J'ai ne plus de lait (35 Rhums)

35 Rhums; I watched this film set in a Paris that seems a bit more real than the impossibly chic, beautiful, fantasy destination that is often portrayed.  

I loved it. I could imagine myself within the world of the almost all black cast. This wasn't a world of lonely clandestine individuals dependent on the good graces of the well-to-do française, or brimming with the myth of what sometimes seems to be an ethereal, otherworldly sexuality. Dare I say it was lacking in clichés and was just ordinary.  

An ordinariness that somehow made it a fantastically touching film to watch. 

Be it the father-daughter relationship/the unfussy attraction between boy and girl that is shown with a boyish bit of posturing and a kiss that is probably the sexist I've seen on screen; awkwardly timed which added to the realness of it - so far removed from that perfect, smooth, blurred sex on screen that markedly does not exist in reality but that we are so used to seeing reflected back at us from a film reel - in fact there was no sex scene shown in the film at all/the love triangle as inexplicable as occurs in real life - why her? I'm here and I love you/the workplace camaraderie with no pretense at family, not too overdone - metro, boulot, dodo - I loved it all. Surely the acting was phenomenal. The concentrated quiet way that we navigate situations such as a class debate or a family gathering were played out to perfection. One aspect of the film that I most related to was illustrated by a character never having any fresh milk in the fridge when needed. Being single, I share the reality of having either too little or so much that it goes bad. I identify as that certain type of youngish person living a nomadic, singular life of frequent geographic relocation and aversion to putting down solid roots.  

To watch these lives was to identify pieces of my own in a very real way. So much so that the characters appeared to really live them and not just try them on for the months it took to film. 

Now; if you are of the happy-go-lucky persuasion then this film likely wont be your cup of tea. In a way it is a drama of tragedies and how people deal with them. But the heart of the story, fittingly, is love and family.    

IMDb - 35 Shots of Rum (2008)

Starry Tower (at night)

Fittingly it was on a date that I first saw the Eiffel Tower sparkling at night. He pointed it out and for me it was a discovery. I never knew it did that. I was in awe of the light dancing on the monument. A monument that I'd never really liked. 

Paused; looking up at the light show, he clumsily attempted to hold my hand. I moved it out of reach, told him he reminded me of my brother and smiled sweetly. I ruined his attempt at romance there on what my memory faintly tells me was a street around Chatelet.   

I'd already visited the city a few times and had at that point just arrived there to spend the next four months living and working in Paris as a Stagiaire. From that night onward I began to like the Eiffel Tower; especially her nightly showings of bright lights and sparkle. That night's date was perhaps the second or third with him but definitely the last. I lost one friend but gained another.  
   

Marais – the Falafel and the Musée

With an appreciation for the Marais, I always find a reason to be in its vicinity. No longer living in Paris; I’m in that not-a-resident/not-a-tourist limbo. I know what there is to see; I’ve probably seen (or avoided) it, and I try my best to frequent the places I like on every trip. This doesn’t mean that I’ve seen everything in my favourite places and spaces though. So a trip to Paris for me is likely one of a few that year and mostly means that I’ll want to be somewhere in particular as opposed to seeing something in particular.

So on an early August trip I wanted to spend some time in the Marais. For dinner with a couple of friends I suggested L’As du Falafel; a place I’d heard about in the Jewish quarter. Although I’d heard it was affordable and popular, the experience there was refreshing if a bit surprising. It was packed and we were lucky to get a table. The summer ambiance added to the convivial atmosphere; when you feel you’ve made innumerable friends from a shared moment in time that you’ll never see again.

Completely staffed by handsome Jewish men, L’As du Falafel was a delightful first as restaurant experiences go. The service was extremely practical, no dessert in order to deliver tasty falafel posthaste and ensure that as many patrons as possible got their time at table. Quirky in its way and amazingly good falafel.      

Later on in the evening, we found ourselves walking back through the dimly lit Parisian streets. At this time in Paris, I always have the odd feeling of being let loose in the city of my dreams. And just like in a weird dream, I saw the ethereal figure of stone. “I think it’s the Musée Carnavalet”, I said out loud. In that light, on a stumbled upon path I wasn’t sure...

I’m still not sure, which gives me a great reason to go back and continue discovering one of my favourite neighbourhoods. 

Balcon

Balcon where I rest my weary body and drain it some more; the rays of the sun stripping me of energy. Oh sweet lethargy! 

Balcon where I don't smoke lazily but recline dangerously in a thin steel chair. 

Balcon my grown up play pen where I paint my nails; a women's magazine lying on the table beside a glass of wine; some bread; some cheese. A phone to further entertain me or capture these blissfully idle moments of frivolous pleasure. 

