Aram Demirjian

Glamour: An American in Paris

                                    Inspired by George Gershwin’s An American in Paris

The mist of early morning Paris was just beginning to clear as I walked from my hotel. Mere minutes had passed since sunrise, and the city was already beginning to come alive. It had been a rainy night, and the damp cobblestones beneath the smooth soles of my shoes were still slick. A taxicab with a rather energetic driver sped by honking its horn, announcing to the masses that it was morning and that it was time to wake up and get to work. I considered calling one of those taxis to drive me to my destination, but I realized that I had no destination, and it was much more pleasurable to walk.

                  As I neared an area of shops, the level of activity began to pick up. The sun was now upon us in all of its glamour, erasing the gloomy, stormy remnants of the night before. I decided to sit down at a café for my breakfast. As I drank my café au lait and devoured my crusty French bread, I observed the hustle and bustle of passersby. There was one lone police officer directing traffic, desperately trying to make sense of it all. This brought me thoughts of America and the similar organized chaos I observed every morning.

                  At this point, Luxembourg Gardens seemed to be a suitable destination. So, I took my walking stick in hand and made my way through the lively streets of Paris. My surroundings tickled my senses as I walked. The smells of freshly baked bread and crepes wafted into my nose, and the performers on the sidewalks filled the air with jubilant music. As I walked, street vendors attempted to sell me everything from fine jewelry to used books to week-old newspapers. They were quite relentless. As they continued to talk, it became harder and harder to break free of their sales pitch. The street performers stood out most of all. Human statues were the most popular, but there were also some sword swallowers and even a fire breather. Just in front of the gate to the Gardens, I bumped into a mime. I suppose I must have somehow become trapped in his invisible box. After taking some trouble to escape, I bid the mime good day and entered the Gardens. There was a gazebo there in which an orchestra was playing. I made my way over to a bench by the fountains, and I sat to enjoy the warm, bright midday sun. There were what appeared to be millions of pigeons all over. They almost outnumbered the multitude of gorgeous flowers that were about the whole garden. There were children playing all about; however, right then they seemed to be distracted by a candy salesman who had wandered by. I lay my head back. I did not know whether I was asleep or awake, whether this was a dream or a reality. Either way, I did not favor the idea of spending my entire stay in Paris sitting on a bench pondering. The Eiffel Tower dominated the horizon to the south, and I was determined to get there as quickly as I could.

                  I went there by taxi. To this day I think my driver was the same crazy man who was driving the taxi I saw that morning, for throughout the entire wild cab-ride, I feared we were going to run ourselves off the rode. I arrived safely, however. As the elevator in which I rode climbed up the Tower, and the world below began getting smaller, I felt a strange feeling welling up inside of me. When I reached the top, and looked out at the city, I finally realized the true beauty of Paris. I felt like it was just the city and me flying over it, no distractions, nobody else; perfectly serene and peaceful. But, in Paris, one can never be without distractions for too long. This time it was the ding of my pocket watch. I had heard about a large ball that was being held that night, and having not been invited, I felt it was only suitable to invite myself. Who could deny a man of that on his first night in Paris? I began to cross the gravel underneath the Tower with the intent of catching a trolley back to my hotel.

                  And then I saw her.

                  She had red hair and was wearing a designer dress. She had on one of those hats with an incredibly large round brim, and she had her sunglasses lowered onto her nose. She was even more radiant than the sun that illuminated her. I considered asking her to accompany me to the ball that I was going to attend. But she was French; she would not want anything to do with a classless American such as myself. I cannot remember clearly, but I must have looked away for a moment because when I looked again, she was gone with the afternoon breeze. I consoled myself by remembering that beautiful women were not uncommon in Paris, but in my heart I was still disappointed. My disappointment was temporarily smothered, however, because with or without the red-haired lady, I had a ball to get ready for, and the late-afternoon sun was beginning to set. Night slowly crept upon the city as I made my way back to the hotel. The liveliness of the morning once more appeared as people began to head home at the end of the day. My day, however, was just beginning. I quickly stopped into my room to freshen up and put on my tuxedo; then I was right back out the door. A car and chauffeur were already waiting for me. I sat down in the leather interior of the car and entered Paris at night.

                  Lights were already flashing on, and my excitement continued to grow as each light turned on. The red lights on the Eiffel Tower were blazing like fireworks, standing out against the backdrop of dark, black sky. Anything illuminated seemed remarkably larger at night than it did during the day. I arrived at the hall where the ball was taking place; I could already hear the band playing inside. There were many well-dressed men and women like myself who were just arriving. Inside the hall, for the first time I came to the realization that I was crashing this party. I was not quite sure what to do at that point. I was not in my element at all, with the huge glass chandeliers and marble floors and free wine that would normally have cost me one of my limbs. Also, I was the only one without a dance partner.

                  And then she was there again.

                  She had removed the hat and sunglasses and was wearing a different dress, but she was still unmistakably the jaw-dropping red-haired beauty that I encountered earlier in the day. The color of her dress matched her hair. This time, I promised myself I would not let her disappear. I approached her, and in the little French that I knew, I said hello. I received an equally friendly greeting from her. Then came that awkward silence. Everybody has felt it. Either due to a language barrier or insecurity around a person to whom you are attracted, in this case both, neither person wants to make the first move. I finally, in broken French, mustered up the courage to ask her to dance.

                  The band broke into swing, and we danced the night away. It was wonderful. We twirled, whirled, and dipped across the dance floor for hours. Just when it seemed that the night could not get anymore glamorous, the clock struck midnight. She told me she had to leave. I never had the heart to ask why, I was too upset. I escorted her out to her car, kissed her hand, and she was off. I never saw my red-haired Cinderella again. I went to sit down on a bench outside the hall with my head hung low. I felt very much like feeling sorry for myself. I was almost prepared to leave and go back to the hotel, but then I remembered where I was. I stopped wallowing in self pity long enough to realize that the sights, the sounds, and the smells were still there, I had only forgotten to notice them. I made one more promise there and then, that I would never forget to notice them again. I picked myself up, loosened my collar, and began to walk away from the ball, and towards the lights of the city. I had no destination. All I knew was that somewhere in this vast city, there was another party even better than this one, another Cinderella was out there, and something incredible was just waiting to happen. Would I find it that night? Perhaps, perhaps not. But the night is young for a man like me, an American in Paris.