Going (Going) Back (Back) To Paris (Paris)
It hit me when we got off the metro line from Orly—damn this used to be my train. I took the B line from Gare du Nord every morning to get down to Saint Michel where I went to class. The first foreign place I ever lived at 19. I remembered getting off the plane then too—a backwards detour in a shared cab with the only familiar face at the airport—plopping down on my new bed in student accommodation and thinking, “what the fuck did I just do?” Moving to a new place, where I know no one, where I can speak to no one, where I’m more deeply alone and farther than anything I know, for the first time in my life, compounded with jet lag confusion.
Now It’s July ’22, and I turn 26 in a few days. We waltz out of Saint Michel and I know the way, cutting through crowds to look at Notre Dame. I turn round the cobble stone to Shakespeare & Co., where a line loops round the bend. Then through another alley to the best, cheap kebabs, then back down Saint Germain to pass the fountain where Angels wrestle and get back on my route to class. Are my boulangeries and cafes still there? A baguette for 3 euro? Sadly no. But there is one. Cafe Metro, on the corner, facing the street. We stop, sit, eat and stare at the passerby’s.
As I take a seat my body flashes with memory. Settling into its same old place. This was the spot. I’d sit on my own, simply sipping espresso to save my euros, watching, wondering, chain-smoking, back then. I used to be so insecure. I didn’t even call myself an artist then, while I spent my lonely, incommunicable moments observing the world around me, doodling on notecards and stocking them up like flashcards. I was just messing around—communicating in the only way I knew how. I was scared to open my mouth, to make mistakes, to misrepresent myself. But what an empowering place to be—on my own. Navigating that city, wandering til my feet hurt, standing out so obviously from the French it seemed, in my clunky American uncoolness, not realizing people are just busy and rude. When you’re young the world is small, and you can only see what’s in front of you, how it all seems to point right towards you in confrontation. But swimming out into the wide world, it’s not all about you. There’s a massive comfort in that revertive smallness—the sigh of relief that really the world is big, and we are the small thing flashing through it.
(Said flashcards made in 2016, also visible in my Drawing Archive on the Body of Work page)
I look out at the street and smile, admiring families, fits, attitudes. I distinguish Parisians from tourists, counting accents and scowls. I sip a spritz in July heat and stir a creamy carbonara, cross legged, beside my suitcase. Five days in Paris, its been 6 years since I lived here.
Lorenzo and I took the metro to our place, a flat in the 20th arrondismont near Pere LaChaise cemetery. Its a 3 bedroom apartment, no doubt what was once somebody’s gramma house. We laugh at inflation. At paying for the bando. (#HotelSuperiority—but must be book in advance. Live and learn.) We settle in tired, unpack, and putz about in search of more food. We stumble across a Chinese buffet with a friendly looking couple behind the counter. (I think it was called Royal Gourmet, and it was tasty) We sit, chat drink tea, share fried rice and miso soup. Soon it’s dark again and we drag ourselves to a good nights rest to enjoy the rest of the week.
The first sun rises and we’re off to explore—flaneuring through the streets. We start around the corner, the nearest boulangerie singled out like a hitman. I order crudities, cafe au lait, and a pear pastry, in French that is much less rusty than I feared. (I said gracias to the waiter last night and mentally shot myself). We sit on a bench and eat, people watching. This is what I came to Paris to do, to be clear. After we head to Le Marais, the Jewish Quarter, now turned into a luxurious, quirky shopping district. The buildings are all dusty brown, older than America itself. The buildings curve with the street, hatted with iron balconies, Haussman style from the 1800s. We saunter through the streets, peering at the skies, the architecture, the artisan goods, the stylish families as we pass. We walk deeper through the cobble stone and go past Le Georges Pompidou, an ugly beast of a modern art museum, Hotel de Ville, an ornate opera house to say the least, the Muse des Arts et Decrotifs, a museum decorated to furnishings and ornamentals, and the Lourve, an absolute palace of traditional art. The sun is scorching as Europe faces a heatwave, and the white sand patio laying a path through the Tuillerie Gardens is an abusive choice. We walk with frowns before retreating to the shade—fuck this, lets eat. We go to a bistro nearby, sitting outside, chugging water in small cups like shots of bourbon. I eat a bean burger with chèvre and garlic aioli. Lorenzo has cod fish and ratatouille. We chat for a long time, and spot a real life Dandy in a top hat go by on a bicycle, like a time traveling mirage.
Our legs tired but we travel deeper into the center, sitting on the Seine before we go back to the 20th.
The next day we travel farther, go to Montparnasse and Sacre Cour. Off the bus, we stroll towards espresso and crudities, hard bread threatening the roof of our mouths. But we take that challenge. After we stroll up to Montparnasse, which is a beautiful, white domed church, seated on the highest point in Paris. You must walk uphill to reach it, and the town surrounding is a climb in itself, lined with petite shops and cafes of all kinds. Lore and I stop into a thrift, with a trendy sales boy, who looks like he was pushed out of the 70s. He offers assistance as we try on get-ups from decades past, smelling like mothballs and time. I leave with nothing but a good mood, Lorenzo cops a funky shirt. On we go towards the top.