Balcon where I look down at the street below and see the dark cement toasted by the summer sun dancing with the shadows of les gens.

Balcon giving out on to a view of the monument circled by cars and mopeds, carrying the bodies of tourists up its stairs and on its head. 

Balcon across from an intimate Paris story framed with French windows.

Avenue d'Iéna (Shangri-La)

The physicality of Paris holds as much beauty as its intangible je ne sais quoi.

Walking from Charles de Gaulle Etoile, towards the Tour Eiffel my eye is treated to a building topped so perfectly in grey zinc it appears to have been drawn into the vivid blue sky. And yes; purposely topped, like an energetic young school boy hatted by his proud mother who knows that it doesn’t take much to make her already beautiful child presentable. Human beauty fades but the beauty of these buildings will only become deeper and shine more brilliantly as the years pass.

And what secret allows for the arrangement of a naturally chaotic world into such neat and perfect order? One of the many to be found in that grid of perfect streets I'm sure. Quietly hosting a gathering of old associations made up of exclusive members. Sturdily supporting a scattering of police vans outside distinguished buildings. Shangri-La is present here but why do I imagine the conduct of those whose fortunes admit them there to be less than heavenly?
I don't trust myself to travel anymore, unlucky me. But to Paris I never really travelled or was never a tourist. I more wished for admittance. My body can leave but my mind won’t let me; fitting, as my love of Paris has always been ruled by my mind – my body not so much.

Postcard from Paris

HOW R U DOING? I AM HAVING

A GREAT TIME IN PARIS!

THE WEATHER NOT THAT GOOD,

AND THE HOSPITALITY NOT THAT

GREAT (SURPRISE! SURPRISE!)

EITHER, BUT YOU MUST COME AND SEE THIS MAGICAL CITY!

SAY “HI” TO YOUR BROTHER! 

A Paris love story – where it all began

A Paris love story; now that is the most likely of stories but how often are they true. I’ve had one of my own and in hindsight, other than an ever so slight element of fate, I’m positive that I willed it to happen due to my histrionic nature and romantic sensibilities. Paris and love, what two things could be more right together. All the elements were there; first trip to Paris – check, a French boy – check, Montmartre as the setting – check, a bohemian hotel off Place Clichy not far from Pigalle – check (ish; not that kind of love story).

I’d met him about a week earlier in London. As the night wore on and we danced and smiled with drunken excitement, we realized that we’d be in Paris at the same time and wouldn’t it be great to meet up while there. His brother lived there, they could show me around; I was caught up in the moment and nodded excitedly never expecting that it would actually happen. What were the odds that I’d met a French mec just before heading off on a solo trip to Paris? Apparently they were stacked in my favour.   

The odd thing about this trip; the first of many and under such perfect conditions, is that I don’t remember much of the city itself. This should have been an experience where my eyes drank, to the point of intoxication, this magnificent city that I’d dreamt about for so long but instead it was oddly practical; at least for me. I’d started a tour of Europe about a year before this trip. This tour was basically comprised of long weekends in various cities. By the time I arrived in Paris I’d already been to Prague, Amsterdam, Brussels, and Barcelona. This may have been why I looked out of the Eurostar window as the train approached Gare du Nord and thought Paris looked like just another European city. I no longer think this but I also know that this idea was not completely erased by the end of my first trip there; I nevertheless just felt I had to go back.

The boy was there as promised and as odd as it is to say; perhaps he got in the way of my intimacy with Paris. Paris became the third wheel. There was a strange ease with which I entered this other person’s life for just a few days; an impromptu picnic on the Champ de Mars, dinner at his brother’s house with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, a joke about the narrow stairs and English girl’s bums which I vividly remember taking slight offense to all these years later, a visit to the top of the Arc de Triomphe and not even knowing it was possible to do that. Cacahuète-Apéritif-Clichy, new and fun (to me) words. At the Hotel Eldorado; lying in bed postcoitus talking and learning more about each other as the sounds of the street at night drifted up to the room.

Experiences are what stand out the most from this first trip to a destination that I would go on to live in and then visit many times over. And isn’t that just like a love story in some way? The way we experience normal everyday things feels different, special, when we’re in love.     

Welcome

Welcome to Paris city stories; a blog in which I endeavour to map out the city of light through vignettes, musings, and memories.

I've a fondness for Paris that is not without cliché but inexplicable too. I lived there only briefly but find myself returning often and with increasing attachment to the place I called home for a mere four months. This blog is an attempt to both keep my time there alive and make sense of my extraordinary regard for the city on the Seine.