“À quoi ça sert d’écrire sur les murs?”

[Paris] “Smile, Laugh, Breathe”

It’s hard to believe that two months have passed since I left France and stepped foot on Canadian soil again. I’ve already spent 6-7 weeks in Montréal as a full time summer au pair, and will resume my position with the family at the end of August for the next school year. As excited as I was to start on yet another new venture, I had a hard time settling in, and accepting the fact that I had to leave behind the country that represented the culmination of all my previous hopes and dreams – of living abroad, speaking a foreign language, and immersing in an exciting, inspiring culture. In fact, I think I hated Montréal for the first two weeks that I was here, it was as big, dirty, noisy, and lacking in charm as I had feared. After time spent in the French countryside, the weather in Montréal seemed dreadful, the humidity was awful and stifling, the pollution was detestable. Even now, I can’t help often comparing everything to “how it is in France.” But it’s not fair to compare, I know I arrived in France with stars in my eyes, France has always been a glowing pinnacle on the towers of my castle in the clouds. So I try to look at Montréal through rose-tinted (sun)glasses and try to be content with being Canadian again.

Recently, I met up again with some friends who had been on exchange in France at the same time, and we couldn’t help but chat over drinks about the things we missed about France – the pâtisseries, the trains, the food, the wine (and wine prices!!), the charm of historical buildings, or the accessibility of travel to other countries…and I started looking through the huge collection of photos taken in France/Italy that I still refuse to delete off my iPhone (hence why I have no memory space for photos in Montréal…). I came across several images of graffiti, street art, window displays or vandalism that had delighted me at the point of their discovery, whether it had been with the brazenness or with the wisdom of their messages, and thought that I would make a post of them, as a way of remembering yet another aspect of France qui me manque.

[Cahors] One of the first photos I took in my first days in Cahors. Shoes thrown over a wire is a common sight back home, and this image made me smile as I realized that some things don’t change just because you cross an ocean and leave one country for another.

[Rue des Soubirous, Cahors] “In your mouth, idiot.” Down the street from where I lived in Cahors, an abandoned medieval structure was boarded up and scrawled upon by some lycéens. The French vocab reminded me at the time of how I was well and truly living in a foreign place.

[Cahors] This one made me realize the extent of English that my potential students would have! (And of their typical teenage mindsets.)

[belated blog post] “sun is in the sky, oh why, oh why, would i wanna be anywhere else?”

What does one usually do on their last day in Paris? If my trip had begun with an extremely fast blister-raising pace and a prepared list of sights to see, then it ended with a more aimless and the slowest of strolls.

I began my last day with a visit in the afternoon to the Père Lachaise cimetière. A cemetery? Sounds depressing, until you see how mystically beautiful overgrown and cobwebbed family chapels, shrines, and embellished tombstones can be in the springtime. Père Lachaise is the biggest cemetery in Paris, and comes with maps that vendors at the entrance will try to sell to you for 2,50€. I decided to forego this paid option, and found a map on a board inside, with a directory for the gravesites of famous actors, composers, political leaders, singers, writers, which are indicated by their corresponding number on the map. It is also such a big cemetery that it is organised into 97 divisions by numerous avenues and chemins, and includes a chapel, a crematorium, and a roundabout. Grabbing my mini Moleskine cahier, I scribbled down several notable names and their numbers and division sites, took a photo of the map with my iPhone, and set off down the sun-spotted, tree-lined paths.

la petite flâneuse

When I went to Shakespeare & Co. on my third day in Paris, after much browsing and deliberation, I finally resurfaced into the warm early evening with The Flâneur: A Stroll through the Paradoxes of Paris, by Edmund White.Of course, not two minutes after leaving this splendid bookshop, which included a tiny, rickety staircase at the back leading up to a Sylvia Beach bibliothèque with a majestic view of the Notre Dame across the Seine river, and to a group of older people singing along to a man playing English tunes on a piano upstairs, I was accosted by a group of brash young men with a selfie stick who tried to persuade me to take a selfie with them. Covering my face with my Paris metro map, I scurried away to the crosswalk where they followed and attempted to ask the policewoman on the corner for a photo as well‪. Oh, Paris.

