Paris and other moments
The city is serpentine, stretching out in languid strokes, refined and simple. It does not run into itself like other old cities - chasing their tails with winding almost-intersecting lanes, near-misses of cobbled streets. It is sleek and effortless, the spirit of the Seine inhabiting the entire city. One long brushstroke, propulsive, inciting the whole space to keep in motion, keep doing. The glistening lights of buildings fill the air; glistening once, the true lightsource, and twice, its double in the river come night.
I am reminded of the stereotype of an inimitable Parisian nonchalance, which is real. I play pretend Parisienne, but know I am over-doing it. I am wondrous at the vision of the old city, and my mask is melting off.
It was stiflingly hot, the streets droning in the humidity. Several dreamy, sweltering days. They added to the mythic quality of the city - of artists flocking to Paris, photographers in the 30s and 40s coming in their hoards for artistic freedom. A light breeze, and the potential of the city, laden in the buildings and the iron balconettes felt endless. The clouds looked heavy, the sun bearing down on them with the weight of the day, the burden of a bloated summer day.
Sometimes, walking through a city, I see the qualities of other places embedded in them. Shades of Barcelona in Paris, in the long, hardy streets, and the sprawling centre, and the grandiose Notre Dame with its echoes of Sagrada Familia. Though, simultaneously, Paris is too chic to be anything but itself. The arches near the Place des Vosges, draw to mind the arched sides of Melbourne’s GPO. However, the soul of Paris would never sell out and convert an antiquated post office building into a multi-storey H&M.
La Serpent a Plume, I must mention. Set against the Place des Vosges, its depth deceived me, as I wove down into its sticky basement for a gig. The show itself - for the band Escape-ism - was incredible. The hot, stuffy basement was conducive to a wave of boiling excitement from punters. By the time Escape-ism took to the stage for their headline spot, the anticipation of the crowd was palpable, everyone pushing towards the front of the stage. It was a pulsing, white hot energy in the crowd that felt entirely new to me, transmitted from person to person. In the surging movement of bodies, someone spilt pastis on me, the aniseed scent embedding itself in my jeans, but I couldn’t bring myself to mind. It is one thing going to a gig with friends and feeling that bristling sense of interconnection as you jump to the music, but to feel such kinship with a group of complete strangers felt surreal, cut between the wave of blistering humidity, and the joy of live music.
On that second night, the humidity that had been clawing at the city all day finally broke. It was cool, and tranquil briefly, until the storm broke through. I think that is often the only way out of it. Taking it down, down, and through storms, restoring the balance in the mercury. The warm lighting of bars and street lights curled through the mottled grey of the sky and ignited the city. It was invigorated by the dark of the heavens and the tumult growing, windier and wetter.
And I walked back to my place, as bolts of lightning connected one building to another in the sky, and peels of thunder echoed down the street. The rain got heavier progressively, turning to vapor as it touched my still-clammy skin.
It began to feel like I was walking off the day, the raindrops relinquishing the memory of the day from me. Still it got heavier, and I was running. Gleeful, I watched people with more sense huddle under overhanging architecture, or in bars beaming their luminescence into the wet night. Thunder is one thing, but being caught in the process of renewal that a storm brings is another. By the time I was home, I was soaked to the skin, my sodden jeans clinging to my legs. But I was me again.
