Writings by David A. Ek

A Paris for All Our Worries

by David A. Ek

When I think of Paris, flatness comes to mind. Not because of the low-lying topography of Ville-Lumière, the City of Light, or the slow lumberings of the nearby river Seine. No. Instead, my Paris flatness relates to “Ville sans-humour”—an awkward attempt at humor that fell flat. Merci-less flat. Not just the sucking or hissing sounds of a flat tire, but the convulsion the world heard the instant George Lucas introduced the character Jar Jar Binks into the Star Wars universe.

It started when my nervousness interjected a little too much personality into my introduction to Bill, my soon-to-be new boss. Bill hired me based on my written application, followed by a brief phone interview. At the time, we hadn’t met.  Later, he offered me the job during a formal phone conversation. After I accepted, he added that he would not be there to greet me when I arrived, since he would be taking a “much-needed two-week vacation in Paris.”

The formal interview and the follow-up formal job offer seemed so…formal. This compelled me to interject a little informality and a little too much David personality. As soon as he mentioned a Paris vacation, my mind and mouth blurted, “Oh, cool, I’ve always wanted to visit Paris, Texas!”

Suddenly, the phone fell silently flat—Jar Jar Binks flat.

Patiently, while enunciating each syllable, as would a patient adult attempting to train a learning-challenged hyperactive infant in the fundamentals of potty-training, “No, not Texas,” Bill drawled. “Paris, the city in…France.” In case it hadn’t sunken in the first time, he immediately repeated his geography lesson. By the time he reached “No, not Paris, Texas” for the second time, his tone had changed from patient instruction to irritated bewilderment. I imagined him thinking of how best to rescind the job offer so he could offer it to someone with a glimmer of intelligence and socially acceptable capacity for common sense beyond the potty-training level.

Despite my worries, Bill never retracted the offer, and we worked well together for the next few years. In hindsight, I suspect he never understood how any educated adult could confuse Paris for Paris and Texas for France. Perhaps his vacation had calmed him—maybe the grandeur of the Palace of Versailles or the quaintness of his Pont Neuf bridge strolls over the flat and calming waters of the river Seine had purged Bill’s concerns over my ignorance and developmental shortcomings. Much later, I learned Paris can do that to a person.

I had never been to Paris, Texas—nor did I have the desire. I knew nothing about the place beyond sharing the name with a movie I had never seen. Admittedly, the city had piqued my curiosity since the movie’s soundtrack is the only Ry Cooder album not in my collection. Overall, that is not enough background to form an informed opinion. It seems that Paris’ location in the forefront of my mind was due to being the title of an album that I didn’t own and had never listened to, the name of a Texan city that I’ve never visited, and a place that shared a name with the City of Light—a land my shadow had never graced nor had I ever considered visiting. Perhaps Bill wasn’t the one confused.

I’ve always been fascinated by places that share a name with more famous locations. Seriously, what’s up with Moscow, Idaho, and Moscow, Russia copying the name and trying to glam onto the notoriety of Moscow, Pennsylvania? If Moscow, Idaho, or Moscow, Russia had a history or distinctiveness, they wouldn’t have to display a pretense or false equivalency with more famous locales. If a business did as much in the commercial world, the offended would sue for copyright infringement, false advertising, malfeasance, or non-ethical trickery.

Apparently, in the real-world Americana town-naming landscape, such tactics are enticing, alluring, and even quirky. Upon further reflection—I realized that I really wanted to visit Paris, Texas because of these quirky parallels. I also wanted to watch the movie Paris, Texas, and complete my Ry Cooder album collection—all because one less-than-quaint railroad town with a checked history had glammed onto the name “Paris” in the hope that their lives would be that much better as Parisians.

