Un jour à Paris
This time last year, I wasn’t convinced I’d become a millionaire. In fact, I was deeply immersed in preparing for my trip to Paris. Yes, it’s a cliché, I know. Go ahead, sue me.
I plan to publish here a series of travelogues, beginning with this one, detailing my trip to Paris. Originally, these travelogues were published in Montenegrin on my blog.
Good evening from Paris! After a little over 24 hours, it’s time to gather my first impressions, and I’m overwhelmed; so much so that I keep pulling out my notebook from my bag to jot down a few more thoughts every now and then.
This journey started with tears, believe it or not. I left my beloved pet for a month, which was the reason for those tears. I know she’s in safe hands, I know I’m going to enjoy a month away, but saying goodbye wasn’t easy for me; it’s the first time we’ve been apart for this long. Little Devil is in good hands, I don’t need to worry. And today we had a video call. That feeling subsided, thankfully.
It started subsiding already at 10,000 meters and 800 km/h. Then everything else seemed small. The Adriatic calmed me down, even at that altitude and speed. I’ve never had the chance to see Cetinje, Njeguši, and Boka bay from a plane before. In the blink of an eye. We continued towards Split, Pula, Venice, Verona, Geneva, Dijon; but by then there was already a sea of clouds and my thoughts were occupied by Mr. Fitzgerald and his ‘tender night’. I haven’t had that much focus while reading during a flight in a long time. Somehow it helped to calm the waves of various impressions.
Seventy pages further into the book, the friendly staff prepared passengers as we approached the destination. As much as Vienna looked like a beautiful faded analog photograph from the plane, Paris picked up all the vividness of colors. It’s also about the seasons, of course. I visited Vienna at the end of autumn, and spring is prominently marking the surfaces of Paris in a pointillistic manner. Throughout the flight, I had the feeling that I was traveling in time, not in space. And that is, in a way, actually true.
I always experience culture shock when I return from a trip. This time I became aware of it as soon as I arrived in Paris. Which is a bit unusual for me, I must admit. Because I quickly adopt all those cultural differences as something usual and normal; so quickly that I never realize it’s culture shock. I’m thinking about the smallest things like public transport, then onwards to the appearance and different races of people, openly expressed sexual orientation, ways of dressing…
After seven trains, trams, and buses, with two suitcases weighing a total of around 30kg, I arrived in front of the building. If my feminism didn’t die last night, it never will; I thought. Not everything went smoothly from the airport to the 17th arrondissement, but I made it. I’m pretty grateful for the guy I assessed as a gay German. Later in the metro, I made sure he was German. We don’t know if he’s gay too. By the way, the first impressions also include five friendly people per square meter and the death of prejudices that they won’t speak English. Some people are less fluent in it (mostly older ones), but they mix French and English and come to help on their own.
After carrying the suitcases to the fourth floor through narrow corridors without an elevator, then dealing with about 4–5 lock mechanisms I’m not used to at all, I finally reached my little room. No wonder the French added ‘Triumphal’ to the gate. That’s how my room’s door looked like after my unrests and struggles with my anima.
After a hurricane unpacking, I went down to the nearby “Les Amateurs” for a well-deserved beer successfully ordered in French. I immersed myself in the buzz and pouring out of my own thoughts into the new “Camina este mundo” notebook. At one point, I noticed a woman lying on the asphalt outside the café and a few people around her. No panic. It reminded me of those people who calmly dined while the fire was burning around them. Speaking of protests, I didn’t come across hordes of garbage on the streets, just one cute sign.
For a few moments, everyone fell silent, and then they continued as if nothing had happened. I felt like I belonged there, pretty satisfied with how much French I understood. By the end of my writing, the middle-aged madame was on her feet again, as if nothing had happened.
It was already too late, and after meeting my hostess, sleep overcame me; also after a little more bonding with Fitzgerald. Unlike his, my night wasn’t so tender. Reality somehow hit hard because everything seemed different from what I had imagined. And it’s not about the tendency to idealize things. I guess I expected to immediately see everything that was already familiar to me. It doesn’t work like that, of course.
The apartment looked different in the photos, although I’m still happy with my choice. But I also love camping, so what I consider passable and decent might not be a benchmark.
The charm of Parisian architecture is truly ubiquitous, but I think you have to love past times a lot to find beauty in a building that’s due for some serious renovation. Speaking of which, the view of my lovely neighborhood is obscured by scaffolding because the facade (magically on its own and without any workers) is being renovated. If this had happened about three years ago, I probably would have jumped out of my skin with nerves, along with the mild eccentricity of my quirky hostess. However, it can’t currently throw me off balance.
