Gallivanting in Paris

The very mention of Paris evokes images of the Eiffel tower, the Arc de Triomphe with its bustling Champs Elysees and the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. But there is another side to this vibrant city, away from the glitter and hype of its association with fashion, its shimmering nightlife populated by fantasies of the cancan dancers in Moulin Rouge or the feathers and sequin clad performers at Le Lido.

For a start, the myth that the French snub those who cannot speak their language is just that — a myth. We were courteously and smilingly served, helped, guided by the citizens of France of all ages and genders with only a Bonjour and Merci and je suis désolé to go between the husband and me. And, given the French proclivity to swallow half the sounds and syllables in a word and render them silent, our painfully mangled pronunciation of place names when asking for directions did not curdle anyone’s face with anger — not even a frown! Well, frowns of incomprehension, maybe, as when dear husband persisted in pronouncing Boucicaut (boosiko) as booshicot or even, horror of horrors, booshiki!

The very first challenge that a budget traveller faces in Paris is its vast metro network. Built a century ago, most of the stations do not have lifts or escalators and carrying luggage up and down its various levels for the interchanges and links is a daunting task. But one can stop and take a breath and listen to the beautiful music that echoes down the winding corridors underground as, rounding a turn, one suddenly comes upon a solitary artiste or even an entire orchestra. 

The Paris metro is to be experienced to be believed. There is an entire subterranean Paris that rumbles and ferries day and night and is the chosen mode of movement through the city. From youngsters guzzling spirits leaping on and off the trains with enviable energy to the elderly tottering in with sticks or crutches; from casually thrown on clothes and scruffy hair to immaculately clad and coiffed Parisians, the metro is a microcosm of the city, awash with liquid sibilants and nasalized vowels…And, oh, the thrill of suddenly getting a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower all shimmery at night as one approaches the Bir Hakeim station where the metro runs above ground!
The Sacre Coeur is on a hilltop which has a spectacular view of Paris. The rich interiors with nuns singing in a choir is so beautiful and serene that one can sit there for hours, just soaking it all in. There are musicians on the steps outside as well with funky numbers in stark contrast to the strains inside the church but appealing nevertheless as people picnic on the grass and enjoy the Paris postcard view. The funicular takes you up and down for the price of a metro ticket and allows passengers with metro cards to use it as well.

The sense of history and literature as one meanders through the streets of Paris is overwhelming.  Going past the famous hotel Maxim’s; the cafés that were once the haunt of intellectuals — Café de Flores, Les Deux Magots frequented by Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir and often visited by Hemingway; Café De La Mairie where Sartre and Camus met for the last time before their famous falling out; the Comedie Francaise theatre so inextricably associated with Sarah Bernhardt; the Gothic Notre Dame cathedral on the bank of the Seine that evokes thoughts of Victor Hugo, Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame…

Having seen the Hofburg palace in Vienna where Marie Antoinette was born and the palace of Versailles where she lived, it is poignant to drive past the Conciergerie where she spent the last days of her life in imprisonment and the church of Madeleine (unusually without a steeple) where her body was thrown into an unmarked grave after she was beheaded. And then there is Les Invalides with its magnificent golden dome where Napoleon is buried. 

Paris is undeniably a city of art that is not just confined to museums — as evidenced by the huge, nude, beautifully proportioned statues in public places, artistically wrought fountains…and it is exciting to spot the statue of liberty replica on a cruise down the Seine (the one in New York was made in France and sent to America as a gift).

As always, it is the people that one sees or meets in a city that stay on in one’s mind, bringing back the moments as nothing else can. The elderly lady on the metro for instance, with a lovely face ravaged by time and stylishly dressed in spite of the cast on her leg and sticking plaster on her forehead that went past her hairline to the faded blonde hair and whose remote eyes haunt me still…Gurinder from Punjab who works as a house painter and who insisted on taking us for dinner one night to a restaurant that proudly announced itself as Indian but which was owned and staffed wholly by Pakistanis (!)…

The petite old woman, who stopped by as we stood, lost on the sidewalk, trying to figure out how to get to our hotel and cheerfully plodded around the block with us to locate it, went in and confirmed that there was a room booked for us…the cleaning lady at the hotel who, bundled into hardy overalls when we checked in, was mopping the corridor and who, half an hour later walked out in stilettos, long jacket, chiffon scarf and a feathered downbrim hat perched jauntily on her head (with slouchy me in faded jeans and tee gaping admiringly in her wake)…the young man from Puerto Rico, Ernest, handling the reception desk at night, who printed out metro schedules and maps and spent precious hours poring over them with us to ensure that we didn’t waste time on detours or get lost during changeovers. And to whom, after a specially useful session working out places to visit and good routes, I said overwhelmed with gratitude ‘J’aime Ernest’ (I love you!) and was rewarded with a surprised ‘Merci’ and then a dazzling smile and a quick hug…

And Paris at night is simply magical!  A true reflection of the effervescent city that claims your heart and captivates your senses... 

The author is a professor of English at IGNOU, New Delhi. She is a creative writer and translator