How to Really See Paris

First, have an epiphany at the Musee D’Orsay. Standing before Monet’s shimmering Rouen Cathedral facades, come to realize that the sanitized tour you’re on won’t make you one with Paris. That, to know this wondrous city intimately, you must be as true to that purpose as the master was to his art. Which means surveying Paris precincts in all kinds of light. In all kinds of weather. From several perspectives. In as many transatlantic trips as may be required.

The catch is: can you afford it? In a few years, your husband will be a retired pensioner. Your home mortgage and car loans should be paid off, and you’ll have a healthy 401K for extras or to cushion disaster. This hardly suggests flying first-class or staying at the Ritz. So sit down, the two of you, and go over various strategies. Let out a whoop when you figure how to spend an entire month in Paris for the cost of a deluxe eight-day package.

Because the lifestyle you have in mind falls nebulously between that of Catherine Deneuve and the homeless, give it an exotic name. (Faux-camping has a ring, non?) Explain to family and friends what the term implies: No frilly flights. No multi-starred hotels. No laundry service. No splurges at the grands magasins. Taxis only in crisis situations. Hardly any eating out.

When your kids ask if you’re up to such sacrifices—especially that last one—remind them of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. Assure them you are Sidney Carton at the guillotine. Then add playfully, “And they do sell can openers in Paris, don’t they?”

Through an agency handling such matters, blithely arrange for a July home exchange: your low-slung, four-bedroom contemporary minutes from the beach for an ancient, one-bedroom aerie near the Place de la Bastille. Arrive from your flight shortly before the exchange couple leaves for theirs. When the wiry little husband offers to help carry your bags up five flights of cupped stairs, ask where the elevator is—the one being built four months ago when you agreed to the swap. Keep your cool when your host points to a skeletal shaft, rolls his eyes, and explains, oh-la-la, that the construction workers often forget to show. When the petite wife shrugs and says, “C’est la France,” seize her words; make them your clean new comment on life’s little infelicities.

After a couple of days, wonder if it’s a far, far better thing you’ve done—or if faux-camping isn’t really faux pas. Mentally note your reasons: Because the hot water handle is missing on the kitchen tap. Because the shower has neither curtain nor rod. Because, full, the washer holds no more than three socks and a finger towel. Because the 12-inch TV set broadcasts only in French (no matter how hard you shake it). Because the double bed collapses if one of you moves your head.

Include your run-in with the Monoprix cashier: her scolding you in French as she keeps handing you back loose fruits and vegetables; your countering lamely, “What the hell’s your problem?” Be grateful for that bilingual gentleman in line advising that French supermarkets require customers to bag, weigh, and price-tag most produce items themselves. (Well, how were you to know?)

In the end, brush aside the inconveniences and go after what you came for: la vie parisienne. Next morning, let the aroma of fresh-baked breads lure you to the corner boulangerie. At noon, carry a picnic lunch to the nearby Place des Vosges. Sit beside the raised equestrian statue of Louis XIII. Watch toddlers digging in sun-warmed sand piles and lovers stealing kisses near prancing fountains. That afternoon, at Montmartre’s bohemian Place du Tertre, confound a badgering street artist. Say yes, you’ll pose, but only if you come off looking like a nymphet in a girlie magazine. Minutes later, make your husband laugh again. Pretend to get the bends in the 300-foot-deep subway stop, Metro Abbesses.

In the evening, at Sainte-Chapelle, that Gothic architectural masterpiece, rejoice in a string septet’s vigorous Vivaldi as the lingering daylight radiates through 13th-century stained-glass walls. At 10, sup on cassoulet you’ve actually made from scratch with white beans from an old-time grainerie. ‘Round midnight, as a quavering Edith Piaf resonates from the flat below, wax nostalgic from your propped-up mattress.

Do stuff like this for the rest of your stay. Board the return flight with regret and pledge to come back soon. Plan to enroll in French 101 the minute you get home. Oh, and make a note to look up the supermarket cashier’s hissed epithet: “Fou!”

