It is wet. Like the sun acts for cheery Californians, the rain suits Parisians well. It is relentless and sophisticated the way it runs down the intricately placed cobblestones of the streets. The rain is always rushing to go some place, and it only has one form. Unlike the rain, though, Parisians do have a smiling place beneath their flat-lined lips — their expressionless gaze that makes one assume they’re unhappy. They hide this place of cheer behind their cigarettes and cups of espresso, and behind their language of formality. In France, the Parisian happiness rests inside the bars, where some laughter can be heard, and inside the chocolate shoppes, which are as frequent as 7/11 and Starbucks are in the U.S.
Scarves, silk, extravagant boots and jackets — Paris is not much for the ill-fashioned. Without these you are clearly the backpacking visitor or the poorest Parisian. There isn’t much color except the occasional red.
Women seem to dominate the city. This aspect may be my favorite of Paris. Men push the baby strollers and are often seen feeding the infant and cooing them. One would think this is a matriarch, though I am sure it is not.
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