This is the final installment of a series on Learning Paris. It would be best to start at the beginning.
It was an early morning in June
when the students got on the bus that would take them to the airport, leaving
Dylan and I in Paris alone. We waved goodbye to them as the bus drove away and
walked down the street in Puteaux for breakfast. Now we were totally on our own
in the big city for the first time since 2005. There was no group to melt into,
no tour guide to depend on for ticket purchases or ordering meals. It was time
to navigate Paris alone.
We were surprised to find out that
the area around our hotel was quaint. I had believed that it was full of metal
skyscrapers, but it was a little haven of small shops and cafes. My comfort
level increased as I was able to order and pay for the entire breakfast in
French. The waitress was so kind to me, and gave me some suggestions on
pronunciation; which was completely unlike the first attempt at Paris.
We
checked out of the hotel, and headed to the apartment we would be staying for
the next couple of days. Using the website, stumbleupon, I had found
airbnb. This is a website where people post apartments and rooms for rent
in various locations around the world. When I had been looking for a place to
stay in Paris, I had realized that even fleabag hotels would run well over 100
euro per night, so when I found airbnb, I was excited to find apartments that
cost the same.
Our
host’s name was Ludwig, and his studio apartment was in a fantastically French
district, right next to the Pere Lachaise cemetery. It was terribly exciting to go into one of the traditionally
French apartment buildings. We walked up the dark, winding, wooden stairwell
that smelled faintly of smoke and sautéed onions. Ludwig met us at the door to
the apartment. He was young and
hip. His apartment was tiny, red, and perfect. It had a Murphy bed, windows
that overlooked a beautiful, vibrant street below, a teeny tiny kitchen, and
ultra modern bathroom. It was like walking into an IKEA catalog.
The
tone of the vacation took a sudden shift. No longer were we operating under
someone else’s time frame. When we wanted to eat, we could eat. When we wanted
to rest, we could lay down in the privacy of the apartment and watch French TV.
We decided to head over to Pere Lachaise.
Suddenly, we were in a different city, a city of the dead. Instead of
the sounds of cars and people rushing by, we listened to the sounds of ravens
as they flew through the trees and graves. A breeze blew through the tiny
cobbled streets and the mansions of ghosts called for us to leave the trail and
explore.
The quiet was lovely.
We didn’t have a good map, so we
just hunted the gravestones.
We never found Chopin, but we did
find Moliere, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison.
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| Moliere |
 |
| Oscar Wilde |
 |
| Most graffitied words, "This isn't the end" |
I feel bad for the people who have to spend eternity with
Jim. His grave is busy, with teenagers and aging hippies sitting around it. The
pungent smell of patchouli leads you to him. Splashed along the neighboring
graves are Doors lyrics scrawled or scratched on the stones. Someone told me
once that the Parisians wanted to kick Jim Morrison out of the cemetery, but
his real estate had been paid for all eternity, so his neighbors are stuck with
him forever. The one grave I really wanted to find was Auguste Comte, the
“father” of Sociology. I had to google it at the apartment to find it the next
day.
After
the cemetery, we walked our neighborhood.
Nothing makes me feel more French than food shopping in Paris. In
America, we drive our cars to the grocery store, buy food for a week that has
been imported from somewhere else, and then drive home. It is a completely
different situation in Paris. It feels so much more local, it is cheaper, and
the food is a much higher quality. We walked down the street and bought fresh
baguettes from a bakery. They cost a euro each, as opposed to 3.95 for a
substandard baguette you would find in Wal-mart. Then, we headed to the
fromagerie, and bought freshly made cheese from the guy who made it. Moving
down the road, we stopped at a fruit and vegetable stand, where we bought the
most delicious strawberries I have ever tasted- because they were local, not
imported from Mexico. You buy your meat from the local butcher, and your wine
from the liquor store.
I
kept thinking if I lived here, I would have a relationship with all of these
small business owners. They would know my name, and I would know theirs. We would chat about our children, or
the weather. Instead of supporting
giant corporations, I would be supporting my own neighborhood. It was also
extremely exciting for me, because I could conduct all of my business in flawed
French. Knowing a few basic phrases makes a huge difference. The Parisians
appreciate your attempts, even if your pronunciation is off. They will often
help you, and maybe even smile, even though it isn’t their style.
