'This is Paris, it is not France.'
Monday, 11. February 2008, 08:06:12
Sunrise comes, and here I am, my first night in Paris.
Having managed to sleep when it was dark for at least four hours, I decided to get the most touristy of all Paris adventures out of the way – a wander through Monmartre. To my delight, I have discovered that it is only 2 kilometres from my studio, and hence, a stroll to the Sacre Coeur was a fitting sojourn for a Sunday morning.
As you wind your way upwards through the streets towards the basillica, you are surrounded by throngs of tourist shops, touts betting in the street - postcards of Jim Morrison and Van Gogh spin meaninglessly in racks on footpaths. Commerce has latched itself onto the foot of this holy temple in its own declaration of faith.
Suddenly it all falls away, as you cannot help but stop in the footpath when it appears - an almighty white beacon towers over us all.
The trees are all sparse right now, and the bare branches carve a wintery web over the backdrop of the white church.
Throngs of tourists and locals alike have come for Sunday mass, and inside the priest addresses the thousand or so people, who are not distracted in their faith by the tourists that work their way around the outer temples in the silence. Each saint is adorned with les bougies, candles that each represents a prayer of thanks, a hope or a dream waiting to become real. I am surrounded by the positive and careful wishes of thousands of strangers, and to it I add my own.
Les Bicyclettes
I am in awe of Parisian bicycles. They just look so much cooler that my own treadly. There is a certain grace that one exudes, when battling the madness of French traffic. Here, there are Velib everywhere – bicycles that you can hire for a short time from an unattended hire point at the side of the street, to travel one way somewhere, and drop off at another hire point, all by purchasing a card. I have not yet seen a bike helmet, but that would just not be Paris. Even though I cycle to work in Melbourne, I don’t quite think I have the gaul (...ok, that pun was for Janet McLeod) to ride a velo here.
(Above photo is the converted convent, where I am staying...)
Groceries
Mmm…I am discovering that the lists of vocabulary I learnt in year 6 are very handy – La lessive, la confiture, la liquide de vaisselle ...however, soy milk does not exist in this country. No one appears to be lactose intolerant – good thing with all that cheese everywhere. I have discovered a Fromager right near my studio, which could be a very, very bad thing for me. I did stand at the window drooling for quelques minutes. There is a food market not far away...but one thing the French do very well, is to have many shops that sell only one thing. In doing so, they retain the livelihood of many provendores who in other countries, are slowly dying out (as my father was a butcher, I can fully appreciate this diminishing culture in Australia). That said, I am spending quite a few hours trying to set myself up in the studio...I need a kettle shop, a toaster shop, a coathanger shop...which is great for my vocabulary building.
Homeless people
There are countless homeless people in Paris, and seeing that the Soup Kitchen stops right outside the gate to where I am living (well it did used to be a convent), tonight I found about 150 people devouring their daily donated meals. This morning I woke to see a homeless man piddling in the children’s sandpit in the playground behind my house. Then this afternoon I watched as countless kids built sandcastles with it. Ahh, the cycle of life. Still, very sad, and so much an issue in Paris. Mais alors, if you were to be homeless, would you not choose Paris? Les clochards, as they are called in French, is a lovely word to describe a sad thing – it’s origins come from Les Halles, where the main market in Paris used to exist, the bell, la cloche, would sound at the end of the day, to indicate to all the homeless people, to come and pick up the scraps from the food market, hence - the people of the bells.
Dinner
Tonight I went to dinner, with Trinh Vu, the George Mora Fellow, from The State Library of Victoria who is in Paris for five months. We went to a lovely restaurant, and after perusing the menu and translating it for ourselves so that we didn’t order something inappropriate (this of course I have experience with, having once learnt the word for cow’s tongue the hard way, at age 16)...we were attended by the young waitress, who after hearing us talk, replied in a perfect Australian accent. When I was her age, there was no working visa for Australians, so I envy her being able to spend a couple of years here to perfect her language.
Language
I am speaking extremely well, using French for all conversations, even with people who want to practice their English. Tonight on the way home I successfully gave directions to a French girl when asked. The fact that I knew where the street was is still a mystery, but yet, these are the indications that I am getting stronger in my language. I am ever grateful to my mother, who encouraged me in year nine, after 3 years of studying the language, to continue with it, explaining that one day I would be thankful. And I am...after 24 years of studying it (3 years of which was at university discussing the finer points of French literature over several centuries - just as useful as algebra), I am still in love with French, with France and with Paris. But as my breakfast waiter explained on my first morning here, "This is Paris… it is not France."
