We first came to Paris in the '70s, when we were young and unblinking about the cost of things.
What did it matter?
It was all counted out in unfathomable francs and we were youthfully uninterested in mitigating the price of our enchantment. But then came time and age and the possibility of limits.
This winter we came back to celebrate our 37th wedding anniversary and while we didn't find any bargains (certainly not in euros), we did find that eternal, priceless bargain — Paris.
In a way, there is a certain impudent charm to the complete indifference to age one finds in Paris. There are no senior discounts for the Metro or on the bus, nor for the many museums and restaurants and the fancy shops on Rue Saint Honore; there is no special line for the gray beards at the local Monoprix or the corner charcuterie and certainly not in the boulangeries and patisseries that freckle the streets and perfume the air. It's silly to even ask: they simply do not offer such prosaic conveniences.
Even when you slip past Soixante-cinq, Mon Vieux, you are just one of the mob.
It is, however, a French mob, which means that it is pretty chic and whisper thin and suggests a certain ancien je ne sais quoi, like the occasional whiff of Gaulois you catch on the Isle Saint-Louis, or the raw, sudden sentiment that is evident on the Pont Royale, a bridge with a thousand golden locks clicked almost pointlessly onto the links. (Lovers fix the locks, thus symbolically sealing their affection, then with typical Gallic insouciance toss the keys into the Seine.)
Such things are worth a thousand early-bird specials.
If you haven't been back to Paris for 30-odd years, the beautifully cobbled streets are still a pleasant shock — even though they are thin and narrow and tough to navigate, like walking a tightrope in traffic.
And there is ballroom dancing on the weekend at La Coupole in the 14th arrondissement on the Boulevard Montparnasse on the Left Bank; the couples wear wide neckties and long flowing dresses and seem to swoon into each others arms at the old tunes.
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There are always shows (age-indifferent, with benches and chairs and no rushing). But there are very few ramps at the Louvre, the Musee du Luxembourg, the Orangerie, the d'Orsay … the Brassai exhibit at the Hotel de Ville.
Paris, however, is one big fat art display.
The exquisitely planned gardens and the extraordinary public spaces, like the Place de la Concorde and the stunning view of the Eiffel Tower from Trocadero Gardens and the Art Deco exhibit at the Palais de Chaillot — all available through the metro or by cab (which, surprisingly, is cheaper than New York City).
Musee D'Orsay
Of course, the food.
We rented a four-room apartment on Rue du Dragon, around the corner from Brasserie Lipp (151 Boulevard Saint-Germain), the famous Alsatian restaurant where the choucroute garnie is thick with wurst and pork and celebrity foreigners drink in the back room.
We dined fabulously on liver (it sounds so ordinary, but it was nothing my mother would recognize), and pate en croute, surrounded by young people, at places like Au Bon Accueil in the 8th arrondissement with waiters who are now eager to speak English, or Le Pré Catelan in the Bois de Boulogne with its iron elegance that does not suffer a bad wine.
There is Benoit near the Pompidou Center in the 1st arron.— an ultra-fancy restaurant disguised to look like an ordinary-looking bistro — and can cost a month's salary to celebrate an anniversary.
It is all familiar, all beautiful, except that when your balance is not all that reliable you view it through eyes that are like hunters looking to see if there are hidden steps, tricky passageways, secret traps.
The Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Élysées — all marvels — even when the carny-boardwalk photographers sell you a quick picture for as many euros as they can get.
And the sidewalk stalls push cliché T-shirts at outrageous prices.
And they pick the slower walkers on which to pitch a hard-sell. But this is Paris and it worth a little swindle.
At night the Boulevard Saint-Germaine is flanked by trees with bubbling lights, lit up to look like champagne glasses; and you suddenly notice that a disproportionate number of the women of that certain age carry walking sticks — the price of wearing stylish shoes.
It is Paris and one has to make amendments for age.
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