Just Like Nothing (else) on Earth: Paris, Virginia

By Tim Jon 

I went to Paris, and it took my breath away; actually, what this means is: I visited an historic village along the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I relaxed enough to be able to feel the air being pulled into my lungs. Doesn’t sound quite as romantic that way, does it? Life can be like that: sometimes we feel like we may be settling for less, yet we feel that undeniable uplift of exhilaration. That’s more like it. 

Now, I had to drive outside the boundaries of Loudoun County for this one—finally easing off Route Seven as the western heights started looming near, a few miles west of the horse-country community of Upperville. And I didn’t find much. But, as we often discover in the best of human experience—less is sometimes a little more. 

At least that’s how I felt as I stretched my legs at the dead-end of a very unimproved lane (one of only a couple of actual streets in Paris, Virginia), scanned the horizons, and took a look at the cows. Though they were a good distance away (yes, one can actually see for several hundred yards in some directions in these parts), I figured they were most likely beef cattle. 

Having been raised by parents who both grew up on working Midwest farms, I learned quite early that this is an important distinction. Namely, they turn out better steaks and burgers, and the attending farmer doesn’t need to perform the milking ritual twice a day, as would be necessary on a dairy herd. So, I got that settled. 

Took a few more breaths. Walked to the other side of my car to check on the sights over there. Things looked good from that angle, too. 

Now, I’d driven for some 40 minutes or thereabouts to arrive at this fairly non-descript destination, taking Route 15—James Monroe Highway—down to Route 50 at the Southern end of the County, then west through Middleburg and Upperville, all the way to the Blue Ridge at the lower-right-hand-corner of my virtual map—but it had done the trick. I hadn’t gotten lost, and I’d found something. All was good. 

Now, I know—as a proper 21st Century tourist in my own home town—I should have stopped at a local winery and exchanged a wad of cash for some memorabilia, and scheduled my trip to visit some roadside produce stands, or maybe even a farmers’ market to snare some homegrown vegetables—and I may have even taken in some living history events or seen some real, live, local theatre—after all, I used to do that stuff for like, 30 years. And all those activities and experiences are fine, and, some day I will return and probably partake in all of the above. 

But for today, my trip was delightfully worthwhile just for the chance to step around my vehicle on a bed of unmown grass, watch the herd of bovines on the hill and the mist rolling along the Blue Ridge, and to stand and fill my breathing apparatus with fresh air. I had no idea, leaving my home just before sunrise that morning, that I’d find this particular experience—or any particular experience, for that matter. Each time I set out, it’s kind of a gamble: I may return home with no engaging images captured on my camera, no memorable moments to savor at a later time, sitting at my computer. 

Now, not wanting to leave you with a story about not much at all, I encourage those visiting Paris—Virginia, that is—to check out the historic Ashby Inn, and just a couple doors down— Trinity United Methodist Church—both on Federal Street, just off Gap Run Road. Not that I’m the imaginative type, but I surmise that these establishments offer food to the soul as well as the body. 

And, as I write this story of minimal physical commodities, I’m reminded of what is now nearly ancient history in these parts—an outdated tourist slogan from some two decades back: I remember the unveiling of this rebranding, image change for the local industry— “Catch Your Breath.” 

At the time, I found it rather ironic and even humorous that this bustling Northern Virginia community (with Dulles Airport, Data centers, global internet connections, and information technology muscle to boast one of the highest annual per-capita income levels in the known universe) could be referred to as a place to come to relax, much less to enjoy the air. 

Funny—it took me 20 years to figure this one out. You have to go to Paris for that one.