The climb is made slower and sweatier with tourists. Bodies slipping past each other, grazing the sweat of another persons arm, their frown darting around. We reach the second tier to the top and look out over Paris. “You can’t even see the Eiffel Tower from here!” Someone protests. I smirk. Yeah, we all think that. The church is cool, domed, lined with stained glass, and wooden plank floors. There is a serene echo inside, seemingly far from the heat of crowds awaiting us outside.
We go back down, I disappear into another vintage shop, this time all too successful.
50 Euro later we wander down past the Moulin Rouge, and the main promenade, lined with sex shops, giggling at displays and the people scurrying out of them, heads down. We stop at Bouillon Pigalle, one of the underpriced wonders of Paris. I’m giddy as we order; escargot bathed in butter and parsley, boeuf bourguignon with rigatoni, macaroni and cheese with truffle oil and cured ham, a glass of kir; Chardonnay and blackberry liqueur, and a fluffy lemon tart topped with freshly whipped egg white. Every bite is savored, given praise in a soft moan, eyes closed. We pay 34 euro total and leave, laughing.
That night we drop our loot and go to Republique, a trendy part of downtown known for nightlife. We walk awhile admiring the lights of the city, the graffiti, the trendy people sipping outside, before we give up, too tired, and get back on our bus home. The days are hot and long and we sleep like death.
The morning comes and I open my eyes, smile a cheeky smile. Lorenzo kisses my face and says, “Happy Birthday!” I’m 26. My cheeky smile remains and I pop up energized by another year. I throw on Lore’s white, English school boy button down, and ankle length cigarette pants (tres francais) and skip outside towards the Boulanger, happy to be alive. I order croissants, egg pastries (known to Brazilians as pastel de nata) and a cafe long. As I saunter back uphill in my cheery mood someone rushes past me with a whizz of anguish, and my cafe slips from its lid and drops to the ground, splashing Lore’s white shirt with hot espresso. I let out an involuntary “Fuck!” and a French truck driver stops alongside me at a light, looks me in the eye, frowns and shrugs as if to say, “C’est la vie, mon cherie.” I climb up to the next Tabac (a French bodega; usually a cafe counter where you can get the paper, cigarettes and any other miscellaneous convenient crap) and pay for another cafe long. This one more acidic, less smooth, while gentlemen eye up my stained shirt and scowl, as they take their morning drags.
But I laugh at myself. In the elevator back up to our place, I look at myself and say, “26, baby girl, it looks good on you,” and make eggs to go with our croissants.
The day from there was dreadful. The heat wave peaked and covered Paris with an intolerant, nasty mood. Brushing elbows with strangers generated disgust and rage, late, packed buses and trains provoked irrational irritation, and well, the food I’d picked up for a picnic completely melted into an undesirable mess. We planned to spread out beneath the Tour Eiffel like kings, but retreated to the crowded shade and sparse grass. Lorenzo brightened my mood with birthday gifts, hooray.
We returned home in the evening and I took a bath, accompanied by Brut and Ginger Beer, getting a bit drunk by my lonesome. Cheers to me, refrigerators, and the fucking sun finally going down.
The next day we do much less, in order to stay happy as the heat wave wears on. Pack light, don’t rush, bring water, and stick to the shade. We started in the morning visiting famous corpses at Pere LaChaise, checking out the craves of Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and various historical contributors. Then walked down the Champs Elysess towards the Arc de Triomphe. I stopped to buy Macarons, eating them in pretty patty succession, savoring their subtle sweetness and immaculate textures. We perused the Louis Vuitton exhibit, admiring high design, structures, and materials, breathing in the air of richness and becoming inflated with confidence. Luxury by proximity. Then decided food was needed to go on. We go round the corner to Cafe Victory, and have linguine with salmon, and rabbit with roasted vegetables. The waiter is very rude, very French, and the food is just alright, but we have at least 3 carafes of water in the abusive heat, and laugh off the rest.
Afterwards we walk back towards the center to Hotel de Ville, admiring goods in store windows, and agree to meet Lore’s cousin Nicola, from Italy. We meet at Cafe Saint Michel, facing Notre Dame across the Seine. The waiter once again is very rude, very French, but at least has a sense of humor about it, smirking in self awareness. We order beer and kir (Chardonnay with liqueur, a light and sweet combination) and chat. Nicola is studying to pass the bar in France, so he can practice law there. Lorenzo didn’t know his cousin could speak English since they always speak Italian, and is stunned as they catch up. I’m relieved. We get drunk. Theorize, get to know each other, smile wide. I tell him about some of my travels. “I love your life?” He tells me. “I do too,” I mean it.
We walk across the bridge overlooking Notre Dame as the sun goes down and return home. We stick our heads out the window as we arrive, and watch the Tour Eiffel glimmer in a sparkling light show at 11 pm. The next day we leave Paris, the heat wave is over, the sky is gray and it rains.
(All photos taken by me on my mom's Canon AE-1 truly vintage film camera)
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