We’ll Never Have Paris

Contemporary Parisians may be harried by strikes, hassled by soccer hooligans, and threatened by the spectre of terrorism, but classical concert-going in the French capital, as experienced during a week in early June, remains a serene and edifying pastime. At venues ranging from the sumptuous Palais Garnier (the Second Empire colossus that serves as one of the two major venues of the Opéra National de Paris) to the utilitarian black-box theatre of the Centre Pompidou, certain standards, honed over decades, continue to hold. Gentlemen may no longer need neckties to take their places in the Garnier’s plush red-velvet chairs—in springtime, at least, business semiformal seems the norm—but the men and women of a Parisian audience, showing their appreciation for a particularly fine performance, would never allow themselves to be swept up into the vulgar gesture of a standing ovation; the massed ritual of rhythmic clapping is much more precise and apropos. Allergies and colds may grip the French as much as other humans, but never did I encounter the storms of coughing that typically gust through the big concert halls of Gotham; likewise, the concert-closing, Pamplonian dash for the exits, the classic “New York thank-you” that even certain music-loving journalists occasionally succumb to, is missing here—the audience’s departure is more a trickle than a flood. And patrons are rewarded for their good taste at the intermission bars, where the food and wine is tasty and politely served.