‘You have any idea if I can use this coupon or do I have to put a coin in?’ ‘Ma’am I’ve got no idea. I’m just trying to get to the toilet.’
Apple pay worked on the second try, and the turnstile swung open to the sordid men’s room of the Gare du Nord station. I paid and I pissed. I rejoined mum in the queue for the self-operated ticket machine, which we eventually summitted, only to find all 3 out of order. Stranded in the underground of one of Paris’ busiest stations, fearing for our lives, we sought concord by the help desk.
I’d had far from a glowing first impression – I figured I was already starting to buy into the Paris syndrome – the heightened expectations. The inevitable letdown.
I had hardly been won over on the way here. The views from the Eurostar had been, actually, short of spectacular.
‘I’m pretty sure we just popped out the tunnel in France. Looks like England but worse.’
What I didn’t realise, as I complained to my girlfriend about the Merville countryside, was that France doesn’t just look like England. Just like home, France is a parasite. Slums feeding off the prestige of the capital. Like London, Paris is a very rich city attached to an otherwise lacklustre country.
I’d seen and dismissed the outskirts, the prefabs enlivened by graffiti and the degrading, abandoned industrial complexes. I’d been reminded of home by the scattered litter and the uniform, uninspiring offices. But I was hopeful for Paris. And though the mysteriously solid (and brown) stain in the urinal I’d paid to use didn’t fill me with confidence, I was yet to see outside.
‘I’m not being funny, but it’s basically all French people.’
Dazed by the poignancy and depth of mum’s insight, we wandered along the rue de fleurus looking for somewhere to eat. Surrounded by artisan bakeries and esoteric restaurants, we settled on what was realistically the predetermined choice;
To be fair, the menu’s somewhat different in France.
‘What I wanna know is, why are we in France, looking at an American statue, in the “Luxembourg gardens?”’
Sounds like the set up to a bad joke. A short history lesson on France’s postwar gift-giving later, and we continued down the park, the park which could’ve been St James if not for the horses and boat races and lack of tracksuits. People actually respect the ‘please don’t step on the grass’ signs, choosing instead to sit and smoke and eat slowly and look very French while doing so.
I think it’s the pace of Paris that makes it obvious you’re not in London. The deliberateness of movement. It’s slow, calculated, efficient. No one’s in a rush, storming up a side road only to glance down at google maps and hastily backtrack. Deadlines seem to have gone extinct, replaced on every street by a cocksure sauntering. Stop for a coffee. Feed the ducks. The pastry is unbelievable.
Paris is definitely similar to London, but there’s a charm to the city you don’t find in Canary Wharf. An anachronism to the buildings, and the people, that you don’t find in the finance district or Embankment. Worn down signs and high, heavy doors. The lack of phones is startling, considering it’s not a ghost town. It’s vibrant, animated, full of young people.
The beauty of Paris isn’t quite captured by the landmarks on the fridge magnets. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre. They’re great, iconic for a reason, but they’re a shallow figurehead of the city below. The real magic isn’t in these postcard attractions, but in the calm of the city. The quiet, considered reserve.
“When can we go back to the hotel?”
~ my younger brother x
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