If I could move to any European city, it would be Paris. I have been lucky enough to travel to Paris four times. Paris took its time seeping into my heart. I hated it the first time I went there. This is part one of a series about how my relationship changed with Paris, from hate to love over a span of years. This entry is from my first trip to Paris in 2005. Sadly, there are no pictures of this trip yet. I had a film camera at the time, and have lost the negatives. I'll try to scan some in later.
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The
first time I went to Paris, it was a nightmare. When I came back home, I swore
that I hated it, that I would never go there again. I realize now that I had
been the typical American tourist- walking around slack-jawed, not knowing a
word of French beyond “Bonjour” which I pronounced with a thick southern drawl
so that it sounded more like bon-jer.
The Parisians hate that. I had no idea what to expect from Paris beyond
the Eiffel tower. My husband and I
were only there on a day trip- escaping our first European vacation in London
for a few hours after the bombings on the subways had rendered the British city
impossible to navigate. Had I planned the trip in advance, I would have bought
a phrasebook, or even just googled Paris; but this was a spur of the moment
decision- a day I expected to be the most romantic day of my life- spontaneous
Paris in the summer.
I
remember exiting the train station and being filled with equally opposing
forces of beauty and disgust. The picturesque winding streets captured my
wildest daydreams about all things French, yet they were surrounded by the odor
of feces and shifty-eyed Parisians whom I imagined were judging me or trying to
steal my money, or both.
A
block away from the Gare du Nord I entered a store to buy a pack of cigarettes.
“Bon-jer,” I said. The woman behind the counter looked me over with critical
eyes for a few seconds too long. Her nose wrinkled as it crept up her face and
she corrected me, “Bon-jour, madame.” I
smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. It was as though my smile made her
hate me more. “Can I have a pack of Camel Lights, please?” She just looked at
me, judging me. “S'il vous plait,” Rectified
again. “Parlez vous Frances?” She asked. I was instantly shamed, my
self-confidence dropped faster than rainfall, I felt like a naughty child.
“No,” I replied, as my head dropped down. She pulled the cigarettes down and
sternly placed them on the counter. She told me the cost in French, and of
course, I didn’t understand. I gave her the amount I estimated and she pushed
her lower lip out and made a “puh” sound as she wrote on a piece of paper the
price. I paid her, and turned to walk out. “Au revoir, madame.” She said, scolding me in her polite, bitchy, French
way as I walked out the door. From the look on her face and the tone of her
voice, I knew she would take great joy in watching me step in dog shit and get
run over by a taxi. I was
completely humiliated.
The
city seemed overwhelming. It was so monumental. Everything was huge and gilded
in gold. The people moved so quickly and didn’t look each other in the eyes.
Being a girl from a small, southern, American town- I was terrified. We didn’t
know what to do with ourselves, so we walked. We walked and walked and walked
and walked for hours. After my encounter with the cigarette lady, I was
terrified to speak, so I didn’t. Finally,
hunger took over. We had a coupon for a free lunch that came with our train
tickets. The restaurant had an English menu and we were served greasy boiled
chicken and limp French fries. Funny, I thought French fries would be better in
France. We were too afraid to speak to go anywhere else, so we stayed hungry
all day. When we were thirsty, we didn’t drink. When we had to pee, we were too
nervous to ask where a toilet was. We found a port-a-potty on the side of the
road that cost a euro to use. I went inside and nearly threw up. Someone had
wiped human feces and Urine over every single space inside like they were
recreating a Jackson Pollock painting from excrement. I made Dylan come inside
with me and hold me up so I wouldn’t have to touch anything. We didn’t use a
bathroom again that day.
So
there we were, in Paris- lost and hungry and thirsty and hot and our feet hurt.
We were tortured as we walked past the French bakeries with their yeasty smells
wafting through the air and beautiful baguettes in baskets lining the walls. We
passed fromageries and sweet shops and vendors with fresh fruit, but we were
shamed into silence. We just kept walking and gaping at the scenery, completely
unaware of what we were looking at, destroyed by its hugeness, dwarfed by its
beauty.
We
decided to go to the top of the Eiffel tower because it was the only thing we
knew to do. We spotted it looming in the distance and began to walk without
consulting a map. Coming from Arkansas and the grid patterns of our streets, we
didn’t take into consideration the winding roads and soon found our selves in a
beautiful, smelly labyrinth. One moment the tower was here, but after half an
hour of walking toward it, it was over there. Had we looked at a map, we would
have known to follow the river, but retrospect is always brilliant. After three
hours of wandering, we found it- and got in the incredibly long line. Two hours
later we made it to the top. Paris sprawled out on all sides of us like the
realm of Hades- a never ending terrifying maze of swarthy, mean French
speakers with their snooty eyes and judgy mouths. It seemed like the city
extended to the end of the Earth.
To
top it all off, we missed our train back to London. After climbing the Eiffel
tower, our legs were wasted. Exhaustion crept in. We finally braved the metro
with the help of an English speaker, found our way back to the train station,
and after looking at a digital clock decided we had two hours until the train
left. We went to a pub across the street from the train station and gave in to
our hunger and thirst. Ordering beer and croque-monsieurs through pointing, the
day started to seem like it hadn’t been that bad. Hunger is a bitch. Things look better when you have a full
belly and your head is swimming with beer. Upon our arrival to the train, we
discovered that we did not know how to tell time by a 24-hour clock. The train
to London had left two hours before. The last train from Paris was leaving in
five minutes. When the woman at the gate told me that there was no way we would
make the next train, I started to cry. My body was heaving as the tears poured
down my face, and I imagined being stuck in this hateful city, with only my
purse; How we would miss our flight from London to Amsterdam the next
morning. Fortunately, tears are a universal language. “You want to get out of
Paris tonight?” She asked. “Y-y-y-y-yes, I choked. “Follow me. Run!” She ran us
to a desk, printed new tickets for us, and then ran us to the train. She was an
angel. We got in as the doors shut and the train departed. “Never again,
Paris,” I thought, as the train roared back into the underwater tunnel. Screw
you. Fuck you and your cobblestones, your beautiful monuments, your snooty
asshole people and their fucking French language. Fuck you.
Looking back, I realize
that the apocalyptic feeling I had while I was in Paris was my own fault. I was
so stereotypical. I put myself in that situation. I know how people react to
foreigners coming to America expecting us to speak their language. The French
take pride in their language- it is beautiful. It was my fault I didn’t learn
how to say bon jour, sil vous plait, and merci. It was my fault that I didn’t
pick up a map. It was my fault that I let my fears stop me from fulfilling my
most basic needs in Maslow’s hierarchy. Fortunately, two years later, I was
given an opportunity to give Paris a second chance.
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