There is a long tradition in Paris of flânerie, which has a variety of nuanced definitions (and no direct translations into English), but boils down to the art of walking around an urban setting and observing stuff. A flâneur, then, is someone who strolls city streets, just kind of taking things in, noticing things, and (in the case of an obsessive chronicler like myself), takes pictures and writes about what they see.
This was one of my top desires for our trip to Paris: to be a flâneur—to participate in this tradition that it feels like I was born to, and in doing so, get to know Paris in a special way. And so it came to pass, on a day when the rest of my family was taking a zero day in the hotel. (Bless their hearts and cat-like nap preferences, but they needed to do nothing for a day. I, on the other hand, am basically a human puppy, and if I don’t get a robust walk every day to get my wiggles out, I will tear up the house.)
I’ve always preferred to explore a new city on foot. It’s the best way to get a sense of the scale of a place, its vibe, how the neighborhoods give way to one another–and of course, the flânerie-esque observations you extract nearly by osmosis.
Typically, I’ll pick a destination and some waypoints and head out. (Pro tip: When in doubt, look for green spaces on Google Maps. 80% of the time you’ll score a nice park, great view, important landmark, bustling gathering place, or historic site.)
For this jaunt, I plotted a course from our hotel to the Arc de Triomphe, and planned to stroll the complete Champs-Élysées from there, all the way to the Place de la Concorde. That’s where they lopped off Louis XVI’s head in front of 15,000 people. Marie Antoinette also lost her head there. (So much head-lopping ‘round these parts.)
The walk from the hotel to the Arc wasn’t far, but I stopped for lunch on the way, at a nice quiet brasserie called La Grand Carnot.
The lunch game in Paris is underrated. There are lots of funky sandwiches (the French probably call it sandwicherie or something). I couldn’t get enough of the croque monsieur (melted cheese on a ham sandwich, basically) and croque madame (same, but with an over-medium egg on top). I had a beer cocktail, which I did not know was a thing until that moment, called Picon Bière. Perfection.
A handful of people floated in and out of the brasserie. An older couple, who were clearly French tourists, seemed to struggle with understanding the menu and also how to pay. A couple of different young people had brought their roller suitcases with them, nabbing a last meal before heading home. A gaggle of locals lingered over cigarettes and conversation at the tables outside.
I continued on my way, stopping for a mini adventure at the Arc de Triomphe. I was not prepared for its gargantuan size. I took a few pictures from the street, which look exactly like all the pictures you’ve even seen of the thing from the street. I struggled to get the whole of it in-frame.
A little later when I was underneath it, it was even more difficult to get any shot from the ground that let you get any sense of anything other than large chunks of a wall divorced from the larger context of the structure.
On I went, down the Champs-Élysées.
The Champs-Élysées is kind of the street in Paris. Nearly two kilometers in length (that’s like a mile and a quarter), it had a long and historically significant development process. In the mid-1800s, when Napoleon III wanted to drag Paris away from its medieval roots towards the cultural capital it is today, bulldozing what is now the Champs-Élysées was a major and symbolic part of that effort.
It’s grown from there over the centuries. Important structures like the Grand Palais and Petit Palais are found along the Champs-Élysées, as well as tons of parks, gardens, sculptures, structures, monuments, theaters, and whatnot. The German military marched down this street after conquering the French a couple of times, and the French military marched down it after beating the Germans a couple of times. To this day, it’s the site of big parades and the finish of the Tour de France. Etc.
The road is wide, but the sidewalks flanking it are also incredibly wide, like wide enough for three or four cars. There are trees, trees, and more trees, all in an orderly row.
The top part of the Champs-Élysées, starting at the Arc, is pure shopping. Shopping shopping shopping shopping shopping. High-end fashion, mid-range fashion, international brands galore (including American brands). It’s allllllmost tacky.
I carried my little handheld field recorder aloft the whole time I strolled. That’s probably breaking one of the rules of flânerie, but purists can kiss my grits. I wanted to capture the sounds for myself. There’s a lot of honking, and a lot of sirens, and a LOT of different languages—obviously mostly French, and also a little English, and then several others that I couldn’t quite place.
The variety of humanity was diverse. People hawking wares. Dark-suited men with earpieces gatekeeping entrances to designer stores. Families—parents sweating and dragging cranky children about, parents out for deeply pleasant shopping with their teens or adult children, etc. Restaurant workers, cab drivers. Tourists of all stripes, from all manner of countries, expecting certain things from this street and getting only some of them, most likely.
The architecture is all so very…on purpose. There are clashing mixes of shiny new facades and old historical ones, side by side.
There are gilded gates telling you that you’re unworthy and unwelcome, and eye-grabbing storefront displays that dare you to come in and shop.
Like any exciting public space, there are human-driven oddities. For example, there was a bright red Ferrari with a “Drive Me” hashtag painted on the side. One hesitates to wonder how much such a drive costs.
Probably the most interesting sidewalk curiosity was this man who appeared to be caring for a pair of dogs who were looking a bit forlorn. A double-take confirmed that the dogs were just a very lifelike sand sculpture. (This was not on my top 1,000 list of possible things I’d see on the Champs.)
The bottom half of the street turns into the aforementioned park land, and gardens, and various structures meant for play and exploration and status. The wide building-to-curb sidewalks narrow, gobbled up with fine sandy soil and grass. More trees, and more trees.
The shady parkland opens up to the vast Place de la Concorde area. Images don't do justice to how large this open area is.
You can’t capture it in any single shot—you need a panorama. This place, with a gold-tipped phallus marking where Louis XVI’s head dropped, surrounded by the American Embassy, old elegant hotels, restaurants, large sculptures, and a fancy fountain. And there’s Tuileries—the vast gardens that lead to the Louvre—just past the Place de la Concorde, with the Musée de l’Orangerie at one corner.
The Seine borders all of one side. I took a moment to chat with the phallus, then crossed the Pont de la Concorde (a bridge built in 1791) and turned north west, hugging the Seine.
There are two ways to stroll the Seine. You can stay above it, on sidewalks adjacent to the streets, and enjoy perfect view after perfect view of the water and the skyline. Or you can go low, and walk along the wide paved path that runs directly on the water. This lower path is where all the commercial (that is, tour and restaurant) boats and domestic boats dock. I chose the lower route.
The boats are all so unique. One has an attempted grass roof. One has a small vintage car on the back of it. One has intense metal sculptures. Every now and then you see a high-end small cabin cruiser.
It’s quiet down here—so much quieter and calmer than the streets just 20 feet or so above you. An entire subculture just kind of chilling out. Except for when actual tour buses show up to drop off a throng of people who then board a floating restaurant for a river cruise.
I walked along this stretch of the Seine for what felt like ages. My feet began to hurt from the cobblestone sections. Somewhere around Pont de l’Alma, I turned north away from the Seine to make my way back to the hotel (as indirectly as possible, of course).
This section of streets had some of my favorite architectural details, like gold-tipped gates and whole flats that had the same rich decor on all of the windows.
I also loved this found still life: one face, cranky that his awning is up. The second face, overly cheery that her awning is down. The third face…neutral about his awning being halfway up.
The last thing of note I saw as a flâneur was a group of what I assume was military personnel, resplendent in their dress uniforms, piling out of a bus by the Arc (which I walked past again on my way back to the hotel).
Likely some kind of military ceremony, at the church of war. I wish I had time to linger and see what developed, but it was time to finish my walk.
This piece is part of a series of pieces around our recent trip to Paris. There’s more to come, but you can catch up to where we are so far by reading these. In chronological order: