“But Richard, No One Ever Goes to the 17th”
My coffee had to be hot this morning. I am going to be spending a few minutes with you today, dear reader, talking about Paris and the mood has to be perfect. Since I will be writing about France, I need to feel a sense of place so I am surrounded by folks in a chic Parisian coffee bar.
Well, not literally. I found an app called Coffeetivity a while ago. With no hassle at all, I can have a recording of a busy café in Paris playing in the background as I work. You can choose your settings. In the morning, I am in a “Morning murmur” setting, where light conversation is several tables away. Midday, I may switch to a university coffeehouse setting, where existentialism and the impact of AI sweep the room in more animated conversation.
But for now, I am in my Parisian café, at home at my desk, thinking about our recent trip to France with thirty-eight clients.
The planning of the trip took a somewhat odd turn right from the beginning. The vast majority of my clients had been to Paris more than once. I wanted to share a portion of the city they had never seen. I explained to our on-site office in Paris that I had decided our group would spend some time in the 17th arrondissement, a part of the city I had never visited. I picked it because it was said to be free of tourists – and for good reason. It was a bit far out, it lacked true five-star hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants, and the museums were, shall we say, less than noteworthy. Worse still, everything I read indicated that the 17th was a true “working class” Parisian neighborhood. It was where many of the salespeople and office workers in central Paris returned at night.
My operations contacts in France were not as enthusiastic. “But Richard, no one ever goes to the 17th.”
I wondered what it would be like? Would there be places where we could have lunch? Would we need to be aware of street crime? What would the locals’ reaction be when they saw our 38 American tourists? And most importantly, would we be able to find a single shop that sold authentic, freshly made Parisian macarons, a passion shared by several couples traveling with us? Surely not in a working -class neighborhood.
I have been anxious to share this story with you. The fact is that purposely invading a quiet working-class neighborhood well off the tourist track – well, that was new for me while in the company of some of our very best clients.
I know we are in the midst of a “let’s see how the locals live” travel mindset. I wanted more than that. I wanted us to be in Paris but away from it at the same time. There just had to be places where residents just lived out their lives, places where parents could take their children to a park that was comfortable and safe. Places where there was little evidence that shopkeepers had an eye on tourist income. I wanted a bit of reality, a day or two in Paris that none of us would ever forget. But, I suppose, there had to be some good reasons why “No one ever goes to the 17th”.
I am about to take a group of clients away from the shops, the museums, the carefully monitored police presence, and the most often invoked tourism locations on the planet to stroll through an often-described working-class neighborhood in Paris, where my trusted operations people in France had warned me that “no one ever goes.”
It wasn’t so much a safety issue as it was a concern that my group might feel uncomfortable being stared at in a remote neighborhood on the outer fringe of one of the world’s most beautiful cities. This could be a very uncomfortable day, I thought, as we left our vehicle on Rue Lebon just across from the Marche Couvert des Ternes.
We walked just a few feet when we ran into our guides, 17th Arrondissement residents Aurelie and Marion. I couldn’t shake their hands because they were each standing in the midst of a busy sidewalk holding trays of assorted morning pastries that had just come out of the ovens of a nearby boulangerie.
The sun was shining, the chocolate inside my croissant was still warm, and I felt as though we had been lifted up and placed in the middle of a film set organized by a real estate rental firm. We started walking, soaking it all in, and quickly realizing that going where no tourist ever goes may be the perfect antidote to real and imagined issues of over-tourism in major cities around the world.
The streets were free of litter. The community was well-dressed but not in a “Please Look at Me” kind of way. No one ever stared at us. In two days spent in the 17th, I never saw a single American tourist and only a handful of tourists from anywhere. I never saw a tour bus or a policeman. I never heard loud music. I never observed anyone who made me uncomfortable in any way. But wait – I was in Paris.
We walked in small groups along the tree-shaded rue Levis and we started concentrating on the quality of food available in a “working class” Parisian neighborhood. The roasting chickens were on full display in glistening pans facing the street. I noticed that each chicken for sale had a tag around its neck identifying its place of origin. Then we found the Macaroon store – not one – several. They have competitive macaroon shopping in the 17th. It was like a miniaturization of the best streets from the Left Bank, here a lovely shop selling nothing but 12 kinds of baguettes, a honey emporium, and even chic clothing outlets. We stopped to taste, here a tapenade, there some beautifully displayed charcuterie.
But that was all before we crossed the street to the indoor Marche, a world-class food market filled with “just off the truck” farm fresh produce, along with displays of meat and fish. There were also plants and flowers. Lots of them.
Most of the major neighborhoods now have Perrier-style carbonated water fountains free to all locals who care to bring some home. And every Parisian neighborhood has a market where locals can purchase local produce and products.
What struck me the most was the presence of neatly written signs at the base of every type of produce and along the counter selling fresh fish, indicating the source of the food being sold. The Paris City Council started requiring fresh food labeling in 2010 and they continue to update their standards.
So far, just 50% of my guests in the “No one goes” 17th have told me they would love to have an apartment there. I am looking.
