The Fantasy of France

I recently returned from a work trip to France – a week in Paris for meetings, then another in Cannes for the Lions. The trip came with the sort of pinch-me perks - rooftop vistas overlooking the Arc de Triomphe, rosé by the magnum, beach clubs in Antibes – that’s increasingly rare in an industry once famous for them.

There’s this disparity, so often, between the fantasy of something and the reality of it. The Mad Men-fueled fantasy of corporate apartments and company cars colliding with the ‘$30 per diem’ reality. The fantasy of big, stirring, sweeping ideas butting up against the mirthless reality of optimization, efficiency, performance. The romance that abounds in theory is often hard to find in practice.

But in France? There’s no collision, no disparity, no disappointment. France invites you to apéro. It never rushes you through a meal. Instead of a Marriott keycard, it gives you a heavy metal room key that you drop off at the front desk when you leave for the day.

When I’m there, I think often of that Portlandia skit, “The dream of the 90s is alive in Portland.” The dream of a glamorous ad job is alive in France. The dream of a certain kind of life is alive in France. That dream is only persistent, I realize, because I don’t live there. But the fantasy is so much fun that I don’t dwell on its unreality.

It was my ninth trip to Paris (and just my third trip to Cannes, I’m a relative newbie). But in both instances, the greatest hits are in my rearview. There’s no need to queue for the Louvre, to wander La Suquet, or to kiss Oscar Wilde’s grave (though apparently it’s now covered in glass to prevent such makeout sessions?) Instead, a whole world of increasingly niche and off-the-beaten path detours has opened up to me.

I visited Serge Gainsbourg’s house.

I saw the Leonora Carrington exhibit at the Musee du Luxembourg.

I toured Lee Miller’s arresting work at the Musee d'Art Moderne – she and Leonora were friends!

I stayed in the first, in what my French colleagues call “The Left Bank of the Right Bank.”

I bought my first vintage watch (on the actual Left Bank!)

I spent a sweaty Saturday at the Marché aux puces de Saint-Ouen.

I ate at a restaurant that serves only soufflés.

I tried Pastis (and hate to say I hated it)

I got nostalgic for old visits and old versions of myself.

I visited the Picasso museum (which has relatively little Picasso art, it turns out!)

And I graduated from French-pharmacy-haul to French-dermatologist-visit.

I hope to be back soon – the fantasy needs feeding and I still have a long things-to-do-in-France list – but until then I’ll subsist off the memories, stories, photos, and the reminder that sits on my right wrist.