By Bill Simons

For many an American traveler, Paris is an appealing, yet oddly elusive mystery. After all, whether on the Champs Elysees or in the Latin Quarter, it’s always a collision course when our freeform, fast-lane, glitz-is-good lifestyle encounters the c’est la vie, Old World mindset that prevails at the epicenter of sophisticated, “been there, done that” Europe.

But could this longstanding oil-and-water relationship, this somewhat co-dependent (immovable object meets irresistible force) cultural impasse possibly impact tennis or account in some small way for the dismal results American men have long suffered at the French Open?

Yes, for sure, we know at the heart of clay-court tennis there is a well-documented art form: the oh-so-patient point construction, the extreme grips and whiplash mechanics of producing topspin, the instinct for devilish dropshots, rainmaker lobs and savvy wrong-footing, the quickstep abilility to slide and stick and a grit ‘n grind, never give up stamina and ferocity.

Yet, when it comes to the French Open there might be more. After all, it was none other than Andy Roddick (who was outwitted, outlasted and outplayed in Paris by an anonymous French dirtballer with a triple digit ranking) who noted, “There’s no doubt we have issues with the clay. Our issues have issues that have issues right now.”

But it’s not just right now. Just check out the records of many an American icon — Tilden, Kramer, Gonzalez, Smith, Ashe, Connors, McEnroe, Sampras or, sadly, Roddick himself — all of whom failed to win the “Coupe Musketeer.”

Sure, we know, “It’s all about the clay, stupid.”

Still, one senses there is more than meets the eye here. No, we’re not just talking about outright cultural train wrecks, like when teen Agassi said that in Paris he preferred Taco Bell to the culinary delights the city offers; or when Capriati’s very young brother passed Notre Dame Cathedral and asked, “Where’s the football field?” and as he went by Napoleon’s Tomb quipped, “Oh, is that where that little dead dude is buried?”

It’s more than Americans being far from home (we do quite well in London and Melbourne, thank you very much) and having to deal with wet, soggy conditions. It’s more than Lindsay Davenport’s observation about the Athens Olympics (also applicable in Paris): “ It’s an awkward feeling, going somewhere where Americans aren’t really wanted.” And it’s even more than having the quirky, judgmental, cigar chomping, meanest-in-the-game crowd come down on you like a ton of cobblestones in the only Slam played in non-English speaking country.

Somehow, some way, there’s a backstory here. Somehow, the beautiful enigma that is Paris subtly comes into play. So with that in mind, I ventured out early one morning to try to get in touch with the town; Ultimately I ended up loving the place and writing the homage below. Unfortunately it had little — well, actually, absolutely nothing whatsoever — to do with sport.

But then again, when it comes to American tennis at Roland Garros, maybe our ongoing debacle has just a little bit to do with that mystery they call Paris. After all, our issues have issues that have issues.

DREAMS WE CAN ONLY IMAGINE

The city knows, ancient and true.
Time tested, weather wise.
Creaky cathedrals of prayer,
Totter centuries old.
Silent walls inform.

Endless apartments, touched by iron,
Stand sturdy, guarded by flittering curtains,
Bleached tired by too many days of thankless duty.  

The town celebrates its night.
Midnight lovers whisper secrets of glee.  

Still, we embrace this morning
As the sun kisses not one,
But a thousand alleys.  

Bumpy backstreets carved crooked.
Lanes relentlessly twisting upon themselves
Going everywhere, ending nowhere.  

Here the backpacker – young and eager,
Fresh from distant adventure – strides past a homeless heap.
Under the untouchable’s blanket, just another saga of loss.  

But too there is triumph...
Paris’ heady boulevards revel in their giddy swirl – cobblestone chic.  

As pinstripe CEOs craft their MBA deals,
Galleries define style
Splashing Champs Elysees color – breezy bright.  

Runways and riches shamelessly tease our desires,
Demanding their day.
So the Armani man stands elegant,
His proper lady scented sweet.
Trophies aglow, their flawless brood,
So free of taint or stain.  

Still, the river runs murky green
A thousand wine-stained cafes
Await the weathered poet.
Some solemn sage: martyr or madman,
A  lost pilgrim of the spirit.
The saddened soul – empty, near defeat,
Bravely stiffens to endure.  

So, tell me your tale of tattered dreams.
Unmask your sadness, wander free,
Fear but a rowdy intruder.  

Reveal your fate,
Your solitary secret: those numbing losses,
Tempered by time’s touch.
Always the pain. Memories enrich.  

So, we laugh this morning.
Paris’ odd mystery remains.
Glittering bride, weary mistress.
Every temptress flaunts her allure.  

Within the dreary drone, the mantra sounds.
Singsong words that dance then scold,
The muse’s message.  

For this City, ancient and true, knows.
Paths unfold.
Quiet journeys going nowhere and everywhere
Our fragile dreams can imagine.

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