Fly back again and again. Summers, happily trade places with an expat and his family in the 20th. Get to know their working-class arrondissement like a ward heeler. Greet neighbors and merchants with exuberant politesse (Bonjour madame; S’il vous plait, monsieur); but wisely limit your end of a real conversation to memorized French phrases.

Invest 40 bucks in a two-wheeled, fold-up caddy. Weekends, tote it to flea markets like Clignancourt and Vanves. Once there, paw through the pottery stalls for odd pieces of faience. Weekdays, when you food-shop at the Gambetta markets, load the caddy with escalopes of veal and turkey from the boucherie, icy salmon fillets from the poissonnerie, and pungent Epoisses from the fromagerie. Save room for the fruitier’s perfect strawberries, sweet as syrup year-round, and often the size of plum tomatoes.

Once you and your husband do retire, rent short-term in the Left Bank’s Latin Quarter. Do it during the less expensive off- and “shoulder” seasons. When possible, reserve the wood-beamed studio overlooking the narrow Impasse Maubert where, according to the history books, a 17th-century poison expert named Exili helped concoct “recipes” with the Marquise de Brinvilliers. (The infamous marquise practiced on others before killing off dad and her siblings to gain the family fortune.) In the apartment’s cramped kitchenette, do cuisine bourgeoise like Julia Child possessed. When your husband frowns at two-day-old leftovers, flash an evil grin. Offer to garnish his plate with mushrooms you bought from a spooky old guy in the alley.

Take advantage of the freebies. In season, ice skate at the rink at the Hotel de Ville (City Hall). On Bastille Day, take in a special free matinee at La Comedie-Francaise. Later, dance the night away at your neighborhood firehouse’s bal.des pompiers. Or be dazzled by late-night holiday fireworks over the floodlit Trocadero gardens. On weekend afternoons in summer, stroll the Bois de Vincennes’ Parc Floral and enjoy a gratuitous late afternoon concert while smelling the flowers. Visit the Louvre free the first Sunday of every month. Any Wednesday, from 5 to 8, pay nothing at the Marais’ Musee Photographie de la Europeen to admire stunning black-and-white images shot in the last half century. Window-shop at pricey modern craft shops under the Viaduc des Arts, where glassblowers, costume jewelers, weavers and other artisans let you watch as they ply their trade. Uptown, at the sumptuous leather goods emporium, Hermes, admire occasional free exhibits on the wonders of nature.

Go places lots of Parisians never go. On a raw February day, brave the line at Berthillon, the peerless ice cream and sorbet parlor on the Ile St. Louis. Shiver gleefully as you lick a cone with deux boules; one passion fruit, one chestnut. In late April/early May, board bus 52 or 72 in central Paris and head a few miles west to the Albert Kahn Gardens in suburban Boulogne-Billancourt. There, in the serenity of the Japanese garden, feast your eyes on hillocks of fuchsia azaleas mirrored in a brook lined with white pebbles.

Any time of year discover some of the city’s oddball collections; for instance, antique murder weapons and bloodstained bits of evidence at the Police Museum in the 5th arrondissement’s police headquarters. Or bogus Benedictine bottles and Louis Vuitton knockoffs at the Forgeries Museum in the 16th. Or, in Pigalle, the objets d’art on display in the Musee de l’Erotisme (enough to make a porn queen blush).

After several exhilarating years of faux-camping, vow never to pack up your tent for good. For a change, though, do something touristy and well beyond the budget you’ve been holding to. From a Yachts de Paris dinner table, see panoramic Paris all atwinkle as you glide down the Seine. With DeGaullian aplomb, order four elaborate courses en francais. Later, as you point to a Left Bank penthouse with a splendid view of the Place de la Concorde, joke with your husband. Tell him that that’s the pied a terre you want when he wins PowerBall. Reach for his hand when you hear the trade-off: “OK, if you’ll still cook.”

As you pass Orsay, muse about yourself and your muse. Accept the fact that you’ll never be a true Parisian, merely an ardent wannabe. Of course, you’d hardly be that if Monet hadn’t forced you to take 10 giant steps back to appreciate his work—and, ultimately, the city in which much of it hangs.

Wonder if placing four or five different portraits of the Impressionist on a wall in your den mightn’t be a seemly tribute.