Urban Walking 1: Orwell

Night/Latin Quarter

Walking through the Latin Quarter, I’m reminded of St. Marks back at home. The same semi-sleazy, yet still endearing environment…charmingly sleazy. There’s gyro shops, crepe stands-all that greasy goodness, catering to the drunk crowds who flock here once night comes. 

The poverty that Orwell writes about doesn’t exist here anymore. Or at least not that I can see.  Tourists crowd the streets, taking pictures and looking up at the lights, buying five euro crepes to feel like a ‘true parisian.’ 

There’s a bistro where I order vin chaud. It’s warm, but not too hot. The drink is smothered in spices, but every once in a while I get a sip of the cheap wine underneath. My waiter speaks to me in English. He’s tall, thin. Life’s made its mark on his face: his eyes droop tiredly, his wrinkles look more like craters than lines, sinking deeply into his skin. Smoking a cigarette, he’s complacent; complacent in his duty to serve tourists and locals both with the same intention-to get drunk and find fun. He smokes slowly, really inhaling. His face contorts, giving the appearance that the cigarette is hurting him. It probably is, but he’s too experienced to admit that the tobacco doesn’t provide the same satisfaction it did ten years ago. 

Vin Chaud

This street seems like a place made for fun. Scattered on either side of the narrow block are bars and food stands. Bouncers stand outside-big men-luring people in. “Ladies, ladies! Free shots for you! Free shots!” The French accent, normally charming, now seems aggressive. These bouncers assume I’m American, probably due to the large group of girls I’m with. We look like tourists, looking around trying to find the most ‘authentic’ bar. But it’s all modern. Bars built for the modern man; the working man who wants to turn primitive by night. Alcohol frees him from the constraints of 'urban life.' A place where the social facades fade. 

The businessman who wouldn’t dare smile at a woman in the metro now sneaks up behind her, pushing her closer to him. Women, normally composed and quiet, now scream, yell. The boundaries are destroyed. The Latin Quarter (at night at least) is where people go to play.

The streets are crowded. Filled with people looking for basically the same thing. Within this crowd of people, a sense of solitude persists. Everyone, regardless of their company; how many connections they have, is alone. They experience everything, including this street, alone. Maybe that’s why everyone seems lost, waiting to be entertained, occupied; waiting for someone or something to take them out of themselves for a while. 

Men walk around selling roses. They hold a variety of single roses, wrapped in silicone paper. These men are scattered throughout the street like ants, scurrying from one potential buyer to another. “Pour voter femme! Pour voter femme!” Oh Paris…so romantic.The men selling these roses aren’t sweet. They’re eager…too eager. Eagerness is scary. Eagerness leads to deception. There’s no subtlety in their intent. I guess there shouldn’t be. They’re there to sell some flowers, and they’re making it known. Subtlety is far more alluring than eagerness. It leaves a certain amount of mystery, like you’re lucky to be buying something from someone who’s gentle because you figured out what he was selling. He doesn’t feel a great urge to get rid of it. 

At a Bar
A group of men spot us dancing. Leaving us alone, but eying us down. One of the girls smiles at the group-the invitation. They come over, dancing innocently, happily, just trying to have fun; trying to let go. Suddenly the bar seems empty. The metro closes at 1:30. I check my watch-it’s 1:20. We walk out together, finding food stands still open. I haven’t seen late night food in Paris, but again…this seems like a Paris that caters to foreigners. One of the men, taller, in a peacoat with a scarf tightly fit into it stands near us. “Club near here. Come, come. Not a far walk.” The fragmented english makes him seem endearing, almost genuine. Or maybe it’s just because of an over-romanticization I have (pretty sure everyone has) for French men. 

The streets of this quarter are warm, yellow lights decorating the banisters. The whole street lends an orange ambience, the lights reflecting off the cobblestones, themselves drizzled by the rain. I’m not sure if people live in this area or not, but the buildings stand relatively low, making the street itself seem cozier. 

A Man and a Lighter
A man comes up to me, his hair is unkempt and to his shoulders. Think middle-aged crisis meets middle school skater boy. He’s younger: his skin smooth, his cheeks blushed. “Excuse-moi, vous avez un feu?” 

I’d been asked this before. He wants a lighter. Addressing me with 'vous' I figure he’s at least respectful, but I have no ‘fire.’ Standing there, waiting for someone to pass who may have a lighter, he begins talking. He wants to practice his english. Little does he know how badly I need to practice my French. He gives me his name, but it’s a French name…and a long one, and I nod quickly to pretend like I’m familiar with it. 

He’s working side jobs to support his dream of writing documentaries. He said he’s working on a documentary now about the Cinematheque and how it revived film in France. He speaks with an ease that makes me immediately comfortable. I probably should be careful with people in the future, but here people make me feel comfortable, almost at home. As though speaking to them and learning from them is what I’ve been doing my entire life. The people from France that I’ve met seem genuinely genuine-at face value. 

We talked about Godard and Truffaut. After a while I ask to switch to French (I really do need to learn the language while I’m here). Smirking he says, “Tu appends sur l’oreiller.” I wasn’t familiar with this expression, so I asked him what it means. “Learn it on the pillow.” He smirks again, taking a long pull from the cigarette that he’s finally lit. “You should learn and have fun. Life is too short to sit and study.” 

I feel like too much of a nerd to admit that I really enjoy studying, so I just nod…play it cool, play it cool. This man reminds me of Henri in the Orwell reading, romancing an undesirable job. 

Reaching into my pocket, I feel around for carfare to get home. Feeling only coins, I realize that I’m stuck here. Suddenly this street, previously cozy and warm seems dark and wet. The coldness of night wraps itself around me, sending a chill down my back; reminding me of who's really in charge. 

Buying that fifth shot was really unnecessary, but being drunk makes me feel invincible, like I’m escaping into a world where responsibility is by no means a forethought, and the repercussions of whatever it is I’m doing won’t have to be faced by the person I am right now. 

Having no money, you suddenly see how easy life is when you do have it. Living with ease let’s you focus on romance and colors-the nice aspects of life. With no money, with no ease, you’re forced to live in a reality of discomfort; a mindset of constant calculations. Remembering some euros I have stashed away at home I hail a cab, watching the lights, noise, and life pass me by as we drive away from the Latin Quarter. 

Talkative Cabby
The cab driver starts talking to me in French. I tell him my French is bad, but he says his English is worse. We talk about America. He says he likes America more than France because it is generally more accepting. He looks ordinary. Completely ordinary-short hair, jeans, a white t-shirt. He’s a working man. He doesn’t have time for accessories. Life is discomfort for him. Not self-inflicted discomfort like the waiter smoking his cigarette, trying to get back to another time. The cabby’s discomfort is real. He is trying to fight through it, get to the other side. A better side. A side where he can look back at the days he was a cabby and laugh about all the people he met. 

“Paris est plus stressant que New York.” I don’t think so. New York is far more crowded-more solitude. The streets are less wide. It’s packed. 

I run up and get the money I owe him. When I come down he is smoking a cigarette, peacefully, his inhales and exhales accompanying the smoke, as opposed to fighting it. This was his time. The time when a cigarette was still signal for a break. 

It’s going to be a tight week money wise. This cab ride put me out about twenty euros, but luckily the bakery across from me sells baguettes for .60 centiennes and the supermarket sells wine for a euro. It’s easy to get by when you simplify what you want. The bakery woman gives me dirty looks for my broken French. It’s a small price to pay.