The Other Side of Paris

We set up our tents in the rain.  Our temporary guide hadn’t pitched a tent in six years, so we were mostly on our own.  My tent-mate is Aaron from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, and he’s been camping several times.  Even in the winter, he mentioned.  Aaron is a gentle man, a tech-savvy genius, and a reliable guide well aware of his sense of direction.  Since Aaron loves to brag about subtle qualities, he is always on the look-out for an opportunity to one-up someone in an inconsequential matter.  Rather than boasting about the usual topics of income or the circumference of one’s biceps, Aaron would rather gloat about the number of RAM on his PC or the freezing temperatures he can withstand without complaining.

During the first night at camp, my air mattress deflated, and I slept on the cold hard ground.  I never expected it to be so cold in France.  The warmest layer I packed was a waterproof rain jacket with a net-lining sufficient to block out mild spring breezes.  I convinced myself that May temperatures wouldn’t warrant thick insulation, and, anyways, as the days grew longer I was heading south to Italy, where I definitely wouldn’t need a sweatshirt.  My frugality prevented me from buying a hoody which I would use for a week and then stow away in my bag for the rest of my trip.  Thus, I resolved to endure the lingering frigidity of the season. 

While struggling to fall asleep that first night, I held my bladder for an uncomfortably long period of time because I knew if I exposed myself to the chilled air I would stay up all night, so I shivered and curled up into a ball to retain warmth.  This was not what I had in mind for Paris, which I only associated with warm and fuzzy feelings. 

After a ten-hour rest and a hot breakfast, we drove into downtown Paris.  I got off the bus and headed toward the Eiffel Tower because I figured that’s what everyone does in Paris for the first time.  

The city has always been heavily romanticized, and the image of this metal beacon certainly plays a large role in the outsider’s imagination.  Derived from films like Ratatouille and Midnight in Paris, France’s capital seemed a magical utopia where love was tangible and you could always hear accordion music in the background.  Even the film Casablanca, situated in North Africa, suggests that Paris is a capsule of pleasant memories untainted by modern headaches that drive a man to drink his sulking life away.

When I envisioned Paris, I rarely conjured up people.  My mental pictures were beautiful postcards of barren icons all lit up for nobody.  If the apocalypse should ever wipe out portions of the earth, I naively assume Paris would be left untouched.  Although completely deserted, the city would go on living, and the streets would keep themselves tidy like self-cleaning ovens. 

 
But this was merely a fantasy.  Paris was like any other functioning city with heaps of traffic, fast-food chains, and international banks.  The Eiffel Tower was crowded with bus-loads of tourists and endless streams of African immigrants who fled their dusty towns to hawk cheap souvenirs.  Several black men jimmied shiny key-chains of Gustav’s grand edifice and pestered tourists to buy them.  

“Five for one euro,” a man says to me and holds out a set of golden miniatures dangling from a giant key-ring. 

“Non, merci,” I tell him and the next hawker who is ten feet away. 

In all my romantic visions, I had not accounted for the desperate and embarrassing forms of commerce.  How could I have believed two people could share a private kiss in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower?  A stranger from Japan would be taking your picture under the assumption you were French and, therefore, a natural part of the scenery.  Or a man from Mauritania would shove his trinkets in your face, and you’d buy one just so he would leave you alone. 

In my high school French class, we listened to patriotic songs that praised the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs Elysees, but the singers never mentioned the horrendous traffic and the likelihood of being smashed by a car when you cross the street.  There are twelve streets that merge into a circle called the Place Charles de Gaulle from which springs the famous Champs Elysees, lined with high-end shops and expensive souvenir stores. 

I always pictured the Champs Elysees with soothing jazz playing the background, but this association undoubtedly stems from my admiration for the Woody Allen film situated here.  Instead, I heard car horns beeping, exhaust coughing out of tail-pipes, shoppers muttering in foreign tongues, and energetic street performers clapping their hands and speaking English into microphones. 

A trio of men belly-danced and break-danced while surrounded by a crowd of excited onlookers armed with cameras.  A young man with a neatly sculpted beard and a flat-brimmed hat spoke into the mic. 

“We are professionals,” he said.  “So if you like the show you can give us your money!” 

He repeated his speech in French and then turned on upbeat music.  A man with long, flowing hair flipped acrobatically and then his bearded friend took the stage and proceeded to wiggle his arms and propel his legs as though skating on ice.

 

After a muscular black man twirled and spun his legs in a wild break dance, he pulled a little girl from the audience and manipulated her body into various poses as though she were a Barbie doll with bendable joints and a flexible range of motion. The performance ended as the dancers upturned their hats and asked for donations.  I dropped a euro into an extended ball-cap to avoid feeling guilty while I walked away. 

What struck me most about Paris was not the romance and not the architecture.  Nearly everyone on the streets wanted your money, and they were quite frank about this.

As I strolled along the Seine River, I saw a tan, mustached man approach me.  I was walking alone, but I tried to look like a man you wouldn’t want to bother.  Sunglasses shielded my eyes, and I looked straight ahead.  My strides were long, and my pace was swift as though I were hurrying to class.  When the man was directly in front of me, he bent down and placed a ring on the floor and quickly scooped it up as though he recently discovered the gold. 

“Monsieur!” he said.  “Is this yours?”

I suppose his goal was to either sell me this fake ring or distract me long enough to snatch my wallet, but I had been forewarned about these disgraceful pests.  I said nothing, but I laughed at the unconvincing face he made.  He smiled like he realized this was a stupid and futile joke, yet he tried anyway. 

While in high school, I learned many French words that people rarely use.  There was an entire chapter devoted to phrases you’d say in an amusement park.  In four years of studying the language, not once did my instructor teach us the words for pickpocket, hawker, or street performers.  I never expected to encounter these.  Instead, thought I would see mimes, soft-featured men wearing berets, and other walking stereotypes.  Like those romantic movies glowing with optimism, I memorized only the good clichés.