Dreaming of Paris

Vous êtes ici: you are here

I hardly know Paris.* That’s what inspires me to write about it, at book length if necessary; so that I can fill out that slight acquaintance with a body of research, and report back. The research is not to be carried out through the study of texts (other than my own notes), but through the sketchbook of memory and magic paintbox of imagination. And when I say “book length”, that means (to this particular miniaturist) an indefinite series of blog posts, done with the minimum of artifice; as if it were a gallery of handmade postcards, using the English language to create something like rapid water-colour washes. Nothing ponderous—like London— but light and “ooh-la-la”, like Paris herself.

One of the first sights which greeted us after arriving at the Gare du Nord, and clattering our small wheeled cases over the cobbles to the chosen hotel (Le Robinet d’Or, The Golden Tap) was this mural, telling us “You are here”: where “here” is surely the Paris of your artistic imagination. Or, in my case, your dreams. For that afternoon, I dreamed Paris, whilst I curled up in a white bed, exhausted. It’s not necessary to actually see Paris, I reasoned, in the skewed logic of hypnagogia. England had let me escape. Perhaps now Paris was re-dreaming me. So I lay under a thick white duvet, on a softly-yielding mattress, and let it reach me through the excellently soundproofed windows of traditional French design—which I had to throw wide open to cool the room. So I learned much that I could otherwise not know about Paris in my sleep, without pounding my aching feet further on its narrow sidewalks. Paris came to me unbidden, its tapestried soundscapes filling my dreams. That afternoon, it was roar, bang, crash, the same repeated again and again. Then a pause, before roar, bang, the sound of a hundred bottles being dropped down a chute to shatter in a huge container. This again repeated, forever and ever. Trucks were emptying bins all along the Rue Eugène Varlin; interrupted at intervals by the distant calls of emergency vehicles slicing through thoroughfares, winding through cobbled back streets. At night, under the overstuffed coverlet, we heard the sounds of high-spirited roistering, the buzzing of motor scooters (the smaller the louder), snatches of music, the rhythm of high heels, unintelligible taunts and jokes, throngs of tipsy students, now boys, now girls, now silent pairs of footsteps disappearing into the night. Even asleep, even rudely awakened, I took comfort in the good humour and intelligence of those who serenaded our dreams, making us porous to Paris—its wit, its elegance, its single-minded pursuit of pleasure—the whole 24 hours, or as they say in French, “nonstop”.

One thing was special about our voyage to this neighbouring but usually alien world called France: we got there without setting foot in motor vehicle or aeroplane. Door to door, it was to all intents and purposes a pilgrimage on foot. It’s true that we took advantage of trains as one takes advantage of escalators or moving walkways: hopping on and off judiciously to help cover the miles and kilometres. We left home before dawn, drawing our wheeled cases behind us through the empty town; took a train to London; a Tube to St Pancras International; a Eurostar to the Gare du Nord, from which it was a short walk (passing the mural) to our hotel. All we needed was tickets, which could be fed into machines which immediately yielded us passage. It made for a seamless progress from door to door. Suddenly I realized we were in France. The countryside as it whizzed past looked exactly the same, but the houses looked different. I hadn’t even noticed us entering or leaving the Tunnel. I was mildly chagrined at missing the terminals at either side because I’d worked for Eurotunnel a couple of years before it opened in 1994; and retain a great fondness for the place. I’ll have to write about it one day.

Paris versus London, how to compare? “Ooh-la-la!” says the butterfly, represented by a fashionable woman in high heels. “Cor blimey!” says the beetle, represented by a black cab. And yet I felt the Brits and the French are different because they want to be. If a Londoner does it one way, the Parisian wants to do it the other way and to hell with common sense.

The most Parisian character of all, I think, is the little old lady who descends from her apartment with a little old dog, so it can do its business in the street, and she can buy her stick of bread. A frail creature, or so you think, but then she comes past you and your wheeled cases on the narrow sidewalk, and despite her perfect manners makes you feel like a clumsy tourist oaf. I read a silly piece on TripAdvisor® about how to enjoy Paris. Only one phrase stuck with me as good advice “Act like you live there!” They allow you to edit the text. I’ve so far resisted the temptation to correct the phrase’s grammar. But in any event, we did find a few ways to act as though we lived there, whilst remaining true to our touristic mission.

*

Paris looking south from the Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre

* I resided in Paris  for 3 months in the summer of 1962, as part of my undergraduate course in French. For this, having a non-refundable living allowance, as was then the custom those days in British higher education,  I should have been able to afford my stay. I was booked into the Cité Universitaire, but my grant never came through, must have failed to submit the form properly.

In consequence I lived rough for the rest of the time. See  Full Circle and In Memory of George Whitman 1913-2011