La Vie Parisienne

A bottle portraying monastic scenes, 13th Century, Syria
 (c) Collection of the Furusiyya Art Foundation
Part of the exhibits at 'Eastern-Arab Christians:
2000 Years of History' @ the IMA, Paris

After the Christmas break, life is returning to normality slowly but surely. At THRO it’s more of the former. Some colleagues have opted to take the whole first week of January as leave. On my first day back in the office, only a handful from the department have returned. Claudia, Mustafa and I rattle around the empty corridors like phantoms. There’s a serenity to which I could easily become accustomed. My inbox is mercifully quiet. Most of the emails are those I sent to myself from home. It allows me time to work on a detailed report Sophie has given me to proof-read. I started before Christmas and I’m still only just over half-way through. The English is of an advanced level but is often not idiomatically correct. At roughly 28,000 words, it’s nearly double the length of my MA dissertation with none of the familiarity. Still, it's a good intellectual workout.

Sophie returns to work the day after, only to have to take some special leave for family reasons. She’s easygoing about the report. All the more reason to not take advantage of her good nature.

That weekend I’ve planned a trip to Paris to catch an exhibition on the 2000+ year history of Christianity in the Middle-East, at the Institut du Monde Arabe. 2018 will make it almost a decade since I did more than pass through the city en route elsewhere. I’ve decided to make a weekend of it. The train ticket is cheap. I’ve found a good bed-and-breakfast deal in the suburb of Asnieres-sur-Seine. The weather forecast isn’t bad.

I arrive late Friday night. My room is on the fifth floor of an Ibis Styles on a quiet side street. The spiral staircase is steep and narrow and the room compact. But it's clean and cosy and I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower, if I stand on my bed.  The plan is to attend the exhibition on Saturday. I’ve arranged a last minute press pass with one of my contacts.

Ah, the weekend. Not the best time to enjoy a soon-to-finish exhibition in peace and quiet. The IMA is packed with tourist groups and families with young children. The exhibition is substantial but the passageways are narrow. Everyone is jostling for space, doing ballroom-like manoeuvres to negotiate the tightness.

Very little of the exhibition is in English. Good. With everyone being away for Christmas, I’ve hardly spoken to a soul let alone had much French practice. My Parisian excursion will be the most consistent interaction I’ve had with the language for a few weeks.

One visitor sidles up to me as we both contemplate an ancient Eastern Orthodox relief, still in remarkably good condition. I’m making notes for my other blog.

The features are very African, don’t you think?

I look at her askance. I’m assuming she feels at liberty to make the comment to me, since there are few other brown faces around. Detecting my wariness she adds, ‘I’m North African, that’s why I’m saying it’. I’m still not entirely convinced but I start to thaw.

‘Yes, I suppose. Compared to how the artists of the Renaissance portrayed them’.

She continues ‘It’s far more realistic than the European depictions'. I agree, remorseful for initially being so defensive.

I spend over four hours at the exhibition, not wishing to rush through anything. A fatigue overwhelms me half way through. Perhaps it’s a mix of going to bed late, winding my way through the crowds, being on my block-heeled feet for a few hours and the consistent effort of reading in a second language. I have to force myself to actually look at the artefacts and absorb the information rather than just seeing them. It’s easy to go on autopilot. I’m not usually one for exhibitions unless the topic is really of interest, as is the case. It still feels a little out of habit.

After a rest on some strategically-placed seats, I gain a second wind and complete the rest of the expo.

Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris

I go into the IMA in the early afternoon and emerge at sunset.  The night is still young. It’s high time to reacquaint myself with Paris for real.  Despite having grown up and lived most of my life in a Big City, I am surprised to find myself occasionally intimidated by other mega-metropoli; Paris being one of them. Especially now living in comparatively modest-sized Strasbourg. It hasn't always been the case. Maybe it's just old age kicking in. Or I'm recovering from my hectic London existence. A part of me is increasingly attracted to a quiet life. Just a little bit.

