Paris, so talked about, so revered and for me in these two days, so overrated.
I hadn’t wanted to leave Spain so that could have been part of it. I had had the train trip from hell so that could have been part of it. I hadn’t slept properly in days so that could have been part of it. But when I finally got to Paris, I was actually keen. Keen to have an arvo of exploring on my own before Nikkii came from Portugal. Keen to have a day touristing with Nikkii and Thomas etc Keen to discover what this revered city had to offer. But I only had 2 nights before heading to the chateau...
The details. The hotel was up in Montemarte up near Sacre Coeur – in a really seedy section.
Strangely I didn’t take photos of the neighbourhood – off my game I guess. But I arrived before check-in so I dropped my bags and went to the local internet café.
An hour or so later I checked in and settled into my half of the small space, had a long nap and decided to head out for an adventure. I had eavesdropped at check-in on a conversation indicating a market just up the street. Cool!
So, I am walking a block or so from the hotel when I become aware of a man following me. He nods and smiles – I smirk/sneer and keep walking. A block later and he’s still there… I turn down another street, he follows. Ok, now I’m starting to get creeped out and quicken my steps – I am also suddenly aware that I know NO fucking French. Not “what do you want?”, not “piss off you fucking-creepy-loser” and certainly not “help – this fucking-creepy-loser is following me!”. Merde!
I see a coat store and duck in – I pretend to look around at fake leather coats of a most un-me variety in an attempt to lose the Fucking-Creepy-Loser (FCL). I head out… he’s waiting – FUUUUCCCKKK… I walk half a block and duck into a chemist – I peer outside and the pharmicist asks (I assume) if the there is anything I want. I try to explain that a FCL is following me… sign language, gestures… I look up at the pharmacists as I gesticulate and it becomes clear that rather than understanding the urgency of what I am attempting to communicate, they are deciding whether to call the psych-emergency team for assistance. Merde!
I head back outside, he is gone. I keep going toward the market, looking over my shoulder to see if the FCL is following me. Nup… but I keep looking, the whole trip.
The market is a dud. The kinda cheap tatty shit sold at two dollar shops or the touristy sections of the Vic Market. Yeesh. But I walk around and witness coded communications between a group of men targeting tourists for pick-pocketing. Subtle fingered gestures behind the back to guys walking a few metres behind. Impressive, wrong, but impressive.
I decide to head back via the metro station which is less than 50 metres from our hotel. I line up, just wanting a metro map to use for the next coupla days. I am beset upon by a series of touts trying to sell me metro tickets cheaper than at the window or in the machine – their English, while awkward, is nonetheless impressive. A woman who has clearly led a harsh life puts a McDonalds cup in my face, intended for my loose change. I keep standing - eventually, these people move on to their next targets. There are at least 20 “dodgy” characters operating in a 5 metre radius of me. I am awed, fascinated, saddened and repulsed. Then a chaotic shouting begins and people scurry in every direction, cups get emptied and launched into gutters in split seconds, tickets get pocketed and many leap across entrance barriers towards the trains – the gendarme (coppers) have arrived. They stroll about, looking around with less than vague interest, they stroll back out… the miscellaneous dodgy hoards are back at work within 2 minutes… my queue has barely moved forward.
Eventually I get my map and head for the stairs back out.
A man smiles and starts launching himself at me, “Beautiful woman, I love you, you stunning me, beautiful, sexy woman…” I grimace, and indicate my lack of interest with relative politeness. “I love you, beautiful woman, sexy woman, sexy woman, I want sex you”… I turn and indicate my lack of interest with somewhat less politeness as I stride up the stairs… he follows – he continues. I turn around and approach him, yelling directly at him “Just FUCK-OFF”, he stands, smiles and says, “Yes, I fuck you beautiful, sexy woman. I fuck, I fuck.” Good grief! I stomp off without looking back - he didn’t follow.
When I get to the hotel I ask the woman at reception to write down how to say in French, “Fuck off and go away”, she is a little taken aback and says that it might be better to say “Laissez moi tranquille” (leave me alone)
That was my first few hours out and about in Paris!
I decide to stay in the room and await Nikkii’s arrival later that night.
Nikkii arrives, so tanned she looks like a backpacker – not an English one though, they tend to more beetroot shades. Portugal has good beaches for sunning on it would seem – damn should have put it on my itinerary! It’s late, we crash.
Day 2 – We organise to meet Thomas (the lovely 18yr-old guy from just outside of Paris that I'd shared my flat in Barcelona with) in town with his girlfriend (I’m embarrassed to have forgotten her name cos she was lovely!)
Before we do Nikkii and I stroll around – she knows Paris … at least in passing. We head to a lovely park next to the Louvre… we stroll enjoy sunshine and
colour – she predicts a pick-pocket scam just before it happens (people ask you to read their postcard in English… and rob ya), we buy post cards, we sit in the sun and people watch. Aaahhh, that’s more like it!
Then we head in to meet up – it quickly becomes clear that Thomas does not really know Paris in detail either. Like an eighteen year old from Geelong showing people around Melbourne – his girlfriend had come into town more often. They were both generous and kind. At first the suggested a burger joint for lunch, thinking that would appeal to us? But then they took us to the old Jewish quarter where we sat for lunch of awesome falafels! This was more like it…
Then we just strolled the streets and chatted. They answered my many questions about signs and monuments and stuff. We walked along the Seine, Notre Dame and the Latin Quarters – lovely day in the sun laughing and talking, sight-seeing and just looking. I was oddly underwhelmed in a way because everything seemed to familiar - images from TV I guess. I felt incredibly touristy (which I inevitably am, everywhere) To emphasise it I took a photo of Nikkii taking a photo. There must be uncountable repetitions of the same images, places, perspectives. As always, I (as I'm sure many people do) wanted to get underneath the gloss to the culture ... but not the variety that had dogged me on day one! Not possible in 2 days I guess.
We found Duvver's street too / a collision of her names - Rue Christiani!
While we walked Nikkiii took photos of random space invader artwork while I concentrated on graffitti this one says approx hello I am a painter but I do not have money, I do poor drawings a complete mess thank you - approx
I became aware at this point that Paris was a city of cats. Not only literally – they are frequently depicted in art and can be seen strolling streets or hiding in drains – but also analogously … if the Spanish are dog people (transparent, boisterous, fun-loving), Parisians are cat people (mysterious, aloof, elegant). Hmmmm
Eventually it was time for the others to head home…
Nikkii and I decided to head to Sacre Cour and walk home from there - a little of an uphill hike but what a view!
More sun, more people watching, talented buskers (this one juggles while keeping a goldfish in a bottle balanced on hi head!), art and cobble streets of wonder.
It is at this point that I first noticed a phenomena I had vaguely observed in Spain but was now in my face everywhere I went... NUTELLA - huge fuck off jars of it, it has followed me since as well. Why do Europeans love Nutella so much… it is everywhere, it lacks class!
The wind picks up and it is cold again … or, more accurately, we have dressed optimistically… it is time to walk home… via a bread shop (hot, crusty pane), a fruit shop (mmm berries!) etc… we eye off other pastry shops but decide to wait until morning. We get in, we eat, we crash.
The next moring is filled with bureaucratic must-dos, get phone credit, email, post snail mail – achieved… time to head to the station and our trip to Chateau Valcruese, La Roche Posay where we will live for the next six weeks. Gulp – but that’s the next blog!
