Paris, Je T'Aime
Posted: Tuesday, September 06, 2011
by Sara O'Rourke
I am half surprised (and, clearly, half not) that it has taken me all twenty one years of my life to actually visit the city of lights. Surprised, yes, because there is a very large part of me that is annoyingly, insufferably, perhaps, romantic and absolute putty to visual history. Of course, however, there also exists an unshakable feminism in me that tells me over and over that, out of mere principle, giving in to the norm, that is, visiting the stereotypical romantic destination to fulfil the stereotypically romantic needs within is something I am very much above. Unfortunately for the little Suffragette, disappointed in my mind, I cracked.
Paris, let me say, was exactly what you'd expect; romantic, rude, beautiful. The experience was in itself complete; cigarette butts dotted the pavements like browning leaves falling in Autumn - at least - if you squinted hard enough or allowed yourself to be convinced, what would ordinarily be seen as gross litter was actually just another pittoresque seasonal change. More than this, the people were focussed, rarely smiling, but stylish beyond belief, and unafraid, unashamed, to have their arguments or moments of passion out on the streets for all to see. In the vicinity, you could very much feel exactly what they were feeling, and jealously, or curiously, be mesmerized by the reality show unfolding before you.
It is bizarre to think that this city, as it stands and looks now - the city we all know and love and recognise, is actually relatively new. Under Baron Haussmann, not that long ago, the city underwent an extravagant and expensive transformation - and it is amongst the fruits of this 'Haussmannisation' which we tourists walk and become regular 'flaneurs', to borrow the words of the praised poet, Baudelaire.
The trip consisted of all the typical monument-going; the Eiffel Tower; Notre Dame, the Moulin Rouge - listing the rest would be a waste of predicable space. What I set out to do, instead, in order, perhaps, unconsciously, to reconcile with my disappointed self, was to peer out some of the 'lesser' renound gems of the city. Where did this mission take me, exactly?
The Erotic Museum was my first stop. Seven floors complete with paintings, videos and sculptures related to sex and the sex industry. There was even a gift shop - to my delight! Who knew such an informative, fascinating place existed on the streets of Pigalle? Second, I found myself a neat little brasserie near St. Michel and ordered myself raw mince meat. Raw. Bit of an error in the sense that I did not enjoy myself during that meal, but an experience it certainly was, and how 'Parisienne' (and rightly so!) I felt! All this was completed, however, by my purchasing France's own long, Parisian-style cigarettes, and lighting up as I strolled down the boulevards, extremely strong coffee in the other hand. Here, I try not to advocate smoking as a habit, but merely wish to paint a picture of a scene which was extremely French, and, therefore, felt extremely fabulous.
I left the capital with a sense of having truly experienced and understood the culture of my friends across the Channel, and, lungs more or less intact, yet bordering on insomnia from an overload of caffeine over the week, I can confidently say that Paris lived up to everything I had hoped, and, one day, I would love to see her again.
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