In the distance, the Eiffel Tower’s spotlight circles the city like a lighthouse. Across the bridge from the IMA, I spot a breathtaking Gothic building which I rightly suspect is the Notre Dame. I haven’t visited the medieval cathedral since a primary school trip. I make my way on foot.

En route, I’m stopped for directions by an attractive African-Caribbean couple. Assuming they are Francophones, I start to make my apologies...

‘Désolée. Je ne suis pas Parisienne. Je ne connais pas le quartier très bien…’

‘Uh...metro?’ asks the young man. Immediately perceiving a minimal level of the local language, I’m rather perversely tempted to continue to feign ignorance. In an effort to expose myself to as much French as possible, I’m resolute about distancing myself English-speakers, especially in social settings.

I relent. ‘Oh, you’re English speakers’, mildly disappointed, strangely relieved. They are taken aback at the switch, enquiring where I’m from.

Over at the Notre Dame there’s quite a buzz. Those fortunate enough to have passes are ushered in. Security guards line the streets. Outside the main gates a sizeable crowd has gathered, looking up expectantly. Whilst passing the famous bells explode into a rapturous chorus. Quasimodo would be proud (Sorry. I couldn’t resist).

Of course. It’s the Epiphany celebrations. How fortuitous to be in this part of town for it.

I've rambled enough. I need to write up this exhibition review. I start the journey back to the hotel. A quick change of plan and I decide to board the bus to Paris St. Lazare, one train stop away from Asnieres. It’s not the quickest route but it makes for a change. I don’t believe I’ve ever taken the bus in Paris. I treat it like a mini-tour.

The celebrated City of Lights is more illustrious still, draped in Christmas décor.

Back at my hotel, I gorge on French TV. It has an unfairly bad reputation. I can always find something to keep me entertained and/or informed. It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to indulge since moving to France. I didn’t have access to any at my former AirBnb’s and I’ve been debating whether to invest in one for my flat. It won’t remain undecided for much longer.

La Restaurant de la Sirène, Asnières-sur-Seine by Van Gogh

I wake up to a grey and damp Sunday morning. Nothing like a Continental breakfast buffet to cheer me up. Talk about an Achilles heel. It’s my habit to go down as close to the end as possible so I can dine in peace. It’s a gamble that doesn’t always pay off, as is the case that morning. A sizeable group of young French-Maghrebins, unconsciously or not sitting according to gender, are having a loud conversation across the cantine.

I soon scarper back to my room to watch a bit of ‘Un Sac de Billes’; a new TV adaptation of the (less engaging) novel that I had to study for French A-Level, about two Jewish brothers trying to survive Nazi-controlled Vichy France.

I pull myself away to explore the local surroundings. Asnieres-sur-Seine isn’t especially inspiring, less so when the weather is overcast. It does have the claim to fame of once being a muse for Van Gogh, whose paintings of the town during a more romantic era are dotted about.

On my stroll I notice a man with a bike come to a dead halt, grinning at me sheepishly. I return the smile somewhat tentatively. I am in the mind to walk past but realise it could be a chance to have a proper conversation. On my prompting he introduces himself as Denis. He’s on the way to have lunch with his parents. First, he wants to show me local landmarks such as the Chateau (more like an elaborate administrative building), a real life Swan Lake, some more scenes that Van Gogh painted and a farmer’s market. I encourage Denis to correct any of my grammatical mistakes. He’s keen, all right. He spent some time at boarding school in the UK in a town I’ve barely heard of. He has an advanced level of English. I ignore him and doggedly respond in French for most of the interaction. I keep warning him not to try and kidnap me. I’m only half-joking.

Denis is angling for some future socialising. I agree to send him a text about my plans that afternoon. I have a legitimate excuse. I'm awaiting a text from Julie, une connaissance Parisienne who might be able to meet up later. I don’t want to get Denis' hopes up but I’ll be polite about my demurral all the same. Besides, he has family from Alsace. It won’t hurt to say hello if he passes through that neck of the woods. We later have a lively linguistically-related text conversation that evening.

On the way back to my hotel for an afternoon siesta, I’m followed by a creepy old codger who, despite my obvious consternation, attempts to take pictures of my behind on his phone. I run to my hotel before he can get a clear view of where I’m staying.

