October 2nd, 2004
Despite the tone of the last few posts, I really do like Paris. Who wouldn’t? It has more class in it’s little demitasse than I could hope to aspire too, more bars than I could get through in a lifetime, and no bans on smoking – something I heartily approve of, my quitting notwithstanding. There is something inherently civilised about waiters who not only ignore people lighting up in the non-smoking section of a restaurant, but indeed, happily bring the offender an ash tray.
But the part I like the most, without a shadow of competition – tacky, touristy, and shallow though it may be – is Montmartre.
I fell in love with the idea of Montmartre years ago. It’s the kind of place every good boarding school girl dreams of running away to – or should, if they have any commonsense. Despite the fact that it’s heyday as an absinthe soaked, bohemian haven was over long before I was born, for years I cherished rather romantic notions of going to live there. I decided I would rather like to starve (but glamorously of course) in a garret, whilst doing fabulously creative things, preferably with a wildly exotic lover.
With such high expectations, I thought, I was bound to be disappointed by the reality, and so for years I have bypassed it during my stops here.
But Montmartre has achieved a rare feat for a place of such iconoclastic status. It is at once a complete tourist trap, complete with hustlers, bad souvenir shops, and overpriced coffee; and yet also a genuine hub of creativity and – dare I say it – bohemia. Perhaps the offbeat flavour is a little less edgy than it once was, and the image a little more contrived, but then isn’t everything now? Whatever it’s failings, and even though I have no idea of what is really going on for the artists who paint there, I love it. Unashamedly, absolutely, adore every cheap and nasty bit of it.
I love sitting on a bench at the base of Sacre Coeur hill, in front of the gaudy 18th century carousel with it’s Venetian themed panels on the roof and gilt edged curlicues, and eating a hot crepe dripping with butter and sugar, serenaded by cheesy recorded accordion music.
I love the quiet cobble stoned alleyways with tiny hidden restaurants and bars, where all the customers know each other but still smile welcomingly at a dorky looking outsider; the sexy, glamorous twenty-somethings who whiz importantly around on their scooters and disappear tantalisingly behind peeling painted doors; and the classic, breathtaking view from Sacre Coeur.
But most of all, I love the Place de Tertre. It must be one of the most blatantly touristy corners in all of Paris, and I don’t care. I defy anyone to wander into it’s pretty little heart, past all of the gloriously clichéd painters and portrait artists, get served by one of the horribly kitsch but wonderfully slick waiters, and not be enchanted. It’s impossible.
In it’s own way it is as pretentious as anything the Deux Magots has to offer. There are artists in berets (!) puffing on pipes, would-be hippies selling homemade stuff, and plenty of self-conscious artistes having deep and meaningfuls. But, in marked contrast to the Deux, there seems to be an underlying sense of fun in Montmartre. Here, life is a mad kind of carnival, and the tourists are just as much a part of the spectacle as the artists who paint them – for how would one survive without the other? – and, more importantly, are just as welcome.
On the second day that I visited, the waiter from the café recognised me instantly (even with my clothes on), and ushered me to a nice table as if he actually gave a shit. He remembered how I had my coffee, and gave a good imitation of understanding my disastrous French. Regardless of the motive, nothing makes me happier than fantastic, ego boosting service. The artists also seem to know a face if they see it more than once, and one of them actually painted mine while I wasn’t looking. Best of all, he wasn’t remotely pissed off when I didn’t buy it, and didn’t try to “hard sell” me in the least.
By the end of a week I felt like a local, and the beauty of the Montmartre residents is that they indulged my fantasy, despite my patent lack of either artistic skills or bohemian looks. Eventually I gave in and got the bearded beret wearing pipe smoker to paint my niece’s portrait from a photo. Everyone has to be a tourist sometime.
Luckily, I am not staying long enough to have my illusions shattered, and so Montmartre will always remain a fantasy place which lives more in my imagination than anywhere else. But I rather think I would like to come back when I am 60 or so, and buy myself a garret to starve in. And an exotic lover.
October 2nd, 2004
It always happens. The day when I look at a place and suddenly think, “I could live here”. It is usually a bloody good indicator that it is time to get my skates on.
