I had to stop over in a town called Nancy on the way to Paris to break up the journey. Nancy is the capital of the Lorraine province and my trusty guide books tells me it is a nice place with a lovely pedestrianised centre. But my experience of Nancy was a little off the tourist trail. Instead I got of an insight into life of an immigrant in France and life as a Muslim woman in a foreign country. Short version of this tale: basically, due to my over confident French I ended up spending an afternoon sat on a double bed in a little hotel room with an Arab lady who spoke neither French nor English. It was a very strange and uncomfortable afternoon, when she started getting angry because she couldn’t work my phone and was asking me for money; luckily it was time for me to leave. This was perhaps the most ‘real’ experience of any daily culture I would have on the trip, but the next day I was happy to be back on my bike heading to the iconic capital city: Paris.
Entering Paris is like entering a lawless state. In terms of driving that is. It is crazy, people drive where they want, scooters sneak though any gap possible and I, well I sat patiently in the chock-a-block traffic like a good little tourist, quietly cooking inside my helmet and protective clothing. Up until now I hadn’t really had a clue what language was being spoken in the various place I was, which I know is very ignorant but that’s the British way. I have noticed though that the lack of language skills is linked to the English language. Out of the many many different nationalities I have met it is only the Americans, British and Australians who don’t speak and other language. Anyway, I can speak some French; at least I like to pretend that I can, but just being able to speak that little amount really made a difference to my experience in Paris. Being able to actual talk to the locals and the not so local in their language was so much more exciting and you could tell it was appreciated, and defiantly got me some cheeky benefits The receptionist in my hostel, an American living in Paris who painted watercolours, and me insisted in conversing in our franglais as we had a little chat each day, while everyone around us spoke English.
I was staying in the Montmartre district of Paris. The place where all the well known artists used to hang out; Van Gogh, Picasso, Cezanne, etc, just up the road from the Moulin Rouge, where apparently all the dancers are Australian nowadays. With just the red light district separating it from central Paris the change in atmosphere and ‘vie quotidian’ was refreshingly different. A little bubble of traditional/county France in the heart of the capital. I loved it. My favourite street I decided in the whole of Paris, was the street with the cafe from Amelie on. No supermarket instead green grocers, butchers, fishmongers, bakers, cafes, newsagents and chocolatiers lined this street. It had a real buzz about it as people shopped for their daily supplies. The other streets in Montmartre were a lot sleepier, the whole area felt like it had been left behind whilst the rest of Paris had developed into a competitive and cosmopolitan capital city. And as cheesy as it is to say you could really see and feel why it was this particular part of Paris had inspired and become home to so many artists who work I probably appreciate and understand more after living in this area for a few days. My last night in Paris was sat at the Sacra Coeur watching the sunset over the city, an Italian guitarist entertained the hundreds of other spectators and I chatted to a guy from Senegal who invited me to his flat next to the Moulin rouge to have a smoke. The view will be the same for years to come but the people around you are what give you your own, personal experiences.
I wonder if Paris will every change, or how it will ever change. Building in the city is very strictly monitored and you are not allowed to build higher than 6 stories. The whole appearance of the city seems to be solely down to a guy called Haussmann who by the sounds of it pretty much demolished the city to make way for the wide boulevards and large town houses. He must be very proud as the whole look of Paris is down to him, the city which is seen as sexy and fashionable. Obviously when talking about Paris it would be hard not to mention the Eiffel Tower: which seems quite imposing and out of place next to the uniformed boulevards. But you have to love it; it’s probably a national offense not to.
For me it is the cafe culture which defines Paris. In Liverpool we have a pub on every corner, in Paris it’s a cafe on every corner and then some. There is barely space for McDonalds and Starbucks. The classical yet tacky signage or the establishments which decorate the streets haven’t changed in 50years, and all the seat sit facing the street, poised for people watching, very helpful if you are alone though! The cafes reflect the French love of food. The simple strong flavours, a camembert sandwich is literally camembert in bread, and the specialist shops (butcher, baker, etc) which have died out in many other places remain king. A Frenchman won’t eat a baguette if it older than 3 hours, and so he shouldn’t. The French have class and high standards which can sometimes be mistaken for rudeness and ignorance....but chuck in a bit of franglais and everyone is smiling.
The last stop for the trip was Calais and well it may be like a French speaking Skegness, it is fun watching the ferries come and go. It turned out to be a much nicer place than I imagined, the ice cream was a little unusual and the old men in Speedo’s were the local eye candy, but the crazy lady behind the reception defiantly made it a worthwhile stopover.
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