(Incidentally, on the way back to Strasbourg, a cheeky bus driver, under the pretext of showing me where to catch my coach, asks me for my number.

What, my coach number?

No. Your telephone number.

What for?

So we can go out for a drink.

But I live in Strasbourg!

Well, whenever you come back to Paris.

Mes aïeux, Les Parisiens. Vous etes fous !

I don’t know what pheromones I’m giving off that attract eccentric older Caucasian men but I wish they worked as well on the younger, hotter variety instead).

After some more fun with satirical French puppets, comedians in drag and a couple of international Skype calls, I've had no word from Julie. I therefore return to the Parisian streets to do the stereotypically tourist-y stuff. Champs Elysee, L’Arc de Triomphe...because they’re there and it’s been a while and, like a kid, I get such a kick out of seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle every hour, on the hour. During the day it has the unglamorous air of an intricately decorated, rusty old giant pole. But at night, all lit-up... quel merveille. It’s like meeting a celebrity. So there. Don’t judge me.

It’s a Sunday night but it could be any other weekday evening on the Champs Elysee. It’s heaving with activity. It’s even more resplendent in its festive setting. L’Arc de Triomphe is more impressive than I recall. Paris is cleaner and less odorous than I remember.

Overlooking the City from the great vantage point of the busy Trocadéro-Palais de Chaillot, I am reminded....  Ah yes. This is the City that once enchanted me so.

A Lady of Leisure…

...Or, the First (Strasbourg) Noel Part 3.

I am realising that the older I get, the more I enjoy my own company. Over the Christmas period, I have had plenty of time to ruminate over this. I hope I'm not becoming more anti-social with age.

Mum is in Japan enjoying the bright winter sunshine in the company of sis. I’ve just started to settle into life in Strasbourg, most particularly my new accommodation. It’s only been a few weeks. There’s no need to scarper off to London without my closest family members in town.

Besides, the extended Christmas leave from work will be the first opportunity to properly recover from all the upheaval of the past couple of months.

‘Don’t spend Christmas alone' warns my well-meaning colleague Lorette, fervently shaking her head ‘It’s too sad’. Au contraire. It doesn’t have to be, I reply. Plus (as I’ve been telling anyone who will listen), it will provide insight into what the festive season is like for those who are usually alone during this time, for far more heartbreaking circumstances than my own.

I’ve seasoned my meats and blended my root vegetable soup ahead of Christmas day to cut out some of the labour. I am determined to rest as much as possible. I wake up to sunshine streaming through my skylight-like bedroom window. It’s some of the best weather we’ve had in weeks. I am unable to have a proper lie-in. I check my phone for the message that stirred me from sleep in the wee small hours of the morning. It’s the first of several texts and/or phone calls that pour in throughout the day on both my UK and French mobiles. I’m touched that a number of friends have kept me in their thoughts despite their own seasonal busyness.

I Skype mum and sis. There's an eight hour time difference. It’s well into the evening over there and they still haven’t eaten. Something about being slowed down by a long, leisurely afternoon stroll. I take one of those myself later in the day. It would be a shame to waste the sunshine. I remain in my locality. I make a point to wish passers-by ‘Joyeux Noel’. A bus occasionally drive past. Unlike in the UK, there is still public transport albeit on a reduced basis.

Colmar, Alsace @ Christmas
(thegoodlifefrance.com)

Towards the end of my ramble, I spot a familiar spiral and take a diversion. It has piqued my curiosity since first moving into the neighbourhood. It’s a Catholic church, with an attractive modernised interior, virtually deserted. Not being of that tradition, I skip the genuflecting to icons and lighting candles. I take my time around the two nativity scenes; one miniature, the other closer to life size (I seek out a number of these tableaux over the course of my break). On my MP3 Kevin Max’ unique tones bring an extra-haunting quality to his stark rendition of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, my favourite carol. I decide to loop it with the Swingles livelier, Bobby McFerrin-influenced arrangement. Both are sublime. They help to make this quiet and meditative detour a transcendent experience. Other visitors, come in intermittently but for the most part, I have the building to myself. I start singing a carol medley. Despite the carpet, my medium volume-voice echoes off the stone walls thanks to the great acoustics. Another group of visitors enter. They’re attitude isn’t very festive. Judging by the side eye one of them gives me and her feverish signing of the cross, she finds my impromptu concert-for-none irreverent. That’s my cue to exit.

