I had a bit of a love affair in Paris.
She was a big girl, who, for a small price, would happily lift me into her arms and fling me about the place until I was giddy with laughter. Then, when she was spent, shed'd throw me out onto the street, and I'd be forced to find a real person to talk to.
Her name was Metro and, when compared to the wheezing PE student that is Sydney's rail system, she is the most efficient piece of public property I've ever been introduced to. Though I've been told that, given time I'd get over her novelty, my map-nerd heart leapt whenever I had to work out the combination of correspondences I'd require to get through Paris.
I'd like to think that Paris began when I was still in Cork. My lift back to Limerick was stuck behind several lorries, which meant that I was sitting in front of the Court House (our meeting point) for about an hour. I had a book to read, so this was fine, except for the fact that a homeless man was running about the courthouse steps yelling "I'll fuck your life!!" at the cross on the church next door.
I didn't want to leave the area, but tried to look as interested in my book as possible (whole pages were flicked through without me registering their contents). Unfortunately I must've looked a bit like a crucifix, because I suddenly found myself the only person in the street, being approached by this man.
He stunk of beer and cigarettes, and his Tom Waits voice barked and wheezed, telling me that God was the only thing that would save him from the drink.
He grunted, "This hand," and grabbed mine, leaving a pause long enough for me to hope that his next words weren't "...has been up my arse," before relieving my fears by concluding, "...is giving transmitting peace and love to you."
I smiled at him, but this just encouraged him to the next degree of bum scare tactics. He launched at me, taking me up in his arms in a big hug, all the while yelling out for God to "bless this traveler". I would've been touched, but was too busy thinking about the dark jewel of mucous that I'd seen pulsating in his nostril.
Just before he left, the man's wet gravel voice let slip that he was not long for this world.
A car, plane and bus blur later, and I was walking around Paris in the early hours of the morning. Disgorged from a french electro club (filled with pretty things in leather, skinny jeans and scarves, dancing to the musical equivalent of the throaty Francophone 'r'), my new friends and I joined forces with a bunch of med students trying to find their way back home to Versailles. One of the boys told me just how hard his medical course was, and of the great stress that he was under.
"Several times now, I've tried to...how do you say..."
He mimed hanging himself. For some reason, I heard crunching gravel in the back of my mind: "I'm not long for this world".
This was the Paris that I've spent the last few days in, being throttled about in a speedy tin can and chatting to strangers. There was the drunk Montenegran who drew my portrait on the back of an envelope, the 16 year olds denouncing the French politcal system because anarchy is trendy for adolescents, beer-fuelled chats about Tolstoy (I haven't read any), my clumsy French somehow succeeding (though supported by friendly locals who knew English) and gypsies trying to beg off me with printed cards.
For the record, I only came to Paris to see a friend, and was never really in love with this city. Most of the romantic assocations with Paris are, sadly, over-priced and frequented by camera-snappers and pickpockets. But, having been here, I can see now why there is a long history of expatriates collecting here like hairs in a sink. Things seem more relaxed than in Sydney, definitely more relaxed than any culture grown out of the Protestant work ethic. Here you're allowed to sit in cafes and talk artistic dross -- some people have made careers out of it.
Does that mean I'm now in love with Paris?
No.
Not yet anyway.
But I do love that Metro. She is definitely a keeper, even when she stinks of urine.
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