cynicism in the city of "love"

The success of my post-spring-break/pre-summer fitness routine owes a lot to the weather of late. We've had nothing less than 75 degrees, clear skies, and sun every day since Saturday. With a five day weekend beginning tomorrow, I couldn't be in a better mood.

My daily run takes me to Parc Monceau, which lies just inside the eighth arrondissment, at the border where the 8th and 17th meet. It's a beautiful park and I'm lucky to have something so convenient in which to run so close by.

In the winter months, on my usually twice-weekly jog, I found the park to be almost empty and even closed a few times. Now, the lawns have been awakened from their winter "repose" and are open to use for picnics, studying, and taking in the sun. It's been interesting to see how the general demeanor of my neighborhood has changed since spring arrived. There are the usual nannies texting on their cellphones as little white, blonde children in matching linen dresses run around the playground, and on weekends, the handsome dads and pregnant mothers take over for their nannies, eating sandwiches and offering their children juice boxes in the shade.

And then, there are the couples.

I'm not a cynic, and although I may at present have a biased perspective, I'll champion Cupid's cause 'til the very end. Paris has been known as not only the City of Light, but La Ville d'Amour too, and in the spring, this seems to apply not to the romantic cafes spilling out onto the sidewalks, or the Tour Eiffel lights on a warm night. The City of Love has become the City of Public Displays of Affection.

My daily run allows me the pleasure of observing each group of people on each bench I pass as I circulate the park's circumference. More often than not, the aforementioned green benches are taken over by tangled limbs and faces pressed close together, often not kissing at all, just touching. On the grass behind and before the benches, teenagers and middle-aged pairs alike lie supine, holding hands, or one's head in the other's lap. They whisper (I assume) sweet nothings into each other's hair, pressing their faces together all the while. Occasionally during the three-hour embrace, they tear themselves apart to smoke a cigarette, or fix each other's hair.

It actually makes me laugh.

The other day, I saw a group of five people, probably around 16 years of age. There were three girls and a couple, presumably all friends. The three girls stood patiently, not talking, as the couple passionately embraced to say yet another long goodbye until they smoked cigarettes with each other no more than three hours later. If I, even as a girlfriend myself, had to stand by while my friend made out with her boyfriend before parting for the afternoon, I wouldn't stand for it. And I certainly wouldn't impose such a thing on my friends.

I realize I may be revealing myself to be so not a parisienne, but if being truly French means completely attaching oneself to a significant other from the age of fourteen, I'm content to have giggled at a quick kiss on the cheek at an eighth-grade dance.