It has been a long, long time since Ive been to Paris but I remember the smiling face it keeps to greet the world with; all the little cafes overflowing with chairs and tables. They spill out onto the street as though lunch is more important than anything, and accordion music keeps playing because the heart of the city always feels like dancing. I remember how my childish french was a source of great bonhomie to one cafe owner who came to kiss me on both cheeks everytime I came by and a source of great annoyance to one of his waiters who had developed a selective deafness to the pigeon french of the english, so that everything we ordered became something else before it arrived. Even Orangina was altered to Lemonade and served with a graceless thud of the jug onto our table. There was always something to see. There were wonderful performers who covered themselves in white powder and wore white togas to be living statues in the side streets each evening. I used to watch them unblinkingly to see if I could catch them breathing. In Paris, at night, there is something laced into the air, and it lifted us up with it so everything was brighter and louder and happier. We would ride the tube to find a restaurant, and it makes such a distinctive french sort of sound. Not nearly reserved enough to be an english train. There was once a drunk who frightened me as he careered down the carriages, staggering into strangers and speaking french too fast to be understood. In our favourite restaurant, they had enormous menus and candles on each table, with the inevitable result that each one bore burn marks and singed corners. Occasionally a waitress would obligingly alert a customer to the fact their menu was in fact currently on fire. During the day, we went along the seine in a riverboat and all I could think about was Joan of Arcs heart down there somewhere, still beating for its country, and how much such a young woman had given up. There were painters beside the river, filling up the pavements and showing their wares. They tried to tempt us to buy watercolours of the most famous landmarks or pictures of visitors. Sometimes they drew caricatures, so exagerated that they made you wonder which one of your own features would be the focus of that sharp, bright pen. I was fascinated by these tiny multicoloured plastic men with small jelly things attached to their arms and feet that were being sold by street-sellers. They climbed up and down mirrors, tumbling over each other like cartwheeling gymnasts and at that age I couldnt understand what caused it, so it was magic. The quietest places were the churches, which guarded their own silence and even hushed the air so it felt heavier inside of them. The last time I was there, there was a stabbing. A train driver somewhere ahead of us was knifed by somebody and as our train rattled through the stations, we saw the armed police running, carrying big guns and shouting. The next day was our day for going home and we walked out of the hotel and into a bewilderingly angry city. Everyone was on strike, all the public transports and most of the taxis. Everyone else wanted to go somewhere and people were discussing crossly and loudly what could be done. We were on the other side of paris to the Garde du Nord, and we only had a few hours until our train. We found notices pinned to the closed tube stations, about their fallen comrade and their decision to strike because of him. We tried to ask hurrying french people what we should do but they either didnt stop or didnt have answers. We started scanning rows of traffic for taxis and whenever we spotted one we would get overexcited and try to hail it with much arm flapping and halloo-ing. We caught the attention of one, but there were 5 of us, and a lot of suitcases. My parents insisted my friend and her mum went in it, and that we would get the next one. Except of course, there wasnt a next one and because of that I got to walk across Paris. We had a map, and the last suitcase, trundling along on its own wheels, right behind us. As we walked, Paris changed. It became dirtier, more secretive and to my young eyes, more exciting. It was like seeing behind the curtains at the theatre to where the people are being their real selves as they put on their face paint and chatter. The houses leaned over the roads, from opposite sides to whisper together and we passed women stringing laundry out in the street; White, white sheets being made to brave the breath of the city. It was exhilarating and at times rather funny. My dad wouldnt let anyone else see the map and was slightly panicking about whether we would make it in time. So much so that he wasnt allowing us loo breaks and would react like Jones from Dads army (dont panic! Dont panic!) whenever we mentioned it. When he paused to mutter at a street sign and looked suitably preoccupied, I ran into the nearest restaurant with a Ill only be a minute dad and nearly careered into a waiter. I used my best polite french on him, to say where is your loo? He pointed down a flight of stairs. I said, please may I use it and he asked me if I was dining there. I said no and was astonished when he said that I couldnt use it then. I stood there and looked at him with all the disdain a nine year old can muster. This was not at all how it was meant to go. Grown-ups are so rude!!! I waited until he was distracted and used it anyway. Behaving like a spy on the way back out, lest he see me and chase after me with a shiny silver serving tray and a litany or rude words. We did make the Garde du nord in time, and because trains in Paris are as full of charm and idiosyncracy as the rest of the place, it didnt actually amble in for several more hours. My parents were exhausted. I just felt utterly alive. Which is the word that most sums up the whole city for me. It is alive. It has its own unique personality and it is stubborn and courageous and full of joy. It is very, very sad to hear of what happened their yesterday and to know that such a place will now be dealing with the aftermath of an unexpected wound. I remembered these pictures. Images of europe from the International space station, and one of Paris itself. Every one of those lights belongs to humanity and every one of them will go on shining. That feels important. It is a kind of standing together in the dark. We need to do that in the daylight hours as well.
Posted on: Thu, 08 Jan 2015 01:18:03 +0000
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