'Walking in Europe’ is a continuation of the ‘Walking in America’ series that documents what it’s like to walk in America. You can view previous volumes here.
I woke up with a brain-splitting headache. It’s possible, though ill-advised to watch Tottenham Hotspur while sober. So I went for a recovery walk/jog. I do not know the distance I covered, but my trip through central Paris was so awful I felt compelled to report it here so that you, who is very likely and very luckily an American motorist, can avoid the same fate. The Jardin des Plantes, which dates back to the 1600s, is the starting point of my loop.
How does Paris prevent homeless people from laying down? There are no contraptions or armrests in the middle of its benches! Parisians clearly don’t understand the point of public benches. It’s for them to look good in renderings, help developers win approval for their projects, then be as uncomfortable as possible to sit in so that the property owner doesn’t have to maintain them.
Crossing the Seine into the Right Bank, I’m struck by how low-slung the surroundings are. Where are the chain hotel resorts? The SeaWorld roller coasters? The cranes lifting containers off of ships? Us Americans know that waterways exist only to be strip-mined of all commercial value. We get our fill of Mother Nature from our manicured backyards.
This stretch of the riverfront used to be dedicated to car traffic, but the socialist mayor led an effort to pedestrianize it. The city completed the reconceptualization in 2016, and, clearly, Paris has suffered ever since. Zohran Mamdani better not get any ideas.
This is called public art. It exists for no other reason than to enrich public spaces and in turn people’s lives. There are workers who are paid a living wage to maintain it, but it costs no money to look at. I didn’t quite understand the concept, so I looked for where I could buy a ticket. Failing that, I looked for a donation box. Nada. So I left a euro in one of the planters.
The only thing missing here was a phalanx of heaters fueled by propane tanks. If your patio doesn’t look like the boiler room of the Titanic, then I’m out.
No railing. No signage. Broken cobblestones. Uneven terrain. This is a lawsuit waiting to happen.
I went back to the Left Bank, where I took a picture of this van waiting patiently, if awkwardly, for a green light to make a right turn. I repeat: This van did not make a right on red. It is, in fact, illegal to do so. In America, it’s a God-given right to blindly cut off cyclists, threaten pedestrians’ lives, and cause unnecessary crashes with the traffic that has the right of way. The Ninth Commandment, posted in public schoolhouses throughout the South, is: Thou shalt not be inconvenienced. We could teach the French something about freedom.
James Baldwin, one of the greatest American authors, worked on Giovanni’s Room at the Café de Flore on Boulevard Saint-Germain. There was a line out the door, so it was good thing that one of the greatest American exports was nearby:
Rue des Écoles is populated with independent businesses, including several movie theaters and bookstores. It calls to mind the egregious Lang Law, which establishes a fixed price for books in France. This allows independent bookstores to compete with Amazon, which is guilty only of prioritizing the almighty consumer. Could you imagine walking to a local bookstore, many of which specialize in a topic or language, and the employees remembering your name and tastes? Could you imagine having to buy a product at a price that allows the publisher, printer, writer, and seller to all make a living? Disgusting.
Which bureaucrat was responsible for closing major streets to cars on Sundays? I have a complaint to register.
Back to where I started. Please share this post with any American you know. They must be aware to avoid this nightmarish city at all costs, and before they go to sleep they should walk out to their car and kiss the hood and say, “Thank you for the $1,000 in monthly costs. I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
Smart Swiftian satire. I laughed and laughed—until I started to cry.