My host-roommate went to church today, and I was a bit puzzled since it’s Orthodox Easter. Curiosity pulled me for a millisecond to go with her. There’s no triumph in such a thought; I’m solely interested in architectural structures and the Parisian prism of Orthodoxy and religion in general. My choice actually wasn’t that drastically different because I decided to visit Père Lachaise and concluded that Parisians definitely know how to die. However, one thought amused me. The mausoleums are so narrow that probably only one living person could fit inside. Plus, most of them have doors. It all looked to me like some elevator exclusively going down. And then I thought… You enter that elevator, say hello to Hades. And if you’ve been good, you go to the Elysian Fields. If not… probably in seven trains, trams, and buses, with two suitcases weighing a total of around 30kg.
There’s something serene about cemeteries. And Père Lachaise is truly a special place. I concluded that it’s totally normal to sit on a bench in the cemetery, reading a book. If nothing else, in the company of great minds and those forever young. I didn’t ‘talk’ with everyone because my black Oxfords, as stiff and demanding as the average opinionated Balkan man, tired me out quite a bit. It somehow bothered me that I didn’t even exchange words with Morrison. Besides the crowd, there was also some fencing. If it weren’t for that crowd, it would have been difficult to find his resting place. Except on the map, of course. Balzac, Chopin, and Delacroix rest a little more peacefully. I didn’t say hi to the others today. There’s time.
The idea was to stop by a café that seemed charming on the way to the cemetery. Today’s choice was Le Paris Rome. The croissant was better than rumored, and the cappuccino hit the spot. I soaked in the beauty as I walked, but I must admit I felt like I was missing out on something. And then I realized I should curse social media. For the past month or two, my feeds have been mostly filled with posts about Paris. And I haven’t seen any of it. Nothing Instagram-worthy recognizable. So, I decided to head to the biggest cliché possible — the Eiffel Tower.
To uncover a secret… Although the Eiffel Tower is the first association with Paris and its iconic symbol, and although I’ve seen it countless times in photographs, on canvas; I’ve never been particularly thrilled. Today, succumbing to the jaws of popularity and too tired of staring at maps on my phone (I navigate better with analog; don’t ask me how), I peered out through the bus windows. And when the sight of the Eiffel Tower peeked through those windows, I rushed to the next stop as quickly as I could, even though it wasn’t my destination.
I can’t describe what that sight did to me. It froze me, sent shivers down my spine, and transported me to some plains at the same time. I wondered if it was real. I grabbed the map to see if it was THE Eiffel Tower or some mirage. But everything was there. And the Seine and the carousel and hordes of tourists. Something touched me, definitely. Tears slowly began to well up, I comfort myself that it was from the wind. I went down to the banks of the Seine and started writing again. And my stay there lasted, as did my disbelief at how much the Eiffel Tower impressed me, even though I delved into its history somewhere earlier. The landmark is truly magnificent and worth every engraved name that stands there.
There were a few more landmarks I stumbled upon along the way, but none left an impression as strong as the Eiffel Tower. The Opera Garnier was incredible, completely different from what I imagined. I guess I’ve always been more focused on its interior.
Place de la République also caught my attention, especially the homeless people sunbathing under the Liberté sculpture. Very “symbolic.”
In order to avoid the sea of tourists, and not go bankrupt on the first day, and also to take a break from the exhausting shoes, I returned to Rue Jouffroy-d’Abbans for an afternoon rest, video call, coffee, and changing shoes for the rest of the day.
I wanted to write, but I really couldn’t be bothered to carry my laptop, so I decided to go back “home” earlier and write more leisurely. At this stage, I remember encountering the rudest kid ever while waiting for the bus. It seems like parents are not just crazy back home.
I wasn’t sure where to go without staying out too late. I still have a slight concern from a safety perspective. Montmartre is relatively close, which fit nicely into my plans. And it was a bullseye. Even more of a straight-up feeling that I belong here. Despite all the stairs. Not that I fell in love, but I can totally imagine living in Paris and going to Montmartre every day; which answered my question I always ask myself when I travel — could I live here? In Paris, I could. For a while, for sure. Although my soul yearns for smaller places closer to the Mediterranean. Stay tuned.
After enjoying a small beer bought from a nice older man, I found my spot on the steps to watch the performance of musicians just below the Sacré-Cœur basilica; and tonight, my sacré-cœur went to the guy who sang Bob Dylan. The concept is as follows: One main performer plays and sings, and then people from the audience, tourists or locals, come up and sing something. The golden hour, the view of Paris, and art enthusiasts are quite enough for me for today.
And the last decision for today was to buy a bottle of wine and cheese and finish writing from my beautifully imperfect accommodation to the notes of Charles Aznavour.
Bonne nuit!
