“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” – Ernest Hemingway

I have previously read about a syndrome often found in East Asian visitors to Paris, that describes the disappointment they feel when realising that La Ville Lumière is not as they expected. It is natural for folk to gloss over the rough edges of a city of such cultural significance, and after visiting, to think of it as a decrepit metropolis. These visitors may not have read Ernest Hemingways ‘A Moveable Feast’ or George Orwell’s ‘Down and out in Paris and London’ – something to show them the ugly underbelly of the city they idolised according to its reputation during The Lost Generation. I like the rough edges.

My visit commenced with my meeting of a curious character, a good friend – David. He embodies the je ne sais quoi. If you want to meet him somewhere at 11pm, then you had better tell him that you’ll be there at 9:30pm.

David was to collect us from outside the Charles de Gaulle airport at 11pm. Asking the French to be punctual is like asking a German to cross an empty road under the luminous glow of a green traffic light. 11:30pm, I called him. ‘Putain’ rang out from my phone. ‘I am waiting for you at the other side of the airport’.

Our hotel was in Versailles. 30 minutes away from Charles de Gaulle. This turned into an almost 3 hour impromptu tour through Paris. Where the underbelly intersects with Instagram. ‘This is a famous gathering place of prostitutes’ stated David – followed almost seamlessly by the Basilique du Sacre-Cœur. We stopped here to smoke and take in the ambience from the best view point in the city. At 2am, we arrived at the Hotel D’Angleterre. Fitting. Us British are known for getting out of our comfort zone.

The following day, we found ourselves in Montmartre. In the ambience of the place you will certainly feel that you are treading well traveled ground. Did Zola ever sit at the apex of the Sacre-cœur with a lit cigarette? The smell of flowers, shit and paint mixed into one unholy cocktail. I wonder what the nose of Van Gogh sensed when he roomed here? Did the flower-shit cocktail influence him in any way? As a place, it is the epitome of the French ‘sit outside and regard everyone walking past with keen interest’. People’s heads move like they watch a spectacle at Wimbledon. Over the course of dipping my own foot into this time honoured cultural tradition, I spotted many an interesting character. In 20 degree heat, a man wearing a black suit and a full body, pink fur coat. Curious. Does the man know that many people watching him on that day will never forget the particular moment that he strolled by? Though to me, this is the fruits of one’s labour when trying to appear plainly as an ‘interesting character’. I ask myself, do others strive to be interesting in their life, or do they simply not care? My own fatal flaw is that the desire to be an ‘interesting character’ has often driven me and my decisions. Why do I have these grandiose ambitions when I, and we, are simply a speck in the fabric of time? How often are those who desired to be remembered, actually remembered? How many great and interesting people of a bygone era in Babylon were forgotten about, only for the irate copper merchant, Nanni to be remembered above-all for his complaints at the quality of the copper he received, and his subsequent complaint via stone tablet? Is it all down to pure luck?

Maybe I should forget about this and drink my cold beer. It is easier to not have self awareness.

The following day, we met David for some drinks at Le Marais. It was early afternoon and specks of rain fell lightly. There are things I respect a lot in David. His great cultural knowledge and his social awareness. So he is always very interesting to engage in conversation with. ‘You should write a memoir’ I told him. ‘So should you’ he replied. This minute detail in conversation struck and stayed with me, partly because of my own innate ‘interesting character’ dilemma. I always worry about conversation, even with close friends, as I feel that I perhaps do not have sufficient means to keep them engaged in conversation. Life is better when you don’t care about these trivial details and allow conversation to flow and finish naturally. I know this now.

I was drunk. 6 beers into the afternoon, I needed the toilet for a piss. I entered the bar ‘Ou sont les toilettes?’ I demanded. ‘Là-bas’ said the waiter, ‘mais vous pouvez dire bonjour, n’est-ce pas?’. In my drunken stupor, this angered me and I got into an argument with the waiter. I realised afterwards what a connard I had been and apologised to the waiter.

David had agreed to take us back to the airport – but picked us up earlier to show us his apartment and provide a small tour of his quarter. We arrived into a bustling square, with politicians even out leafleting. David took one, looked at it, and within eyeshot of the politician – threw it into the bin. ‘I will not vote for this merde’. After an hour of walking, we came to a cafe for a coffee and some pastries. I checked the time. It was now 11am, our flight was at 2pm – but the airport was at least an hour from here. I drank my coffee, growing more anxious as time passed. I remarked to David that it was now 11:20am, and we may miss our flight. ‘T’inquiète pas’ he said. ‘We will probably make it’. Probably, I thought. Putain.

We walked back to his apartment, where I imagined we would go directly to his car and drive to the airport. The words he said to me upon arrival did not inspire hope or do anything to quell my anxiety. ‘I would like to show you my wine cave’ – ‘Do we have time?’ I countered. ‘Of course’ he told me. Okay. The showing of the wine cave then turned into taking a bottle of wine from within it, and before I knew it – we were in his apartment with a glass each. We got into his car at 11:45am, an extremely fast Mini Cooper, and set off.

I have never before been inside a car whilst someone was driving continuously at 180km/h. My stomach physically turned despite my enjoyment of it. An application said the road would take one hour, we arrived in just under 40 minutes. Precisely on time to catch our flight.

Another curious quirk of David is his ability to take you to exactly where you need to be, both figuratively and literally, but leave you in complete and utter confusion as to how you got there.

Fin