Recently, I attended the Crossroads in Cultural Studies Conference in Paris. Although I had been to Paris before, I felt that I had more time to enjoy Paris this time. Below is a brief reflection about my time in ‘The City of Light’.
Paris. I feel like I’ve come home. There’s a certain sense of familiarity here. I’ve been to France and to Paris before, but not for a long time. Paris is like that, though. Even people who’ve never been here before say they feel like they’re returning to a place that, if it’s not home, it’s at least something close to that. That’s not really surprising, after all. Paris no longer belongs to the French, or even to the Parisiennes – it belongs to everybody through the medium of film, through the medium of book, through the medium of story. We all know a little bit about Paris – we’ve seen the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe in films and books. Through the characters in these films and books, we’ve walked the streets, eaten in the restaurants, fallen out of love and fallen back in love with her people. We’ve seen so much of Paris before we even set foot in the city that it’s almost a familiar neighbourhood before we even leave the airport.
I’ve heard Paris described as the most beautiful city in the world, but I don’t know about that. I’ve come from Sydney, with its harbour and its bridge, its opera house and its beaches. As cities go, for sheer looks it’s hard to beat Sydney. Paris, on the other hand, is more like an ageing supermodel in a hand-me down dress. She’s no longer in the first bloom of her youth; the buildings are run down, and you can’t miss the rubbish on the streets. If you look carefully, you can see graffiti, and closed down stores with boarded up windows. Even the people look a little bit harried, a little bit rushed. Where has the famous Parisienne joi de vivre gone? The trip from the airport in the taxi is an exercise in frustration; my Algerian cab driver is annoyed, switching between banging on his steering wheel and swearing at other drivers. The traffic crawls, and I share his frustration; there’s never any traffic in the movies about Paris.
And where have these ugly brown buildings come from? We drive past the Stade Francaise, where they played the rugby world cup final a couple of years ago. Another story, another visit to Paris. But I’ve never seen the tower blocks before, with their ugly advertisements for Samsung on billboards. Paris seems to be too much like every other city – a mass of concrete and roads, stinking traffic and fast food rubbish. I can’t see people – only machines and buildings. Where is the art? Where are the streets? Where are the famous restaurants?
I check into my hotel; it’s a cheap one, somewhere in Montparnasse, in the fourteenth arrondissement. I’ve never stayed in this part of Paris before – we’re south of the river, and in a part of the city famous for its nightlife and its history. At the turn of the century, artists and writers gathered in Montparnasse – mainly because they were far too poor to be able to stay anywhere else. Our room is tiny – it’s smaller than my bedroom in Sydney, with a shower that requires you to be a contortionist to use. I open the windows to fight off impending claustrophobia, and discover a tiny balcony, barely wide enough for me to stand on. We’re on the eighth floor – no lift- and all I can see are tiled roofs and grey skies. It’s exactly how I feel. Disappointed. Paris has failed to live up to its promise.
Sometimes, though, even ageing supermodels can be the most beautiful woman in the room. And for Paris, that seems to happen on summer nights. Later that day, in that special time between night and day, I revisit the balcony. I’ve inflicted my terrible French on a boulangerie down the road, and bought myself a couple of cans of Kronenbourg. From where I’m sitting, on my tiny balcony, I can look out over Montparnasse, and, for a moment, forget about all my worries, and simply breathe in the magic of the night. I kick my feet out into the air, resting them on the balustrade, balancing on a chair half in and half out of the room.
I’ve got a few hours of sleep, too, and maybe it’s improved my mood. Maybe it’s the coming night. Regardless, Paris is different, now. The skies have cleared, and the flickering lights in the buildings opposite me mirror the stars above. Paris is well presented in the half-light – her scars are hidden in the shadows, and all her best features are now on display. I feel like I’m looking at Paris through a lens blurred by vaseline; everything is in soft focus.
And I know nothing has changed – the graffiti and rubbish are still there, but, in Paris, sometimes, it’s okay to fool yourself. And if not, it’s okay to completely ignore it. Paris is a city best seen at night, because only at night do those strange French words seem to make sense: insouciance, nostalgia, cest la vie. At any other time, at any other place, I’d feel pretentious, like a fraud. Here, it just makes sense. That’s part of the mystery and magic of Paris. Here, anything is possible. Here, being a novelist, or a poet is a real job, not a half-forgotten, barely spoken dream.