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Location, location, location, the old but all-so-true real estate mantra, certainly offered her fair graces to Paris. Which Paris—you may ask? The Paris that stately rests on the cusp of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains—below Sky Meadows and midway between Dover and Waterloo. Does that clear it up? While miniature in comparison to other transportation hubs such as Kansas City or Chicago, Paris, unlike these more modern creations, never served as a hub for railcars. Instead, Paris served wagons and horses along a thoroughfare in the pre-railroad colonial era.

Long before steel rails crossed our infant nation, people, industries, and commerce followed a vast network of colonial-era roadways—like the Great Valley Road that linked Philadelphia to the southern colonies. Within northern Virginia, the Great Valley Road’s main artery traversed the Shenandoah Valley west of the Blue Ridge Mountains. To reach the thoroughfare from Virginia’s Tidewater, travelers had to cross the rugged Blue Ridge Mountains. Most people crossed at Ashby Gap, the mountain pass immediately above Paris. The regional roads from Tidewater’s Alexandria, Dumfries, and Fredericksburg converged at Paris—the last comfort and convenient respite before crossing into the western hinterlands.

With a location immediately below the most popular mountain pass, Paris’ future looked bright. A city of light upon the hill. By the mid Eighteen-thirties, and before the founding of Chicago and Kansas City, Paris’ population soared. Its business district offered three mercantile shops, two saddlers, a cabinetmaker, three shoe factories, two blacksmiths, a tuner, two wagon makers, a tailor, wheat fan maker, and chairmaker. On the learning and spiritual side, one school and a multi-denominational church served its happy and hopeful residents. And let’s not forget several taverns. The taverns—what better place to while away colonial times than in a Parisian tavern? Even the esteemed pre-president George Washington graced one or more of these bustling Paris establishments. Paris, back in the day, provided diverse comforts for locals and travelers alike.

However, destiny’s light did not shine brightly upon Paris—nor the vast network of linking colonial-era roads. In the new era, railroad fever had swept the nation. Nationwide, industries, communities, and speculators constructed four thousand miles of track in less than twenty years. This included the Manassas Gap Railroad that routed its tracks through a Blue Ridge Mountains crossing other than Ashby Gap. The railroad bypassing the town was a Rubicon moment for Paris businesses. A transportation hub that serves no transportation corridor is not a sustainable business model. Suddenly, inexplicably, and painfully, Paris entered the downward-spiraling side of the location, location, location mantra.

Today, only a few businesses remain. However, the shrinking of the once vibrant Paris hub did not snub out the good-hearted and welcoming Parisian spirit. No one can downsize or dull a Paris soul so easily.

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Once, while driving my Honda Accord east along Highway 50, more-or-less following the same colonial-era wagon road alignment that linked Winchester with Tidewater Virginia, a violent stomach and intestinal argument suddenly caught my attention. As I sped over Ashby Gap, the internal conflict flashed a warning that I would not make it home in time. With no thought given to the plight or nuances that the location, location, location mantra had wrought upon the once vibrant town, I impulsively guided my Accord to the off-ramp leading into Paris.

Despite the darkened stillness of the once glorious Federal Street, the historic Trinity United Methodist Church stood alone as a bright and welcoming beacon for the weary and intestinally challenged. The nearby Ashby Inn and Restaurant looked cheery but had a locked door. Was the church my salvation? While I cannot speak for the Methodist, how could a church, especially one in the City of Light, turn away a traveler in crisis? Someone had recently propped open the lower door to the lower sanctuary—and a light shone from inside. Timidly, I knocked on the Gothic-styled double-leaf doorway on the historic church’s front side.

The elderly gentleman that greeted me became the first Parisian I ever met. Overcoming my modesty and embarrassment, I pleaded to use the church’s facilities.

Startled by my sudden appearance from the darkness, he soon brightened his expression. “Of course, you may,” he warmly offered, as he launched into numerous conversation prompts.

However, once I had crossed the modesty and embarrassment threshold, the rudeness barrier became that much easier to surmount—I interrupted him to hasten down the church’s hall toward my time-critical salvation.

