The French disease

There’s no place like the “City of Lights” tosoak in real golden deliciousness. You can revel inimpressionism, sculpture, architecture and art nouveau, no problem.You can spend hours walking the sunny Seine tout seul amongstpicturesque vessels; a panoply of nooks and crannies beg for booksand readers; and there’s no way to say I love me like a glassof Merlot and a slice of Swiss chocolate cake on Montparnasse.

Yes indeed, quotidian Parisian existence glorifies solipsisticexuberance—with one tiny fly in the onion broth. The Mecca ofModernism is also la Ville d’Amour (roughly translated:International PDA Headquarters). Ergo, copious tasting of theForbidden Fruit may be witnessed amidst all this basking insolitary golden wonder. But small surprise, Paris was deignedsexual Eden long before I formulated any opinion on propheticexhibitions of lust.

A recent cultural pilgrimage brought me to the OpéraBastille for its production of Strauss’s Salomé, asingle-act “stage tone-poem” based on OscarWilde’s poem of the same name, which in turn derives its plotfrom the biblical tale of the beheading of John the Baptist.

For all you engineering majors, here’s a quick refresher:King Herod’s stepdaughter Salomé demands theprophet’s head be brought to her on a silver platter after herefuses to acknowledge, much less succumb to her feminine wiles,and she gets her way. Thus far we’ve got a prettystraight-and-narrow spoiled-princess story, but it soon takes anugly turn necrophilia-ward. Salomé gets just a little toointimate with the severed head and is sentenced to death herselfafter Herod witnesses said ickiness.

And if this sounds a little risqué, I durst not mentionthe infamous “Dance of the Seven Veils” that goes downright before all the prophet abuse in which our little leading ladyperforms an actual striptease for her stepfather in exchange forher wishes. Yup, right on down to nekkid she goes, veil by veil,over an excrucitingly long series of leitmotif variations thatincestously tantalize the king.

This is decidedly hot stuff.

The English and Americans of the early 1900s evidently thoughtso, too; moralists persistently opposed the opera’sperformance, and Wilde’s original play, which was banned bythe Lord Chamberlain before the opera was even written.

Modern-day France, however, with its history of sketchyopéra-ballets and dance halls, embraces the piece with allthe unabashed delight of a culture never fraught with sexualsubversion. The country’s locus on the exhibitionistcontinuum perhaps dictates licentious staging, and the Bastilledoesn’t disappoint with its stark construction ofSalomé’s ignominy, which I watched with the samemixture of rapture and astonishment that accopanies my observationof Parisian promiscuity.

It’s difficult to tear one’s eyes from suchperformances on the sidewalk, in the metro, againstfences/walls/windows/anything with vertical solidarity, nearhistorical monuments, far from them, in cafés, on curbsidesand most of all in parks.

“Parking” à la française connotes adifferent m.o. than in the United States, perhaps, but I daresay adirtier one. Jogging daily in Parc Montsouris, I reflect that theFrench like a lot of action: the paths are choked with hordes ofrunners, walkers and rollerbladers, and the grassy clearings tooprovide venue for much physical activity. In my solitude,I’ve developed a few tentative theories as to why exactly theFrench celebrate their sexuality so freely, so here goes:

• Pragmatism. Europe at large, it seems, is all about whatworks—smaller cars, flatter shoes and shaved heads reflectthis predilection. So I postulate that maybe sex is tossed in theretoo, as in, “Hey, we’re cool with each other.It’s not raining. Here’s a bench. Why not?

• Synthesis of sensuous pleasures. (Note: The Moveable Feastreminds me rather cheesily of the Shakespearian “your eyes,your mien, your tongue declare/ that you are musiceverywhere,” but since I’m already feeling sheepishabout invoking a Biblical anecdote I’ll refrain.) Paris is abuffet for the senses. You can really gorge yourself on music andperfect weather and art and food, so maybe it’s only naturalthat a strong foundation of sexual enjoyment should bolster up allthe other epicurian nonsense.

• A greater sense of individual sexual entitlement. AnAmerican-published French guidebook reads, “There’s acrime wave engulfing Paris—stolen kisses abound!” Allhideous verbiage aside, I just dislike this comparison. Why?Because these kisses (etc, etc, etc…) aren’t furtivelystolen at all; they are outright intrepid heists. And they arereally beautiful to behold.

To be completely honest, I really dig all the gratuitous PDA forthe same reasons I dug Salomé: mass acknowledgement ofcommon necessary pleasure. Truth and art couple, as do birth andlife, and what’s so shameful about that?

It’s been said that life is a sexually transmitted diseasewith a 100 percent mortality rate; maybe life is the real Frenchdisease, the real cause of the sexual symptoms all over Paris -it’s just a part of life. Go ahead, call me a pervert, but Ilike being surrounded by living.