“Let’s meet under the Eiffel Tower at 10am.”
How’s that for a statement you don’t hear every day? Particularly from your pals in humble Peterborough, 6,000 km from anything remotely Parisian?
It was March, 2016, and I was living in Morocco. I had some medical concerns that I felt weren’t being adequately addressed in Casablanca, and had planned a last-minute consultation with a specialist at the American Hospital in Paris. I was desperate for a conclusive diagnosis and action plan for my increasingly distressing health situation; but what I ended up with was so very much more enlightening than the coveted doctor’s report.
It happened that a dear friend and colleague from what feels like a past life was on vacation in Paris that same weekend, and would be meeting up with another colleague, who was now studying in France on an exchange program. And so here we were, three buddies from a little city in Canada, meeting up in Paris, of all places. At 10am. Under the Eiffel Tower. Sometimes life is a little surreal.
Just the previous week, I had had a one-hour layover at the same airport in Paris, en route to the not-so-sexy destination of Detroit. I was immediately infatuated with the Paris airport, and longed with all of my longing heart to leave the transportation hub and see the city. The real city. Of Paris. The Paris with the Eiffel Tower. And croissants. And here I was, four days later, doing exactly that.
“Let’s meet under the Eiffel Tower at 10am.” Will do.
I took the metro there from my trendy, IKEA-laden B&B. Everything was in French. Real French. Like I was in Paris or something. Paris.
Though I lost my metro ticket between stops, I did not lose myself, and emerged purposefully from the underground labyrinth, map in hand. Eiffel Tower, Eiffel Tower, let’s see. Which way to the Eiffel Tower?
I need not have troubled myself with directions. I turned one Parisian corner, and voila! There it was, arching gracefully toward the sky, as if it was the real Eiffel Tower or something. I guess I’ll just walk that way. Grinning goofily, and gasping with delight. Gaaaah, the Eiffel Tower!
There were hugs and shrieks of girl-joy when our under-the-Eiffel reunion was finally realized, and more sedate, but equally friendly greetings with our male companion. Here we were, three Canadians in Paris, ready for the climb of our lives.
The stairs themselves were really not so bad. Really: it’s not like it’s the CN Tower or something. Come on. And we stopped – constantly, it seemed, to look out over the city, or to read helpful signs designed for ignorant tourists who knew nothing about the Eiffel Tower except that it exists. In Paris. And has for a while.
The day was hazy, but the view was decidedly Parisian. Yup. This was it. Paris.
Now it happened that our male companion was a bit of a French history buff, who knew all about Napoleon, French architecture, the French Revolution, and various traitorous personalities from throughout Paris’s long and dramatic past. “See that? That’s where so-and-so was crowned,” he announced. “That’s where so-and-so was beheaded. That’s where so-and-so was buried. That’s where this and that and all those other things happened.” I listened intelligently, and tried to feel the history pulsing through this city.
But really, I’m an ignorant fool, who knows nothing about Paris except that the Eiffel Tower exists, along with a few famous cathedrals and art galleries. And seeing important places is not really so very awe-inspiring if you don’t know why they matter. Nor does being told why they matter really make much difference. The thing to do is read about them ahead of time, and imagine life as it once was there.
But with only four days to prepare, I did no such thing. My research never extended beyond Tranvelocity, Hotels.com, Google Maps, and SuperShuttle. How to get there. Where to stay there. The route to the hospital. And not much else. I certainly had no time to plan what I would do in the classiest city on earth; nor was my academic training at all informative, Napoleon being notably absent from the Canadian history syllabus.
So, our male companion regaled us with stories of the past that meant a whole lot of nothing to me, and I pretended not to be the imbecile I was.
Eventually, we descended, and walked down quaint streets, snapping photos of flower shops and “fromageries” (a.k.a. cheese heaven). We bought croissants, fruit, and fancy cheese, and picnicked there, under the tower, feeling very pleased with ourselves. Cultured. Cosmopolitan. We took pictures of each other posing in front of the tower, because our Facebook profiles demanded it, and one of us has this cosmic blog. And then, sadly, it was time for us to part.
Well, it was time for me to part, and make my way to the useless French doctor, who ended up doing nothing for me but give me a reason to go to Paris. I did not lose my metro ticket, or get lost. I was not late. I sat in the waiting room for a very long time, and in the doctor’s office for a very short time, and then, exhausted, made my way to my trendy Parisian home.
The sun was setting as I walked. I took the route along the Seine River, because I thought it was probably famous, and if not famous, at least pretty. And it was pretty. People seemed to live in elegant houseboats moored along the shores. I could see their TV screens flickering through the windows. What would it be like to live in a houseboat in Paris, I wondered? To have mailboxes on the edge of a river? To look out and see the lights of the city sparkling on the water by night, exactly as they ought to be?
When I got back to my own neighbourhood, I gave myself a little tour. I visited the bakery, the wine store, the fruit stand, and the butcher. I bought croissants, red wine, brie, strawberries, and roast beef. I climbed the three flights of stairs into my flat, turned up the heat, lit some candles, and laid out my feast. I snuggled under my blanket, nibbling on my French delicacies, and set about the task of planning out the rest of my weekend.
Notre Dame, of course. I must see Notre Dame. On Sunday. They have Gregorian Mass. I’ll go to that. If anyone could appreciate Gregorian Mass on a Sunday morning in Notre Dame, it would be me. Good.
What else? Well, the Louvre, of course. The Mona Lisa. She’s been waiting her whole life to see me. And I am an artsy artist person. I will love the Louvre. It is sure to induce one existential ecstasy after another. Yes, I definitely must see the Louvre.
But there must be more to Paris than art, churches, towers, and croissants. There must be real people who live here, and have lives that involve everyday things. There must be a real, current, modern Paris that isn’t obsessed with the likes of Napoleon.
I had no interest in night clubs, bus tours, or high fashion. No, I needed something more – what? More me. And here it was:
This vast flea market, founded in the late 19th century and said to be Europe’s largest, has more than 2500 stalls grouped into a dozen marchés (market areas), each with its own speciality (eg Paul Bert for 17th-century furniture, Malik for clothing, Biron for Asian art). There are miles upon miles of ‘freelance’ stalls; come prepared to spend some time.
Oh. My. Goodness. It’s Me. Right to the very core of Me-ness. I must go to this place. I must. I must.
But before I had time to properly plan my route, I fell fast, fast, fast asleep.
No worries, I thought groggily. I’ll just take a few seconds to look it up in the morning. On the way to the Louvre.
And very soon you will see the happy folly of these not-so-well-laid plans…
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