Only later did I discover that this warm Parisian was not the church’s minister or deacon. Long before my emergency visit, Paris’ dwindling population had forced the church’s destiny. A community with less than fifty souls could no longer support a congregation, so church leaders de-robbed the Paris Trinity United Methodist Church. Since then, the historic building remains open only for special events. As Parisian luck would have it, there was to be an event at the old church later that evening. The person who welcomed me into the sanctuary had just begun preparing the building for the special occasion. Providence had shined her merry light upon me as she led me into Paris at that specific moment—within an otherwise empty evening and empty highway corridor. I once read that the Paris United Methodist Church had long displayed a sign that read, “United Methodist Church: Open Hearts. Open Minds. Open Doors.”

The warm and friendly welcome I received in Paris contrasts with the many rumors and derisions I’ve heard over the years of Parisians’ treatment of visitors and strangers. So many conflicting viewpoints and opinions. It is as if they are two completely separate places. I found that Paris and Parisians will come through and help a person in need. However, this was not the last time my travels tested Paris’ welcoming nature, goodness, and comforting dependability.

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My next test of Paris’ welcoming nature, goodness, and comforting dependability came during my most recent drive from Virginia to the Pacific Northwest. On the first day of this month-long trip, odd noises emanated from my Accord’s wheel while we were between the Tennessee and Kentucky Rivers. My field inspection coupled with multiple indiscriminate finger poking on unknown car parts confirmed that the noise was indeed odd. I had limited options. My Accord and I limped the few remaining miles to Paris, Tennessee. It took the technician two minutes to report I had loose brake caliper brackets.

I recently had the calipers replaced—back in Virginia. That repair took a week, since after mounting them, the technician discovered that each specially ordered caliper set was defective. He ordered a new set, but that one also failed the final test. The auto shop manager said defective or poor-quality parts, not just calipers, have been a consistent problem over the last couple of years. Fortunately, the third specially ordered set checked out okay, so they quickly released my car late on Friday, immediately before a long holiday weekend.

Perhaps the release happened too quickly. I unknowingly picked up the car with the brake caliper bolts still only hand tight. I can imagine the technician planned to tighten them with a wrench later—after checking if the third caliper set worked. In his rush to leave for the long weekend, he left them only hand-loose.

Apparently, hand-tightened caliper bracket bolts can only safely travel from Warrenton, Virginia to the Paris, Tennessee suburbs before trois bolts fall off and the remaining quatre bolt wiggles loose.

“Loose calipers are dangerous,” the Parisian technician exclaimed. “You could get in an accident or cause expensive damage to your car.”

Fortunately for me, he caught it before anything serious happened. Also fortunate, Paris was large enough to have an auto shop—although it was too small to have handy a set of brake caliper mounting bolts for a Honda Accord. The garage needed to retrieve the necessary bolts from a nearby parts warehouse.

The technician had the bolts in hand after only a three-hour wait. Also fortunate—Paris-fortunate, the bolts weren’t defective. Apparently, Paris has access to better parts than Warrenton. Perhaps Paris’ moniker should be “Valle Calîpiér.” Would this nickname catch on? I wonder. Likely not. But the kind Parisians in the Valle Calîpiér auto shop got me back on the road by early afternoon. Once again, a validated and authentic test of an age-old Parisian rumor refutes its reputation for being rude to visitors.

After my two pleasant Paris experiences, I sought to quantify how many warm Paris opportunities lie on this side of the pond. As if a light had suddenly appeared from darkened skies, I discovered that besides Texas, Virginia, and Tennessee, there are nineteen other Parises in the United States alone. The Midwest offers Parises in Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Michigan, Missouri, Ohio, and Wisconsin. Appalachia provides a Paris within Kentucky. Travelers to the nation’s southern states can find a Paris in Arkansas, Mississippi, and South Carolina. There are also Parisians in California, Idaho, and Oregon. Not to be left out, New York, New Hampshire, and Maine each hold Parisians within their borders and place Parises on their maps. Maryland offers a Paris to the mid-Atlantic region. Rust-belted Pennsylvania created its Paris—on the other side of the state from its Moscow.

