It's springtime in Paris. Let the strikes begin! The more things change the more things stay the same. While JFK's deserted thoroughfares resembled an airport we once visited in Kazan (when it was on the brink of separating from the Soviet Union), not much has changed at CDG (Charles de Gaulle Airport). Lots of people. Including a couple in wheelchairs proudly donning Hong Kong t-shirts.

Our luggage arrived on the revolving conveyor belt in ten-minute spurts because of a 'mechanical problem'. Actually, today the air traffic controllers went on strike, as well as major portions of Parisian train service. You can usually predict when a strike will occur - in spring or in the fall when the weather is pretty good and Parisians are still in town to feel the unpleasant impact of getting stuck in traffic around the periph for a few hours.

If you're driving from the airport, take the peripherique going east rather than west. Traffic invariably gets jammed up around the Right Bank exits to further aggravate the 'decision makers'.

If you're American, you're probably wondering what kind of reception awaits you given the current state of world affairs. Needless to say, everyone's experience is bound to be different depending on whom you run into during your travels, but I've decided for the next few days to keep a journal of conversations (abridged) to give you some idea of what might happen.

To start with, I've decided to keep my mouth shut and keep my opinions to myself about the current world situation. I want to hear what people have to say here.

Day 1
The apartment concierge stopped me at the front door. The apartment concierge is a quickly vanishing fixture of Parisian culture. No apartment building is really complete without the concierge (or guardian) which is the more appropriate term. In the old days, the concierge would distribute everyone's mail. Nowadays, she keeps the public areas clean and keeps everyone informed of everyone else's business on a 'wants to know basis'. Being basically a nosey person, I consider this to be a wonderful asset. Who needs newspapers?

Maria, who is Portuguese, informed me that 'those people over there in Iraq' have to be crazy to want to give up their lives for Saddam. She continued to explain that she had lived in a country like that when Salazar was dictator in Portugal. "We had to leave Portugal and cross the border in the middle of the night to escape". She also told me that Saddam sent men off to prison and then took their wives. I thought that was an interesting bit of news that CNN had forgotten to cover, but she tells me that she watches TV every night and has been following the war.

The parking attendant at the garage asked what country we hailed from. I looked a little sheepish and broke my promise to myself that I would keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself, but he could see my face turning red and I felt ready to burst into tears at this simple question. "I'm embarrassed to say, but I think you can guess where we're from."

He treated us kindly and gave us a month of free parking. He was from Sri Lanka.

When we returned to the apartment - we had two phone calls. Our friends from Normandy called to remind us, "As for us, we love Americans!" (They had previously mentioned over the phone that they were hurt to hear that France was not so well-loved on the other side of the pond). Another friend called to ask what we were doing for Easter, a day normally reserved for family.

Over the years, I've read so much about rude Parisians that I think it's time to bring a little balance to this issue. It is certainly possible that in your encounters, you may very likely run into a rude shopkeeper or clerk, but this has nothing to do with being American. When a Norman friend of ours was shopping for her wedding dress, she was shocked at the rudeness of Parisian clerks. The day Parisian sales clerks start saying "Have a nice day" will bring about a twinge of longing for those abrupt cold stares. Just today, a clerk at the market wished me a nice day, and it felt pretty good. Am I really in Paris, Toto?

Day 2
A brilliant cloudless sky brings out all the Parisians as well as tourists with a few Americans interspersed in the crowd. We are in Luxembourg Gardens where a familiar Saturday scene unfolds: Kids running, hovering round the circular pool, pushing their miniature wooden sailboats cross the sparkling waters. Young Parisians and visitors balancing back on park chairs, their heads tilted toward the sun for maximum tanning. And always at least one soulful couple clinging to one another for that one fleeting afternoon, never to be relived by them, but many others just like them. The children run and jump wrapped up in the euphoria of movement, so easily amused and so completely absorbed in their own joy. And we adults smile with some envy.

Only a few of the flower beds have been planted yet. Shocking yellow pansies seem to glow like candle flames in the afternoon sun. A park is indeed a magical place, life and play renewing itself with vigor, each day. It is one of the very few places relatively untouched by merchandising. There are the outposts, a café, cart and horse rides for the kids, the marionnettes, but the gardens, the trees, the tranquility of nature take center stage here and this form of revival is, for the moment, STILL FREE!

A Word on Left Bank Streetwear
The word here on a Saturday afternoon is CASUAL. I'm not going to talk about fashion and style - leave that to the experts. But what I can tell you is what I see in the street, and what I'm seeing is JEANS. Bell-bottomed, distressed and ground-sweeping jeans, a sea of jeans. Occasionally cargo pants. The daring wear red sneakers with their jeans and those who cannot wear jeans wear black. Black still remains the universal urban uniform, but now relaxing for the spring into calve length, loose-flowing slacks. The shop windows brim with khaki, cargo pants, laced and drawstringed, but on the street, jeans rule. So, if you're going to Paris, stay on the Left Bank and pack your jeans. Throw in an exceptionally wrinkled gauzy shirt and you'll blend in just fine.

Phone conversation with friend: She tells me, "I don't like watching CNN. CNN. Iraqui television. It's the same thing - propaganda. The French reporters get to the difficult dangerous places."

Day 3 - Sunday
When you pack your bags for France, don't forget your swimming trunks and your rollerblades. There are 27 municipal swimming pools in Paris plus three privately-run 50 meter pools. We checked out the Armand Massard (French Olympic swimmer) pool at 66 Boulevard Montparnasse (just near Tour Montparnasse). It costs 2.40 Euros for one swim or 19.80 Euros for ten visits. The pool attendant couldn't have been sweeter. She handed us the brochure that listed the other 27 municipal pools. The lap pool 35m x 15m, the 25m x 12.50m general swimming pool and the 12.50m x 6m shallow pool all looked impeccable.

The lockers are coed. You use either a Euro or a 'jeton' supplied by the locker attendant to lock your locker. There's a huge sign penciled at the locker room entrance which says:

You must not wander around the locker room naked. Use the changing rooms.

We walked from Montparnasse to the Seine River via Place des Invalides. The closer we drew to the river, the more and more rollerbladers appeared because thanks to the city of Paris's recent attempts to give the city back to pedestrians and two-wheelers on Sundays, rollerblading, particularly along the banks of the Seine, has exploded.

Crossing from the Left Bank to the Right Bank, I kept an eagle eye on streetwear attire and can confirm Saturday's observations hold true for Sunday in Paris. Jeans, jeans and more jeans. It may well be true that Right Bankers have paid 100 percent more for their carefully distressed jeans. I also noticed some black trousers made of an indescribably synthetic material - could it be dried crude oil? If you want to take a walk through 'Disney Land,' take a little jaunt along Rue St. Honore past Hermes. Check out the price tag on a little Hermes change purse. I thought I'd seen everything. This is about the time that we want to sit down in a quiet café and think about the meaning of life and the insanity of fashion.

We cut over to Rue de Rivoli. Two sun-drenched chairs open up magically at a café, a stone's throw from Angelina's which is jam-packed. Our waiter is impeccably polite, answering us in French or English, however we please. His timing is perfect, no rushing, and no delays. The sun is shining and people are smiling. Has Paris ever looked better? Why aren't you here yet?

Questions?
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