Learning Paris, Part Five, also known as the end.

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. 

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.

For more photos of the trip, go here.