Interestingly, White mentions this cultural practice in The Flâneur, when he clarifies, that “unlike Americans [and Canadians!], who feel menaced or insulted by lingering looks on the street, French women – and men! – consider la séduction to be one of the arts of living and an amorous glance their natural due” (44). After reading this, I tried to reconcile myself to this fact at any other times I felt “menaced or insulted by lingering looks [and suggestive compliments] on the street” – and there were many! If in Cahors, I feel overly appraised by men, in Paris (and in Lyon), I was drowning in invasive stares. I miss Canada for the way I was able to saunter through crowds without a single unwelcome remark. I miss being able to smile frankly at strangers without fear of unintentionally suggesting an invitation.

But, the lovely thing about Paris, as White shows us through his writing, is that Paris is the “land of novelty and distraction, is the great city of the flâneur – that aimless stroller who loses himself in the crowd, who has no destination and goes wherever caprice or curiosity directs his or her steps” (16). “Paris is a world meant to be seen by the walker alone, for only the pace of strolling can take in all the rich (if muted) detail,” he says (34).  White also quotes Baudelaire’s description of the flâneur as someone who is “not at home, but [he feels] at home everywhere,” “for the perfect flâneur…it’s an immense pleasure to take up residence in…whatever is seething, moving, evanescent and infinite” (36).

à pied à Paris

Warning: Long day = very long post!!

For my 25th birthday, which luckily happened to fall during the two weeks of school holidays, I had originally booked a week in Paris, not knowing whether I’d be travelling alone or not, but intent on spending it in Paris. My visit to Lyon beforehand was more of a last minute addition which worked out due to timing, though I must say, there was a lot of cramming and rushing, and too many long 6 hour train rides in the space of 5 days. I complain now, but I’m sure I’ll miss it once I’ve left France. (Dear Canada/British Columbia, please build an amazing train system across the country/province!)

The Canadian gal pal had decided au dernier moment to join me for the first three days of my trip, which worked out perfectly, since the Airbnb I had booked in a Paris banlieue had originally been a reservation for 2 people/a queen sized bed. This was one of the best Airbnbs I have ever stayed at, because it had a fully equipped kitchen with a large dining room table, a couch area, two agile cats, and a bathroom with flattering lighting and hot water that never ran out (a problem I’ve had in other Airbnbs). And, we slept in a loft area with a skylight! Not bad for 22€ a night (for the bed)! However, it is 3 suburban train stops out of Paris Nord, and this meant buying a Navigo Découverte pass for 4 zones, instead of just 1, as Paris proper is Zone 1. The Navigo pass is valid for one week, but not from the date of purchase. Rather, it is valid Monday – Sunday, and since I arrived on a Wednesday, it would expire on the following Sunday. Since this pass is for unlimited transfers and rides all day long on the Paris metro/RER/suburban train lines, I decided it was still worth the €€ for the 5 days that I would have it. The remaining 2 days, I would just buy individual tickets into/out from Paris and wander everywhere on foot. Oh, the reckless optimism I had about the comfort of my boots.

So, armed with this wonderful unlimited pass, and a mini Paris metro map, we managed to navigate our way by foot from Gare D’Austerlitz to Gare de Lyon, and from there, took the metro to Paris Nord, and then a train out to Deuil-Montmagny.  Deuil-La-Barre, or Montmagny (I’m still not sure which one is the most accurate for where we were), has a slightly deserted small town vibe; a great little bakery next to the train station where we grabbed fresh strawberry tartelettes, almond croissants, and sandwiches every morning; a sister city in Québec also named Montmagny (?); and no shortage of rude, sexist older men who corner girls with their bikes, or follow them to the train tracks, and harass them to show their tattoos. Male entitlement at its finest.