I thought I was safe this time. Walking into Paris, through the industrial wasteland which seems to be the inevitable welcome to any major city these days, nothing could have been further from my mind. With every stinking truck which roared past, and every smart arsed kid who yelled abuse, I vowed that Paris would be the last rotten city we would walk through. After the peace and loveliness of the little villages, I could only wonder at why anyone would actually choose to live here, and began counting the days until we could walk out again. Even after a week I was feeling less than enamoured of the place.
But you see, cities are insidious things. The stench of hot tarmac and exhaust which is so vile one day can, in the next, become the edgy and exciting smell of the Big Smoke. The frightening feelings of insignificance and loneliness that you get on arrival, seem to morph like lightening into an exhilarating sensation of anonymity. And before you know it, you are eyeing camera wielding Americans with vast disdain, chuckling ruefully into your Petit Café Noir as they order a Grande Café Crème, and buying a weekly pass on the metro. Ok, I always eye American tourists with vast disdain. But you know what I mean.
So in a way it was inevitable. The sun shone for a few days. I began to get my bearings. I found a corner of the city which fit and a café that served great coffee. And suddenly, walking home on a balmy night, belly full of great food and booze, I stopped on a bridge and looked out on to the Seine, lights twinkling everywhere and the Awful Tower looking stupidly romantic and it happened. “I could live here,” I thought.
Which got me to thinking some more. (No mean feat after copious jugs of house red). Maybe that is what happens to all city dwellers. Maybe none of them ever meant to stay. Maybe they all come to the city thinking, “hey, what the hell, I’ll stay for six months and see what happens”. And then suddenly they wake up and realise that they know the whereabouts of at least 10 good eateries, how to get good service out of a Champs Elysees waiter, and the way through Paris Nord station, and they think to themselves: “bugger it, I may as well stay.”
Sitting in a little café the following afternoon, I found further evidence for this theory. Two rather sexy looking girls were having a discussion in French which involved lots of cigarette waving and whispered sections – always guaranteed to make me listen harder – when they abruptly switched to absolute, rough as guts, country Australian. I mean, these girls were hardcore, back-of-Bourke-and-off-a-ute true blue. Unsuprisingly they were discussing blokes in fairly intimate detail. But amongst the unforgettable description of Bertand’s pubic region, I managed to glean that these two lovelies had in fact been in Paris for two years. Two years! Both of them had come to do some sightseeing and never left. I can only suppose that they had hereditary passports of some description. But apart from the rather humbling fact that these two spoke better French than I ever will, (and only bloody used it to discuss the size of Bertand’s willy,) they seemed to me a case in point. I can’t begin to think of how bizarre Paris must have seemed to them after downtown Wagga Wagga on a Saturday night, and yet here they were, two years later, on first name terms with the barman and obviously in their element.
I was half tempted to lean over and indulge in a bit of good country chick bonding. But I was overcome with a sudden and uncharacteristic burst of shyness. This was partly to do with the realisation that my devastatingly chic ensemble of worn out travelling dacks split up the inner seam and distinctly odiforous jumper was not necessarily guaranteed to inspire either trust or goodwill; and partly because I had one of those moments of bizarre revelation.
Suddenly I thought that no matter how far those girls had come – and there is no doubt, they had come far, in ways only another rural Australian can appreciate – they had only succeeded in recreating home. They knew the perimeters of their existence. They knew who was likely to be at the bar that Friday, and had worked out the pecking order of their immediate social circle. By the look of their clothes, they also had a good handle on the dress code. But really, all they had done was play the same game, by the same rules, on a different chess board. That is in no way to discount their achievement – it is some challenge to make a home for yourself in an entirely different country. I found it difficult and I was only in London, so God only knows how it would be when you are faced with learning another language. It is just that I am not that interested in recreating home – no matter how exotic the location.
Which is why, I suppose, I am happy to keep walking. A home is an easy thing. It doesn’t take much; a good place for coffee, a waiter who knows your face, and a mate or two who speaks your language. But when you walk, when you move every day, the rules are constantly changing, and your only home is within yourself. And there endeth the lesson.
So I didn’t interrupt their fascinating discourse on whether or not Bertand the mighty was going to bonk Amy the American. I sat and drank far too much cheap red wine until the waiter knew exactly who I was, and eventually I wandered off down the Boulevard Saint Michel, just like the old Peter Sarstedt song, and I thought to myself: “It’s been nice to live here.”