Postcards from Paris
A fresh start
The air in Paris is different to the air in any other city I’ve known — as though filtered, pure. Dragged from the fresher lands beyond the city by the opalescent green of the Seine — Paris’ heart — simply so that we might sit and savour it. Even at night, the Seine’s waters bubble up through road-side fonts to wash all grime from the city’s gutters. In essence, the Seine bleeds unbotherdly into every street in Paris, as only a good heart should. By morning, the streets are revived; born anew and washed clean of the past. Every day in Paris is a fresh start.
Montmartre
As when arriving in any unknown city, the first thing I sought in Paris was some sense of perspective. Among others, this was a reason for choosing to stay in Montmartre, a warren-like neighbourhood of cafes and cobblestones, rising high above the mire of central Paris. It’s streets have harboured artists and writers, and its views offer the chance to observe the tempest of Parisian life without yet having to dip yourself into it.
Even the rats seek solace on the steps of Sacre Coeur, fleeing the frantic pace at which life appears to move in the city. But, as should only be expected in the city of love and beauty, the fickle face of Montmartre changes with the light. De jour, it’s beset with tourists, lunching lovers, and families pushing prams past the sex shops of Pigalle. De nuit, neon bleeds into the shadows, flooding the streets with pimps and pickpockets — it’s not a place to wander without appearing as though you know where you’re going.
At times like this, as in any flood, it’s best to seek higher ground. All cobbled roads lead inevitably to La Butte Montmartre, where crowds decant into open-air cafes and restaurants, and the night feels eternal. By nature, you’re closer to the sky, and nothing feels beyond reach. At night, against the rising glow of lower Paris, it is the place to speak your dreams and vow to realise them. But best do it quickly. Before you realise, the light will change, the night will move on, and you’ll arrive in an entirely different place — just another face in Montmartre’s seemingly infinite repertoire. Too many faces to know in just one lifetime. C’est la vie.
The pace; the people
The more you walk the streets of Paris, the more you realise that the fast pace of Parisian life is an illusion. This isn’t to say that life here doesn’t fizz; that it’s not a living, convulsing, libertarian city. Only that life is lived leisurely and Parisians are an entirely unhurried people. In the constantly overflowing cafes, lunch lasts long into the evenings, and complete strangers sit for hours in intimate conversation with one another.
Bicycle lanes rattle with the sheer number of cyclists or electric scooter-ers, all leisurely heading in their own invisible directions. On warmer days, the banks of the Seine are beset with picknickers or bare-footed toe-dippers, all making the most of the infinite span of the Parisian day. It’s difficult not to be seduced by the same charm. You fill days with everything and nothing, but don’t once feel as though you’re being rushed. Even the evening sun — when it shines on Paris — becomes a Parisian. Evening is an eternity of golden light. A time to sit and be still; to do not very much, but together. Paris is a social city, and it matters not what you do, only that you do it in good company. In such a city as this, how could you not be?
Goodbyes
It is impossible to say goodbye in Paris. On any given night, time has to be set aside for lingering in doorways, or slow walks through emptying streets, simply because nobody’s capable of saying goodbye. It is a city of extroverts. Parisians are energised just by being close to one another, and it’s easy to become infected with the same energy, even as an outsider. I don’t know whether the people feed off the place, or the place off the people. But doing nothing more than simply sitting amongst Parisians; walking their streets; breathing their air; their energy takes a hold of you. It happens silently — beneath notice. I’d been so enamoured by my time in the city, that it wasn’t until I found myself struggling to say goodbye that I realised I’d been infected. In the morning’s early hours on the day of our departure, I could still be found wandering somewhere between Paris’ totemic landmarks. The gates of the snaking metro had long since closed; bars and cafes were empty of their ubiquitous occupants, but the city remained awake — not yet ready to say goodbye to the quickly receding night.
It’s easy to look back through the lens of Liberté and claim to have felt as though you were a different person. In a sense, it’s difficult to say goodbye to Paris because it feels as though you’re saying goodbye to a version of yourself — a mysterious version that the city and the Seine manifests. I won’t claim that this transformation happens anywhere outside of my own head. The idea that the city reconstitutes the person might be a step too far. All I can say is that in Paris you are not yourself — except that maybe you are.
