This City Gives Me Bones : A Paris Love Story
The tale of a city that reveals it’s loving arms and it’s gritty underbelly in one embrace.
There is love for a city and then there is the poetic catharsis of emotion that exists in my soul purely for Paris.
Yeah, I know, there are a myriad of reasons why Paris has been hyped as the ‘city of love’ and also as the city of disappointment (look up Paris Syndrome). I am oft found on Twitter, pleading with people to give the city a second shot after hearing the same old story “I don’t know why people rave about it”.
I get it, not everyone gels with every city.
But here is my love letter to Paris, and a little glimpse into why the city is the scaffolding to ‘mes os oisifs’ (my idle bones).
Where it all started
My mother would have you believe that my love affair with Paris began in the womb. She visited while pregnant with me, gave me a french middle name, and set me up for a life of France adoration. Dropping French words into english sentences left me with an appreciation, if not any actual useful knowledge, of the language.
My dad had 1960s history in the city, his bohemian tales eluded me for the most part, or perhaps they were too wild to share with his child. It left me with a romanticised notion of Paris.
This was a far cry from my own first experience with the city. There was little romance about staying in a grotty hostel and being so cash-strapped that we had to ration our morning chunk of baguette from the hostel breakfast.
Don’t worry, after my less than perfect first visit to Paris when I was 19, I returned innumerable times after that and it was redeemed. Just goes to show, you shouldn’t let one experience of a place colour your longterm view.
“But it’s filthy”
Aren’t all big cities?
The tired old trope of Paris being full of dog sh*t isn’t something I have ever been able to rationalise with my own experiences. That doesn’t mean a mis-step into some doo-doo doesn’t happen, but it certainly isn’t any moreso than other big cities.
The metaphorical grit however, now that is something that spills over and embraces those willing to open their hearts to Paris’s underbelly. Mixed with the romanticism of the place, the beauty of the vistas, and the myriad of stories that have unfolded in its wake, Paris is filthy, but deliciously so…
Poets like it dirty
‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure’ — isn’t that the saying? If you wouldn’t mind indulging me for a moment, I need to shoehorn a point.
A city which is a little rough around the edges can be enticing, interesting, and may I use that most controversial of words, authentic. And while the manicured gardens of the Tuileries, and the picture-postcard tourist photos don’t advertise it, this city is a living, breathing beast. It is full of real people, living stupid messy lives.
It is this dynamic friction which has drawn creatives to Paris across the centuries. From the 18th century art salons, a gift of the Enlightenment; to the literary Modernists like Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway, Paris inspires because of difference, not because of sameness.
Oh, and have you read Verlaine, Ducasse, Rimbaud? Those poets were filthier than any Parisian sidewalk!
The very things which may turn some tourists off a place, are what draws others. The people who fall in love with Paris are usually the ones who can appreciate both the grandiosity and the grit of the place all at once.
Connections and stories
I once met two men on the Pont des Arts, one a well-dressed alcoholic, the other an addict. We sat and played guitar, talked about our lives, drank Muscadet, and reflected on the ability for Paris to smash humanity together. In that moment, we were all free from judgement — just some humans sharing ideas and a wonderful view.
I’ve had countless encounters like this in Paris, random acts of kindness, riveting conversations, and chance meetings with people who know people I know. In a city bulging at the seams, Paris brings people together. And luckily for us, there is more opportunity for these connections than there is for the bad stuff.
Paris gives me bones
Paris has been my companion through so many formative moments. We are like old friends, and it doesn’t matter how long I’m away, when I arrive, I feel at home.
I have found myself there, lost myself there, translated ‘Dear John’ letters for random strangers there, and watched humanity pass me by when I didn’t want to be seen. Paris is a city where you can be connected or anonymous, it is entirely up to you.
Êtes-vous prêt à donner une autre chance à Paris?
