The Champs-Élysées is a dead-straight avenue climbing through plane trees toward the Arc de Triomphe, and you walk it uphill. The lower half is still a park: plane and chestnut trees, fountains, a tucked-away theatre, benches out of sight of any storefront. Then the shops, car showrooms and cinema crowds of the upper stretch take hold. Ahead the Arc grows steadily larger as you climb, from a distant silhouette into a wall of carved stone. In winter the bare trees along the whole climb are wrapped in strings of light.
The avenue began as a sightline the royal gardener André Le Nôtre pushed out from the Tuileries in the 1660s, across fields and marsh. Its name borrows the Elysian Fields of Greek myth, the resting place of heroes, yet for a century it stayed half-rural, a promenade of elm rows where Parisians took carriage rides. Only in the 1800s did mansions, cafés and gaslight turn it into the city's parade ground. It still gives itself over to the country's set-piece days, and a long-debated plan now aims to trade traffic lanes for gardens.