Aaaah, April in Paris! A veritable orgy of all things touristiques: ridiculously large maps; brash loud Americans; happy-snappy Japanese; shouting British hoping that some extra volume might aid comprehension; and perhaps worst of all bumbags! In short everything that I generally try to avoid whenever I go on holiday, but Paris was drawing me; I hadn't visited in a long time and it was time for my birthday treat, and so I found myself in Paris for a short midweek break.
It was as bad as I had imagined it would be. If anything it was worse. There were more loud brash Americans, and happy-snappy Japanese than I thought existed, and at every turn I encountered a large school party attempting to hinder my progress, and usually succeeding. Normally these were French children, though occasionally they were German, which was even worse, because then I couldn't even shout at them to get out of my way, as I speak as much German as most loud brash Americans: none.
You might have got the impression that I didn't want to be in Paris. This could not be further from the truth. I love Paris. In fact I love Paris as much as I hate all tourist traps, which, I am sure you can see, makes it a somewhat paradoxical love affair, as Paris, especially in the spring, is perhaps queen of all tourist traps. So, you see my dilemma. Not only do I hate tourists traps, but I hate the tourists they trap. Again, slightly ironic you might be thinking, but I do not include myself in their number: I do not own a bumbag, let alone wear one, I don't carry a camera, I don't carry an oversize map which I reach for at a moment's notice, unfolding it to its full size, only to find that, in fact, the metro map I have spent the last five minutes searching for, is right in front of me on the wall. I follow the locals in pushing unceremoniously past and cursing under my breath, in French of course. I have lived in Paris, I was born there, I am, to all intents and purposes, as good as parisian, except that I am English.
So, what does one do when faced with this horror, how does one manage to beat the orgy, rather than join it, is it possible? The simple answer is: yes. The slightly longer one is: yes, but with difficulty. I know that I am not alone in hating tourist traps and the crowds that are found wriggling, en masse in their grasp. I know that some of us do succeed in our quest to break free, and experience something 'real'. Some people go on year-long, nay, even life-long quests for a 'real' experience, whatever that might mean. Some take drugs, some search for it in some of the most unsavorary, uncivilised corners of the world. Backpackers are forever searching for the most out-of-the-way place, so far from anywhere that noone has ever been there before, and before long this becomes the 'beaten track' they were trying to escape in the first place and the search has to start anew. However, one place where you can find a 'real' experience is in cities, as their are so many tourists that the odd one is bound to find their way off the 'beaten track'. All you have to do is make sure you are one of the few, and one way of making sure you are is to make the effort to meet the locals and speak to them, and to do that it helps if you speak the locals' language.
So it is that, with my knowledge of French, my knowledge of the Paris metro system, and a reasonable understanding of the Parisian culture (one which is inherently different to the French provincial culture, though they are entwined together making up the complex tapestry that is French culture) I embarked on a 5 day search that would see me consume 60 expressos, in a dozen or so different street cafes, covering all corners of Paris. The problem that I was confronted with is that almost wherever you go in Paris there is something of interest to tourists, simply because Paris is such a beautiful city, so down the most obscure looking back alley you can easily come across a 16th Century chapel swarming with tourists, who have bought guide books. I was not interested in 16th Century chapels, beautiful as they might be, I was interested in meeting some parisians and moaning with them about the ridiculous number of tourists that insist on polluting this beautiful city's streets.
I do not want to take you on a step by step tour, giving away all my little secrets on the way, for that is the surefire way to make sure that there are tourists everywhere when I go back, but I want to encourage you to search out your own secrets. Paris is known for its cafes, and for good reason, there are hundreds, probably thousands dotted around in the most unlikely places. There are tiny alleyways in the very touristy area of Montmartre never seen by the majority of tourists in which hide beautiful little smoky bars, with old men smoking Gaulloises and sipping coffee, pastis, or wine discussing, with more and more passion as the day wears and the drinks get stronger various aspects of life. These are the sort of places you can imagine Sartre and Camus formulating the ideas that came to be existentialism. It is not in this area though, that you would have found them, it is in the far more trendy St. Germain, where I once found a bar so obscure I have never found it since, and so stereotypical it could not have been manufactured, and perhaps was only a dream.
You entered up some dark stairs, in a small side street opposite an arthouse cinema. Inside it didn't get much lighter, and gradually, as you grew accustomed to the dark and smoky interior you saw the walls were covered in a mixture of abstract art and what looked like film memorabilia, but with pictures of people you had never seen before. At small tables there were a few old men hunched playing backgammon, but the majority of the clientele were young, mostly in their twenties. At the bar the barman was surly, as if he was offended that some tourists could have found his bar. He soon became more friendly as he realised we were ready to make an effort to speak his language and were interested in actually learning something about him, rather than his home city, as is often the case with parisians, so give them some time, and try not to ask stupid questions! The moment that you stepped up the stairs it was like you were transported to another place, away from the real world, where all that mattered was discovering the secret of the universe and solving life's mysteries. Somehow it felt that in having a discussion about what we were going to do the next day my friend and I were being disrespectful to an unwritten code. Most were huddled intently, just like the old men in Montmartre, discussing various topics, which at that time seemed to mean more to them than life itself. I was amazed that they could see anything, it was so dark, but this one man seemed to be jotting down things in a little notebook.
He looked like a stereotypical poet, he was wearing rimless, rose-tinted glasses, and a black polo-neck and I couldn't resist asking what he was writing, as I too love to write in small cafes, and often find it more inspiring, and in a way, more peaceful than an office. Ask I did, and indeed he was a poet. He said that most of his poems were unpublished, but that a couple had made it into a small parisian publication. Perhaps, in amongst those sunglasses, those deep discussions, to a soundtrack of a mixture of modern jazz and African tribal music, the thoughts of the next Sartre, or Camus were being fermented before my eyes, or perhaps I had just stumbled upon a lot of pretentious literary students having fun playing the philosopher. Either way it was a fantastic experience, and one I treasure.
If anyone ever asks me why I love Paris, or why they should visit Paris, and they don't think that it being a beautiful city is a good enough answer I tell them this story, or of one of the many other unique experiences I have had there, and normally they simply nod, and smile. Whether it is in agreement, or in the typical manner you look at a madman, or someone you don't understand, slowly backing away, I don't know and don't care, for I will always love Paris, even if there are a lot of tourists with bumbags!
I hope that this was enjoyable for at least some of you, and
until next time dahlings, that was me...
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