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.
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.
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.
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.
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