We
took our picnic of bread, cheese, fruit and wine and sat on the edge of the
river Seine to watch the sun set. On one side of us, was a couple sitting on
top of each other on a bench, blinded in the throes of passion. They locked
lips, occasionally coming up for air while a man pissed publicly behind them. A
group of hard-core punks were on the other side drinking wine from bottles,
using a smart phone as a jukebox, and the boats full of tourists floated past
and waved hello.
When
the sun set, we walked along the river and I realized this was the first time I
had been to the city center after dark. The beauty of Paris engulfed me. It
chewed me up and spit me out, and then kissed me on the forehead like a mother
kissing her child goodnight. It was amazing.
The
next morning, we decided to continue our tour of dead Parisians by visiting the
catacombs. The line was long, and the sun had come out from behind the grey
clouds. Everyone in line was a tourist. We spent two hours waiting for our turn
to explore the crypt. Behind us
was a teenaged American girl and her father. She talked to him in a loud
abrasive voice- non-stop. I know her entire life story now. It wasn't interesting. She would not shut
up- loudly talking about intimate details: her relationship with her
father, what it was like to grow up privileged, the faults of her mother. I
imagined myself as the French guy from the subway, “Blah, blah, blah.” When we finally
got inside the catacombs we skipped the museum part of it and quickly ran to
the depths just to get away from her.
We found ourselves alone in the damp, dark, cavern. The skeletons of the
dead stared out of their hollow eyes as they lay in an unnatural symmetry along
the walls. For over an hour we walked in silence through the rows of the dead.
Once
we climbed back up into the streets of the living, the sunlight blinded us as
we blinked back to the present. We spent the rest of the day shopping, waiting
in line to buy our train tickets to Le Mans, and then went to the ballet that
night at the opulent opera house, made famous by a French phantom.
Our
last night in Paris, we slept with the windows open. A cool breeze floated
through our fifth floor windows. The sounds of doves and French laughter wafted
into the tiny studio all night long. I never wanted to leave. I had learned
Paris.
All
of the mistakes I had made the first time were now rectified. I understand the
French much better now. They are far more formal, and private; but they live
stacked upon one another instead of sprawled out in their suburban homes.
Everything you do is public, from traveling the metro to buying your food. If
your blinds are open, the people in the apartment house across the way can see
right into your home. The Parisians have to be formal and distant to function. They see
Americans as bumbling, overweight children. Our friendliness is seen as
disingenuous. I had a French man tell me once, “You Americans, you hide behind
your smiles.”
When
I approached Paris the first time, I was completely ethnocentric. I came at her
from an American point of view. Now, I have embraced a sense of cultural
relativism, where you judge and assess cultures based on their standards. The
Parisians have a lifestyle I yearn for. Their children study art by sitting in
front of it, instead of in books and on computer screens. When you are
preparing dinner, you walk down the street and buy from your trusted small
business owners, instead of an anonymous cashier working for some anonymous corporation
in a suit. When you want to go somewhere, you hop on the Metro, surround
yourself with people, sights, sounds of street musicians, and various smells
instead of getting into your car, filled with gasoline and sealing yourself off
from the world around.
Everything
that bothers me about America is different in France. The grass is always
greener, I’ve heard.
I’m sure that when I live there
someday, I will find many things I dislike, and I’m sure I will miss America.
It’s a crush, you know? When you have a crush, it is perfect in your mind,
because you control all of the outcomes. I know reality is different. For now,
I’m going to soak in my crush on Paris. I’m going to bathe in it, sleep in it,
and dream it. I’ll fantasize about what could be.
When I left Paris this time, I felt
heartbroken. As the train rolled away to take me to Le Mans, I felt like I owed
Paris an apology for not falling in love with her at first sight. However, I’m
not really a believer in love at first sight. I think lust is immediate, but
love takes time. Love takes patience, understanding, and compromise. I had to
learn to love Paris, and that will never be taken away.