Having managed to sleep when it was dark for at least four hours, I decided to get the most touristy of all Paris adventures out of the way – a wander through Monmartre. To my delight, I have discovered that it is only 2 kilometres from my studio, and hence, a stroll to the Sacre Coeur was a fitting sojourn for a Sunday morning.
As you wind your way upwards through the streets towards the basillica, you are surrounded by throngs of tourist shops, touts betting in the street - postcards of Jim Morrison and Van Gogh spin meaninglessly in racks on footpaths. Commerce has latched itself onto the foot of this holy temple in its own declaration of faith.
Suddenly it all falls away, as you cannot help but stop in the footpath when it appears - an almighty white beacon towers over us all.
The trees are all sparse right now, and the bare branches carve a wintery web over the backdrop of the white church.
Throngs of tourists and locals alike have come for Sunday mass, and inside the priest addresses the thousand or so people, who are not distracted in their faith by the tourists that work their way around the outer temples in the silence. Each saint is adorned with les bougies, candles that each represents a prayer of thanks, a hope or a dream waiting to become real. I am surrounded by the positive and careful wishes of thousands of strangers, and to it I add my own.
Les Bicyclettes
I am in awe of Parisian bicycles. They just look so much cooler that my own treadly. There is a certain grace that one exudes, when battling the madness of French traffic. Here, there are Velib everywhere – bicycles that you can hire for a short time from an unattended hire point at the side of the street, to travel one way somewhere, and drop off at another hire point, all by purchasing a card. I have not yet seen a bike helmet, but that would just not be Paris. Even though I cycle to work in Melbourne, I don’t quite think I have the gaul (...ok, that pun was for Janet McLeod) to ride a velo here.
(Above photo is the converted convent, where I am staying...)Groceries
Mmm…I am discovering that the lists of vocabulary I learnt in year 6 are very handy – La lessive, la confiture, la liquide de vaisselle ...however, soy milk does not exist in this country. No one appears to be lactose intolerant – good thing with all that cheese everywhere. I have discovered a Fromager right near my studio, which could be a very, very bad thing for me. I did stand at the window drooling for quelques minutes. There is a food market not far away...but one thing the French do very well, is to have many shops that sell only one thing. In doing so, they retain the livelihood of many provendores who in other countries, are slowly dying out (as my father was a butcher, I can fully appreciate this diminishing culture in Australia). That said, I am spending quite a few hours trying to set myself up in the studio...I need a kettle shop, a toaster shop, a coathanger shop...which is great for my vocabulary building.
Homeless people
There are countless homeless people in Paris, and seeing that the Soup Kitchen stops right outside the gate to where I am living (well it did used to be a convent), tonight I found about 150 people devouring their daily donated meals. This morning I woke to see a homeless man piddling in the children’s sandpit in the playground behind my house. Then this afternoon I watched as countless kids built sandcastles with it. Ahh, the cycle of life. Still, very sad, and so much an issue in Paris. Mais alors, if you were to be homeless, would you not choose Paris? Les clochards, as they are called in French, is a lovely word to describe a sad thing – it’s origins come from Les Halles, where the main market in Paris used to exist, the bell, la cloche, would sound at the end of the day, to indicate to all the homeless people, to come and pick up the scraps from the food market, hence - the people of the bells.
Dinner
Tonight I went to dinner, with Trinh Vu, the George Mora Fellow, from The State Library of Victoria who is in Paris for five months. We went to a lovely restaurant, and after perusing the menu and translating it for ourselves so that we didn’t order something inappropriate (this of course I have experience with, having once learnt the word for cow’s tongue the hard way, at age 16)...we were attended by the young waitress, who after hearing us talk, replied in a perfect Australian accent. When I was her age, there was no working visa for Australians, so I envy her being able to spend a couple of years here to perfect her language.
Language
I am speaking extremely well, using French for all conversations, even with people who want to practice their English. Tonight on the way home I successfully gave directions to a French girl when asked. The fact that I knew where the street was is still a mystery, but yet, these are the indications that I am getting stronger in my language. I am ever grateful to my mother, who encouraged me in year nine, after 3 years of studying the language, to continue with it, explaining that one day I would be thankful. And I am...after 24 years of studying it (3 years of which was at university discussing the finer points of French literature over several centuries - just as useful as algebra), I am still in love with French, with France and with Paris. But as my breakfast waiter explained on my first morning here, "This is Paris… it is not France."
WIDGETIZE
Pramod # 11. February 2008, 14:10
So nice
superjanet # 14. February 2008, 14:46