I love the Eiffel Tower. That’s not an especially radical statement. What’s not to like about the fanciful reddish-brown latticework structure that looms over Paris? But that’s separate and distinct from saying that I love Paris, though the two are almost synonymous in my mind.
My passion for Gustave Eiffel’s creation, constructed as the centerpiece of the 1889 World’s Fair, hit me last week as I was enjoying the sweeping view across Paris from the window of my overpriced hotel room. It encompassed the Louvre to the east, past the golden dome of Les Invalides in the middle to the Eiffel Tower looming in the west.
My French sister-in-law warned me that hotel room prices skyrocket in October, with events such as Fashion Week, but they seemed even higher, perhaps because the Rugby World Cup was in town. I’m not sure I realized what a big deal rugby is until I walked over to the Place de la Concorde. It had been turned into a fan zone.
My relationship with the Eiffel Tower began when I was an eight. I was profoundly unprecocious, except in one small way. I was fascinated with the world’s tallest structures and had memorized their heights.
Back in the day, the Empire State Building ranked first at 1,472 feet. The Eiffel Tower came in second at 988 feet. If you double-check me, because some people like to do that, you’ll come up with slightly different numbers. I suspect the reason is that the antennas at their summit grow and shrink as technology evolves.
The Empire State always did and always will occupy pride of place in my heart. As a child it punctuated New York in the same way that the Eiffel Tower did Paris. Also both had aviation beacons that swept the night sky, awakening a child to the mysteries of the dark and the infinite Universe beyond. The Eiffel Tower still shines its spotlights.
It also continues to dwarf the rest of Paris. The Empire State, on the other hand, has been eclipsed by seven taller structures in Manhattan alone, though it depends how you’re measuring them – to the tip of the antennae, for example, or the highest habitable floor.
If it were up to me I’d have passed a law that no building could exceed the height and Art Deco majesty of the Empire State. Then again, this is the United States and New York, not France and Paris where city planners restrict buildings to twelve stories. We pursue superlatives rather than preserve tradition.
The Eiffel Tower’s allure for me is as much the idea it epitomizes as the thing itself. I probably visited on my first trip to Paris but not very often sense. I also have a photo of my mother on the first floor of the tower from her first visit to the city in 1948. She didn’t share my obsession with heights and probably went no higher.
I’ve been to the pinnacle several times – one boards a succession of elevators, each smaller than the last as the tower comes to a point – but there’s no need to visit on every trip to Paris. My last climb occurred was in 2014 when I wanted to experience the vertiginous new glass floor that had been installed on its first level.
We were forced to climb the 674 steps from the base to the first level. The elevator was most likely out of order. But it in Paris you can never rule out a work stoppage. The Louvre was closed due to a strike when my brother and I visited Wednesday morning – our family was in France for my niece Nadya’s wedding – but fortunately opened just as we were about to depart.
And we managed to get back to the United States before another work stoppage, including among air traffic controllers we were told, Friday morning. But the Eiffel Tower retains its full glory whether open to tourists or closed. It’s many things – an anchor, an authority figure, a wonder of the world. Paris, as I’ve always known it, wouldn’t be Paris without it.
The Eiffel Tower is in some unspoken way the personification of its soul, the triumph of art over commerce, fantasy over reality, folly over practicality. Paris would still be wonderful without the monument but it would be less distinct, less exciting, less fun. And with its broad, tree-lined boulevards, shops selling everything under the sun but especially pastry, and boisterous sidewalk cafes Paris is above all else fun.
My first reaction when I learned that the city plans to repaint the Eiffel Tower gold for next year’s Olympics was distress. But the French seem to know what they’re doing when it comes to pulling out the stops. If you told me they were going to plop a glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre or lights on the Eiffel tower that sparkle at night for five minutes every hour on the hour I’d say you were out of your mind.
But it works. The French have pulled off an impressive feat. They take themselves seriously but not sternly. They seem to understand, in a way that Americans sometimes don’t that play, not work, is civilization’s highest calling.
Ralph Gardner, Jr. is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found be found on Substack.
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