Tides of Time

Today proved to be a new lesson in the constantly changing face of Paris. Rome is the "eternal city" however, the same can be said of any iconic city. Their images make them eternal. Of course there are images associated with every location the world over--China has its wall, London its clock, Egypt its pyramids, and New York its statue. There is the Black Forest of Germany, the hills of San Fransisco, the cliffs of Dover, and the fjords of Norway. Paris has its tower.

What's lost among the images is the true identity of a place. This identity is a constant evolution, an immortal game of growth and reduction. It's like children testing water--one timidly sticks a toe in while one dives head first only to run back out. Underneath our picture, each place in the world is in constant motion with others and with itself.

Paris is no different. What better proof of this than the Eiffel Tower itself? In a city filled with statues, churches, museums, and monuments, in a city whose history spans thousands of years--a creation that is only 119 years old has become the signature image. It was widely reviled upon release and has since become the most visited monument in the world. This is proof enough of the changes that can be wrought on minds and cities alike.

This all became quite apparent to me at lunch. Today was incredibly sunny and not wholly unlike summer. When I was here this past summer Morgane and I stayed in the 17th near the Villiers metro. Looking to take advantage of the weather Morgane and I had decided to spend a few hours in the sun at Park Monceau before having lunch at Le Bistrot du Passage. Every other citizen of Paris seemed to have the same idea as the park was teeming with people by noon.

Heading to lunch down Boulevard de Courcelles and onto Boulevard des Batignolles, I was sent back eleven months. Though shy of a year it seemed longer in my mind. I thought of the wide-eyed person I was that first night in Paris. Walking next to an unbelievably gorgeous woman and making our way to the top of Montmartre. How could I not question the reality of my situation? After descending Montmartre we strolled along the avenues in the deepening twilight before having dinner at Le Bistrot du Passage. Perhaps I was tempting fate by revisiting a memory like that.

Upon first arriving at the restaurant we weren't certain it was the same place. Everything seemed so different, so sterile in comparison to the cozy warmth we remembered. The name was the same so we went inside. Through talking with one of the owners we found out that they had expanded, renovated, and remodeled since our last visit but, believe it or not, he remembered us from our first visit (this says something either about the deep "fish out of water" impression I must have given that first night or perhaps more likely, the hold my girlfriend has over the memory of a man). Where once there was an intimate ambiance and unfettered originality there is now a calculated attempt at unadorned chic. A changed decor and a changed perception aside, the food was unchanged from our first visit: delicious.

If anything, visiting the restaurant only heightened the memory of my first night in Paris. More so than before it has become one of those faraway and foggy memories filled with happiness and longing for which we all strive. Though the city is constantly changing, Paris itself has become more tangible to me. At some point along the way it has ceased to be an obscure myth and became life. This makes those distant memories all the more sweeter than before.