POSTCARD FROM PARIS
Romancing the city
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Paris means different things to different people but everyone's passionate about it...
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Photo: AFP
Enduring: The Eiffel Tower aglow.
WHEN it comes to Paris, everybody has an opinion.
"Ernest Hemingway, George Orwell, James Joyce... " gasps a friend. "You should sit in cafes they frequented, and write poetry." The seasoned backpacker beside her scoffs. "Paris is alluring because it's mysterious. Ignore the tourist sights and wander through its arrondissements (neighbourhoods)." "Gorgeous Frenchmen," coos another friend, as she goes into paroxysms about how everyone simply must have a summer romance in Paris. Preferably conducted from the Eiffel Tower at night, apparently.
I suppose it's inevitable, with a city loved so deeply by so many. And while it might ooze with millionaires, this is also a city that's kind to travellers, whether they're riotous students, dreamy voyagers drawn by the city's romance or determined tourists keen on adding "Paris" to their photo albums. If you have energy and an open mind, a youth hostel could be your best option to really experience Backpackers Paris, and live Party Paris at the same time. There's the "Peace and Love" hostel, a hippy hangout popularly known as "party central". Certainly not for anyone intending to waste time sleeping. Or "Lucky Youth", where up to six people aged between 18 and 28 share a Parisian style apartment characterised by communal cooking, blaring music and a cheerful mess. A hectic social life is assured. After all, they promise "mixed rooms only".
Warm and friendly
I finally choose the gorgeous MIJE (les Maisons Internationales de la Jeunesse et des Etudiants) set in what they call "aristocratic residences" dating from the 17th century. It's warm, friendly and has that "buzz", without deteriorating into a full-scale rave party. There's bonding over hot chocolate and baguettes in the morning and long conversations over delightfully juvenile card games at night. And for atmosphere, high ceilings, heavy doors, a majestic wooden staircase and the imposing gothic-style church across the cobbled Rue des Barres outside. Its bells peal every hour through the night, and in the morning I wander into a dawn service: the church lit dramatically with candle light and nuns in striking white habits singing beautiful old French hymns.
If it's Paris, it must be the Eiffel Tower. My French friend who gallantly offers to take me up has been through the routine "maybe five, six times. And the crowds, always horrible!" It's difficult to stay stylishly blasé, though, when the tower lights up at night, flashing animatedly for the first 10 minutes of every hour. We clamber into the glass lift, and rise swiftly above Paris, looking for the distinctive shapes of illuminated Notre Dame Cathedral, Champs Elysees and the quietly reflective Seine snaking its way through the city. Almost six million people go up every year to see the same sight. "And like any woman, La Tour Eiffel also needs a lot of maintenance," grins a guide. "And paint." Chauvinism aside, the tower is repainted lovingly every seven years. The process takes 15 months, 60 tons of paint and 25 painters using only brushes dipped in "Tour Eiffel brown". Now that's high maintenance.
The Père-Lachaise Cemetery also draws visitors from all over the world. The outrageous Oscar Wilde — novelist, poet and playwright — lies here and in keeping with tradition, his admirers kiss his art-deco memorial wearing lipstick. Then there's Moliere, Frédéric Chopin, Marcel Proust... And Jim Morrison. As much a rebel in death as he was in life. "His fans break in, and stay the night," shrugs my friend, shaking his head in disbelief. "The security guards are always throwing them out." Apparently the permanent crowds, accompanied by periodic vandalism forced the cemetery to hire a full-time security guard for the grave. Though that's evidently not enough. Other parts of the cemetery have been defaced with arrows indicating the direction toward "Jim"!
Not a bit snooty
People constantly whine about how snooty the Parisians are, but I quickly learnt that if you speak to them in French — no matter how ungrammatical — they respond warmly. Besides the numerous people who gave me directions, flailing their arms about as they instructed me to turn "a gauche and then a droite", there was the kind old man who tried to talk me out of going to the Louvre, so I could see some less-hyped museums. (I went to the Louvre anyway.) And the delightfully chivalrous stranger who insisted on walking me to the metro station on a cold, rainy morning, carefully holding an umbrella over my head, and reassuring me that I would make it in time for my train. (Thanks to him I did.) A spirited Parisian girl finally decoded the mystery of "haughty Paris". "It really annoys me when they tourists walk up to me and start asking for directions in English, without even bothering to ask me whether I speak it," she says. "Why do they assume the whole world speaks English?" She's helpful, though. "I give them directions, all right," she grins. "In perfect French."
SHONALI MUTHALALY
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