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Travel Piece by Ida Nasatir
Letter from Paris, by Ida Nasatir, May
25, 1951
May 25, 1951—Ida Nasatir, "A
Letter from Paris," Southwestern Jewish Press, page
8: May 14, 1951; Dearest Julia and Mac: Even the
dullest soul is moved by the sight and the memory of Paris in the Spring. A
million words and many more books have been poured out on the subject (Some day
some enterprising but terrible person will make a complete list of all these
books and songs, and in that not-to-be desired day it will be found that if
heaped in one vast pile, they will dwarf the Great Pyramid). One feels a guilty
pang at adding yet another thought to the great accumulated pile, yet, it is
spring and it is Paris. What makes this city so captivating that
old friends return year after year, and newcomers can hardly hold themselves
back after landing in France? There are other cities as ancient, covered with
the dust of legend; there are other capitols which are eye pleasers, other
mademoiselles which are eye teasers. There are sidewalk cafes in other European
cities; elegant parks and gardens are not peculiar to Paris alone, and indeed
her prices are far more expensive than those of Austria or Spain. So what is it
that makes Paris Paris? If you don a beret and join the ever
increasing rank of Mr. and Mrs. U.S. Tourist, if you stay in Paris a week or a
year, you will come away with your answer. You will snap photos of the Arc de
Triomphe, you will gape at Sacre-Couer. High on a hill, you will enjoy the
"Flea Market" bargains and watch the Paris can-can girls at the
Montmartre cabarets. You'll curse the cab drivers, who never seem to be going in
your direction; you'll swear to yourself when, upon being shown your seat in the
movie, the usherette will stand there waiting for her "porboire"
(tip); you'll say to yourself that you have never been to a dirtier hotel or
that Paris is as black as Pittsburg; you'll blink twice at the prices in the
tourist night clubs and restaurants, and you'll moan a million and one times
before leaving the city that you'll never come back. You'll love seeing
the towering Eiffel Tower and the majestic Place de la Concorde. "Look at
the Champs-Elysees and its wonderful boulevards," you'll say. "Why
didn't we think of that in San Diego." And the sidewalk restaurants where
you will sit for hours over one drink of coffee and watch the world go byu--you
will tell all your friends back home about that mammoth Notre Dame cathedral,
and the endless bookstalls along the beautiful Seine, where you can buy almost
anything from a Picasso Print to a medal for a mother bearing six children.
You'll never forget your visit at 3 a.m. to Les Halles, "Paris's
breadbasket," where you will rub shoulders with workmen, bringing in the
produce to feed the city's millions, while you'll be having onion soup and red
wine. You'll take your husband to the Christian Dior and Jacques Fath fashion
shows, you'll "oooh and ahhh" over the exquisite inimitable French
originals, each one more lovely than the other. Spring and its blossoming
breath will whirl your Paris adventure into departure before you have time to
learn how to say "Qu-est-ce que c'est ca?" and you know what? You'll
want to come back. Because Paris, of all the cities in the world, especially
Paris in the spring, is everybody's home. It has a magic name that somehow
spells out all the wickedness and at the same time all the loveliness of
mankind. Fondly, Ida Nasatir.