Lieux de Mémoire

April 14 – 26, 2023
I’ve always thought of Paris as one of those rare places that you have to be born into to belong. Like in some weird way, Parisians were Parisians by virtue of geography and good luck alone, but this time around, something felt different. We arrived in a city grappling with civil unrest, economic downturn and the fire of a labour force impassioned by political intervention. Paris in the early part of 2023 was unlike any city I had ever experienced.

I recall in the days just before we were set to arrive, social media was littered with countless videos of vigilante justice – a response to the French government’s decision to push back the retirement age. The streets were flooded with fervent objectors eager to make their presence felt and in turn, honour the very resistance that French nationalism was born on. As an impartial spectator with no horse in the race, the prospect of diving head-first into the political crossfire didn’t exactly fill us with hope, but Paris, as it always has, continued to surprise.

There were no library fires, no violent outbursts, nor streetside savagery. Instead, sprinkled amidst the shuttered shop windows splashed with ‘Die Macron’ were everyday Parisians, unperturbed by the influx of tourists and the rising cost of living. It was from these most unexpected of architects that we learned the greatest lesson of all – to slow down.

To the French, the simple pleasures of life are not so much simple, as they are a necessity. Food is to be relished, coffee to be savoured and solitude to be respected. Cafes are busting with people; some meeting friends for drinks, others getting lost in a good book, but the impetus is always the same.

In Paris, you never dine alone; this magnificent city will always keep you company.

The city is more than just a place to do work or to inhabit – it is a living, breathing entity of its own and to truly appreciate its wisdom, you have to pay attention. So each morning, when we lumbered down all 108 steps of our fifth-floor apartment and spilled out onto the Rue de Cléry, I listened for the language of a waking city. The squeak of bike tyres on ageing streets, still speckled red from last night’s spilt wine, the clink of coffee mugs in unnecessary saucers, the patter of tiny paws on tiled shop floors; the streets spoke and we listened.

And suddenly, as if all at once, I understood what the playwright Sacha Guitry was trying to say when he quipped “Being a Parisian is not about being born in Paris, it is about being reborn there”. Perhaps good luck and geography have nothing to do with it, after all. Until next time.

NH

Reverse Reinvention

To fall in love with Paris is to fall in love again; with life’s simple routines, with the bustle of the street, with food and wine, and your own dreams. The cool mornings, each one a fresh start, began with coffee and daily bread.

The nights end, in tightly packed cafes with wine-stained lips and the air thick with the scent of cigarettes and a certain authenticity. A chance for reverse reinvention, not to become someone new, but to be the person you have always been. The streets of Paris, paved in revolution, are where you come home to yourself again.

We spent our days winding the streets and alleyways, getting lost in crowded stores with vintage clothing piled to the ceilings. Leather jackets, coats, scarves and boots, all discarded by Parisians, were our second skins. A chance to shed our old selves and try on something new; perhaps to become a Parisien, you begin by walking in their shoes.

TH