Later that evening, I light my festive candle and sit down to a decent meal: Guinea fowl, roast beef, mixed-potato mash, turkey sausage and tomato and green leaf salad with homemade dressing. It’s the most I’ve ever cooked at Christmas and it ain’t half bad. I don’t finish everything on my plate. I forgot how filling the root vegetable soup starter could be. The evening entertainment is so-so; a disappointingly whimsical French film clearly adapted from a stage musical.

I have a loose schedule for the rest of the week; a mix of local excursions and further afield. I visit the Cathedral, again but this time venture inside alongside hundreds of others. I roam the streets of central Strasbourg aimlessly, wandering down less familiar side streets and discovering more shortcuts. Signs of the festive market have all but vanished as of Christmas eve. (I pedantically hold onto the 12 days tradition. It's still technically Christmas until Epiphany and I won't be told otherwise).

Mid-week, I pop over to Kehl to shop for household items and hope to take advantage of the winter sales. It is busier than I have ever experienced.

I attend a matinee at an arthouse cinema I come across on one of my rambles. I watch French/Portuguese ‘Menina’; my ideal European language cocktail.

My evenings are relaxed. I use the time to catch up on much-lauded films I missed the first time round; both relatively old (‘The Pianist’) and recent (‘Get Out’-extremely entertaining, yes. Not quite the wheel-reinventing masterpiece as claimed by some, methinks).

On somewhat of a whim, one day I decide to make the most of my newly-acquired train discount card and head to neighbouring town, Colmar. At the station, the sales assistant insists I don’t need to show her the railcard. She then proceeds to apply the wrong discount, for those under 26. I am flattered but I promptly inform her otherwise. ‘Oh my! I would have taken you for 25...’

‘26’ says her facetious colleague. It’s a good problem to have, I reply. My honesty costs me five more euros but the boost to my ego is priceless.

Outside St Matthieu's Protestant Temple, Colmar

Colmar is, as I have been told, very picturesque. It’s like a giant toy town, all the more appealing draped in Christmas paraphernalia. I’ve packed the regional guide that my former colleagues at the North London Council bought me as a parting gift. I don’t follow it religiously, navigating the streets by gut instinct. Still, I manage to hit the main sites of interest and catch a glimpse of the surrounding Vosges landscape. Unlike Strasbourg, the Christmas markets and seasonal artisan enclaves are still in full swing. A smile lingers on my lips, spreading to a full grin as, with the turn of each corner it seems, I am hit by more delightful scenery.

The Cathedral has the most unorthodox nativity exhibition thus far; ethnically-correct, frizzy-haired cloth figures with no facial features. The key scenes of the two principal Gospel accounts of Christ’s birth have been recreated in elaborate detail.

Not being a fan of museums, I skip the pricey Musée d’Underlinden and the tour of Auguste ‘Statue of Liberty’ Bartholdi’s home. Perhaps I’ll save those for when I have a guest.

It’s cold enough to snow in Colmar. It holds off until just before I’m about to leave, having eaten an underwhelming caramel crepe in a cosy cafe next door to the charming Maison Pfister.

New Year's eve is spent at church in the morning and evening prayers at home. At 12am 1 January 2018, I look out of my window. Fireworks, both makeshift and professional, light up my vista for nearly an hour. The air is so full of gunpowder, that the normal view of Strasbourg Cathedral is soon completely obscured.

This Christmas break is the quietest and most serene I’ve had. It's also one of the best. I’ve enjoyed myself in ways that couldn’t be planned to the letter. A mix of foresight and happenstance. I doubt I’ll have the chance to experience the festive period in quite these circumstances again. All the more reason to savour this particular life season.