Tristesse

Though I no longer live there; and haven't for some years now, Paris is special to me. 
To see a beautiful city and its inhabitants under sporadic, senseless attack is sobering. As the death toll rises, it's not hard to feel like the world is headed in such a direction that it can never be put back together again. But from what I've read today; the people of Paris will not be intimidated and will continue to live the lives that their civil and revolutionary history has made possible. 

Of course the Paris tragedy is one of many others that we've seen this month and is in no way more or less important than them. Emotions are what make us human and can't always be subdued in the spirit of fairness. So while I wont be changing my facebook profile picture like many others in my news feed have; I will not judge them for it. We are all sad today, for the loss of beautiful life near and far.   

Faking it at Hôtel Costes

The all too brief time I lived in Paris was as an underpaid Stagiaire. Though, if I'm completely honest I was paid not too badly. Either way, it was just four months during the first year of my studies in France and as a full-time student so I wasn't exactly flush with cash to begin with. Despite having only a meager portion of my income earmarked as "disposable" this was a relatively prosperous period for me. More so than my second year when juggling English teaching and baby-sitting alongside my studies, I was over-worked and probably the skinniest I've ever been as an adult. Fantine from Les Mis comes to mind; minus the shorn locks, prostitution, and missing teeth. Oddly enough in pictures from this period my hair was fantastically glossy; can't say enough good things about the French diet, even if the portions were small they clearly must have been nutritiously packed to the gills. But back to the heady days of a perfect Parisian summer. Les Soldes (Official Dates des soldes 2015) were in full swing, I made the mistake of showing a particularly good haul from the Benetton at Opéra to my landlord who promptly asked for my next month's rent upfront ( as if we'd already agreed on it - we hadn't) clearly she wanted to get in on the soldes action. That was an unexpected financial blow but somehow I was able to withstand it. However I was then confronted by another vice, posh restaurants and bars; normally this grossly inappropriate interest is held in check by rational friends who refuse to spend 20 euros on a cocktail but in Paris this summer of course those friends weren't around. Dangerous as it is to place myself among people equally as enthusiastic about these things, this is how I found myself at Hôtel Costes just off the oh so chic Place Vendôme. We were faking it, I'd say we were quite convincing but in all honestly probably not. We were the epitome of tourists-trying-not-to-look-like-tourists. 

My memories of the bar where we splurged what little we had left over from stage wages on expensive cocktails are almost as dim as the room. I recall heavy fabrics; gold-hued walls and deep red Persian style rugs covering a dark brown wooden floor. It was a relatively quiet night when we were there which may have added to our feeling comfortable enough to order two rounds. The staff were not as intimidating as I'd expected; dare I say they were nice.

In this instance faking it was mildly successful and the only hurt was in the realization that two cocktails cost more than a few weeks' food shop at Dia.   

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.