Paris, or let us dear. These words addressed to Alfredo Violetta "La Traviata" are perhaps the treble clef of the City of Light . Meanwhile, because Paris is a femme fatale the melodramatic, even though modernity has swept away some charms of yesteryear . And then, because it is too good to pretend that they may remain faithful forever or that you can love without paying the penalty of a fine but irrepressible inner torment. A hit and run, this is the ideal perspective to Paris, a lover rather than marry, and therefore refractory to eternal and indissoluble bonds, suggests those fears in the fires of yearning soul. "Many go to Paris and there were a few" - Algarotti Francis wrote in the eighteenth century. Even now, Paris seems indecipherable. It is one of the places on earth that bring more travelers in crisis, attract him, seduce him and force him to go under the gauntlet of their own limitations. Here, everything is in the name of grandeur. The extraordinary urban framework to mental structure. It follows that the observer expands reflexive consciousness of human finitude, accompanied, however, the scent of painful vanitatum vanitas. In Place de la Concorde and the Champs-Élysées, as the square of the monumental Sacre-Coeur, or, more simply, on the rooftop terrace of the department stores Lafayette, where you can enjoy the panorama of a Paris that seems to reach, it feels small and inadequate, confused and lost, as you feel unwell at the euphoric thrill of a germ that tickle the neurons and induces before rising towards the sky. At that point, if fitted with a Dionysian sensibility, it is easy to discover the otherworldly dimension of Paris, whose real symbol should not be the Eiffel Tower but the sign of Janus. In fact, as you might think the only worldly and carnal, Paris is also a city metaphysical source of bright ideas and bold spiritual pursuits. The air is heavy with angelic presences as a few other latitudes. And why not? cunning of demons, by Dan Brown would add a room in the Louvre. Only here, a kind of magic, good and evil coexist in a kind of entente cordiale . Just look at the gargoyles of Notre Dame, an eye for the petulant Japanese tourists that parade on the Quai de Montebello at the time as Esmeralda Quasimodo peering down the bell tower.
A Stendhal gives this opinion: "In Europe there are two cities: Naples and Paris." What we have in common these two cities are so different is plain: the joy of life that becomes exuberance. But there is a difference. Naples is overflowing, chaotic, blood at the point of losing my mind. Paris, however, is romantic, hedonistic, in love with itself and its own intelligence, which governs in spite of the heart. Naples is hell joyful and raucous. Paris is the city of vie en rose. Stendahl was a traveler sensitive and it is said that when he visited the Florentine church of Santa Croce tried psychosomatic affection - characterized by tachycardia, dizziness, dizziness and confusion - which has since been precisely defined "Stendhal Syndrome". This syndrome is associated with beauty overwhelming compressed into a limited space, so it fits in Paris, where beauty is immense and likely to cause a different kind of embarrassment. We could call it "Pantagruel Syndrome" from the name of the giant immortalized by Rabelais, literary archetype of the boundless and insatiable eater with his father Gargantua. In fact, visiting Paris is like sitting in a gargantuan dinner table, with the risk of indigestion. Hemingway complained that "Paris is a continual feast." True, there is never satisfied, you strafoga in luxury and vice, complacency and in vain, and finally we get drunk by the glass, and abundance of the sublime, condemning the according to a Sisyphean task, irrepressible, a gastroesophageal reflux that is not what being. The limit of Paris, perhaps, is that it neither impose limits. Narciso also, sometimes, to be reflected in the water stopped. No Paris, Paris can not help but reflect in the waters of the Seine and admire pleased.
I love Paris, but under certain conditions. I love Paris, especially the endangered and not that of mass tourism. I love getting lost in the alleys of the Marais or Left Bank, ignoring the international attractions to come across signs decomposed at the time lost in deep scratches of history, epiphanies so magical and amazing. In Paris, the children of a lesser god, have a say as much as the favorite. Clochards, square hucksters and beggars in the company of dogs and cats are indispensable sly like the Chanel dress elegant women who believe and Carla Bruni. It's easy to fall in love with this city that pulsates like a star of first magnitude, but only on condition of renouncing the Lonely Planet and slip off the wrist. To love you must surrender to the mysterious flow of life energy Parisian who drags everything - from art to economics - in the vortex of life unique and makes even a simple baguette surprising. Less easy is to resist the temptation to hate. Why you should never hate? Because it is too competitive and hectic. "Everybody would like to be an actor in Paris and no one spectator" - denounced Rostand. Then why is frantic and intoxicating. Finally, why has the smell that air under the nose and a great lady from whom you expect, even today, an invitation to satiate with croissants in the absence of bread. I think all in all, Parisians are more pretentious Florentines. The spirit of the Sun King and Napoleon still lingers in the Grands Boulevards and the streets of Paris and pompous pride permeates the human comedy. The last of the boatmen or charcutiers of the Seine will tell you, convinced that the civilized world is born and ends in Paris and the other, those who have the misfortune to live outside the districts , are only the poor provinces. Apart from this, Paris is worth a Mass, as he recognized Henry IV of France. Indeed, that is a conversion. Four intense days lived in Paris not long enough to convert to ephemeral pleasures of life (of which the libertine Paris is the historic capital) as the liturgies of the spirit liberated. Try to visit the Sainte-Chapelle in a bright day. Let the light to pass through its magnificent stained glass of red, gold, green, blue and mauve, animating more than a thousand scenes of religious subjects. Be bathed in bliss it brings. And if you can detach from the world around you, open yourself to understanding the mysteries of creation. You'll find that there is only one Paris, filled with the fragrances and toys, but many different realities, so many surprising faces of a polyhedron which can satisfy even the contemplation of invisible meaning.
Parigi o cara, is not only an air of "La Traviata". It is also the title of an essay in which Albert Arbasino recalls his past in Paris in the sixties. That Paris, informed by Charles De Gaulle, Juliette Greek philosophers and filmmakers of the Nouvelle Vague turmoil and student, no longer exists. Better that way. Paris knows how to adapt to the times and while not denying the past lives on into the future. This is the secret of his vitality. Other famous cities are content to commemorate the lost glories. And is this the real reason why Paris is an air fizzing. At the time of Sartre and caves one wonders about the meaning of death. Today, we return to celebrate the beauty and bustle of life, despite the economic crisis of values \u200b\u200band the society in which we live. But Paris gives a damn about the decadence of the West. It is multi-ethnic enclave where even find a stateless country. Je m'en foutte! - seems to cry out even Danton, whose statue warns passers-by in St-Germain-des-Prés. The hero of the French Revolution extends his right arm and the tip firmly, no one knows where. Or maybe yes. Indicates one of the many café-bistro in the area. What's wrong? This is where Parisians celebrate the daily ritual of Liberté, Egalité and fraternité . Without the slightest trouble, though, doucement.
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