, give the entrance door a strong-arm pull, and finally emerge onto the street.  Rue St Martin is a small street in the Marais, a street forbidden to vehicular traffic and damp from overnight rain.  I would turn right and enter Maison Marnay, the boulangerie/patisserie on my building’s ground floor.  My boulangerie/patisserie.  I delighted in delivering the obligatory morning greeting to the owner and his associate, “Bonjour, Messieurs,” raising my forefinger and thumb to indicate espresso, “s’il vous plait,” as I waited my turn in line to get my croissant and strong caffeine hit.  I sampled the delicious pain au chocolate and seductive croissants almonde but generally returned to a flaky melt-in-your-mouth plain croissant made with butter from French cows.  French butter tastes different from American butter, pure and clean, virtuous to eat. 

Paris is distinct “quarters” fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Paris is Le Metro, where endless stairs descend to labyrinthine corridors leading to trains that take a rider almost anywhere for a few euros.

Paris is the bright warm blueness of sunlight and the cool tungsten dimness of ancient churches.

Paris is the pleasant lilt of Bonjour, Bonsoir, S’il vous plait, Merci, Au revoir.

Paris is chestnuts falling to the streets in the late summer.

Paris is the enormous clock in Musée D’Orsay, where Whistler’s Mother sits stooped, stern, and ageless.

Paris is the dappled light of plane trees shading the bouquiniste stalls along the Seine.

Paris is Art.  Bold, unabashed.  Ancient.  Refined.

Paris is symmetry, trees and gardens meticulously sculpted in a reach for elusive perfection. 

Paris is cafes, bistros, and brasseries, spilling into the alleys and squares, where young people gather en terrace for l'apéro, cigarettes, and quiet conversation.

Paris is the magnificent Tour Eiffel, dominating the city skyline.

Paris is shell games on the Trocadero.

Paris is the incomparable grand staircase of the Palais Garnier. 

Paris is the eerie silence of electric cars and trucks on streets dominated by bicycle commuters who swish by in a blur.

Paris is the River Seine with its many bridges and tour boats, occasional gravel barges, and, especially alluring for me, the ancient stone quai inviting a painting class, relaxing couples, a bocce game with an invitation to play.  I can play a mean game of bocce.  I regret declining.

Paris is fountains.  My favorite, the Stravinsky, the centerpiece of Place Pompidou, is a marvel of whimsy and surprise, and, in the expansive square, performance art.  An elderly couple shuffles alongside a skull spouting water, the husband blind and guided with the help of a cane and his wife’s arm.  A lone weathered man sits against a wall swarmed by dozens of pigeons seeking a treat from his outstretched arm.  Googly eyes painted on two giant exhaust pipes stare down at it all.

With my workshop concluded and one last day free to explore, I took the Metro to Belleville, a hilly free-flowing working-class polyglot of a neighborhood with seemingly every ethnic cuisine but French.  Travel guides tout its street art.  I strolled down a side street vacant but for an old mattress leaning against a wall, looking for the modest Edith Piaf Museum - closed.  I walked past humble street-level abodes with windows thrown open and young people conversing within.  There was street art, to be sure, primary colors, gritty and bold, accented with occasional delicate pastels.

I encountered an older woman walking a small dog.  She asked me in French if I was American.  “Oui, je suis americaine.”  Puzzled, “Pourquoi etes-vous ici?” she asked, why are you here, in this neighborhood?  In French, I replied that I wanted to explore Paris away from perfect trees, grand buildings, and hordes of tourists standing shoulder to shoulder in long lines or tottering about on unfamiliar bicycles.  Well, that’s what I wanted to say but could only manage a few disjointed words.  She nodded politely.   I inquired about her little dog.  He was sick but still needed a daily walk.  We mentioned politics.  Sighs, frowns, and thumbs down.  Difficult in both our countries, we agreed.  I forgot to ask if I could take her photo.  It felt too personal, anyway.  I wished her well and continued on my way.  And slipped on dog poo, gooey from overnight rain. 

My white sneakers were unsalvageable.  I deposited them in the trash bin next to the lockbox and went out for one last apéro in a bistro down the street.  Thus ended my final day in Paris.

Click on this link to go directly to the Gallery Places Paris on a Slow Walk