On the same trip that my car broke down in Paris, Tennessee, I also visited London,  Cardiff, Delhi, Naples, Jordan, Trinidad, Thebes, Berlin, and Cairo—all without crossing the pond once. Isn’t international travel within a single country’s boundaries wonderful? If I had traveled out of my way, I could have visited Virginia City in either Nevada or Montana. I could have visited the Virginia Foothills or Virginia Highlands without leaving Nevada. After a quick search, I discovered ten towns in the United States named Virginia, but curiously, none in Virginia.

Duplicative naming curiosities prompt my mind to drift to U.S.-bound city-states. Not the Sparta versus Athens variety (whether Grecian, Tennessean, or Georgian), but the ones found entirely on this side of the pond. We may stroll through a Nevada and a Missouri in Texas, and a Florida and a Colorado in Utah. Additionally, there is an Ohio in Colorado and a California in Ohio. Despite the craziness that has crept into city-state place names, there remains something unique, even special, with the U.S.’s twenty-two Parises.

While Bill never understood or appreciated my Paris humor, the experience prompted me to delve deeper into what it takes to be a Parisian. I discovered through literature and cinema—Paris has touched hearts the world over.

They touched our hearts in Casablanca as we watched Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund reminisce about falling in love while in Paris. We also fondly watched Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Jenice Manheim share their warm Twenty-fourth Century Paris memories while on a holodeck.

Paris works on so many levels, ranging from George Washington to Jean-Luc Picard, because we do not define Paris by mere time or geographic boundaries. Paris is a state of mind—one that cannot fade and trying times cannot beat. It’s a brightness that endures, regardless of location, topography, size, calendar, or clock. In this manner, we have elevated Paris to become an All-American icon in both fashion and form.

In our stressful and chaotic world, isn’t it soothing to have touches of the familiar? A place to ratchet down our worries a notch or two simply by knowing we can survive flippant attempts at humor, car breakdowns, arduous journeys over mountain passes, the passage of time, and the occasional intestinal emergency. It’s a comfort that smooths the roughness of tear-filled goodbyes on a Moroccan tarmac, futuristic time distortions, and yet more romantic goodbyes on a Twenty-fourth-century holodeck. Isn’t it comforting to know that throughout eternity, despite whatever drama life throws at us we can not only survive, but even prosper, by knowing that we will always have Paris, or at least a Paris, to get us through trying times? Thankfully, for all the stressed and worried souls on this side of the pond, we do not need to travel far to find solace or a needed respite, for chances are that there will be a Paris located somewhere close at hand ready to welcome us with a smile, lift the weary, and keep us going until the need for our next Paris moment.

— The End —

Through TAR, we travel and experience the diverse Americana landscape. The last post had us dancing with sturgeon and gas flares in the northern Great Plains, and in this one, we shed life’s burdens by exploring the Paris state of mind. In TAR’s next post, we will take flight with Calliope, the legendary Greek Muse, through the borderland region along Arizona’s ecologically significant San Pedro River. Look for “Wonders that Cannot be Fathomed, Miracles that Cannot be Counted” on December 1.

In the meantime, please check out the websites from select Parises, including the charming The Ashby Inn & Restaurant in Paris, Virginia, and Paris, Tennessee’s lovely streets and decorated murals.

Also, please check out my website’s Portfolio page for a description of my compelling novels, Pedro’s Pickles and the American Dream and Lizard People: Death Valley Underground, and my relatable literary nonfiction book Nowhere Bound—A Spud’s Reflections on Climbing, Caving, and Other Useless Toils. I encourage you to like or follow my Facebook and Goodreads “Author’s Pages.” Until then, take care and I look forward to our next glimpse into Americana on our next TAR adventure. See you then….