Something in the air

If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast. -Ernest Hemingway

Perhaps somewhat over-quoted; Hemingway is but one among many Anglophones seduced by the charm of the French capital, falling head-over-heels for the city of love or light, (choose your cliché…) and finding unmatched inspiration in Parisian flaneries across a city diverse in its traits and unique in its appeal.  Be it the wandering streets of the historic Marais, the imposing and impressive stature of the grands boulevards, the pleasant surprise found in the tranquillity of the jardins…. each finds their own bonheur amongst a selection that is truly gourmand. This American writer was not alone in discovering the artistic appeal of the arrondissements. In the 1920s Hemmingway lived down the road from James Joyce; and George Orwell was to be found drafting “Down and Out in Paris and London” just a few streets away. The Fitzgerald’s, Ford Madox Ford and Henry Miller are just a few other members of the soon thriving Anglophone crowd frequenting the Rive Gauche. From the Jardins de Luxembourg to the street-cafés of St Germain de Pres, this district became a hub of literary and intellectual activity. The expatriates rubbed shoulders with their French counterparts, such as Camus, Duras and the famous Sartre-Beauvoir duo to name but a few, who were to be spotted in the same establishments during a decade that was all about exchange and experimentation… for both the emerging modern novel, and its author.

The 1920s in-crowd aside, Paris was and remains a city with a mysterious and thoroughly enjoyable lure. As whimsical as it may sound, there seems to be just something in the air that enables you to see past the stuffy metros, rude waiters, and claustrophobic crowds and maintain a spring in your step despite intern-blues and the recent heat-wave conditions. What's more, over the past few weeks I have had the pleasure of sharing my enthusiasm for all things-Paris with some Anglophone company of my own. The escapades of the petit-frère meant a Saturday that paid a nice tribute to our literary friends, pic-nic-ing at Luxembourg, browsing for new reading material, and a performance of Sartre’s Huis Clos. Spoilt as I am, the following weekend saw Rachel land at Charles de Gaulle for the first time, bringing with her an even greater dose of eager-spirit (after a first glimpse of Eiffel Tower, the word beautiful was uttered at least 5 times). After yet again hanging out in the 6^th (with a stop at Notre-Dame essential for the first-timer), and musing as to what to do with our Saturday-evening, we were delighted to stumble across another occasion for theatrical diversion: The Tour Vagabonde, a temporary, wooden, Elizabethan style theatre with a final showing of Romeo and Juliet at 8pm. Somewhat different to the intensity of the previous weekends existentialist-viewing, we were not disappointed by our choice of evening entertainment. It is rare to find a company that can pull off a classic interpretation of a work so loaded with history and audience expectation, and even rarer to do so in translation. The 3 hours in authentic conditions (i.e. overheating on a on a cramped bench) were fully worth it. Paris doesn’t fail to provide quirky diversions and pleasant surprises, with enough to nourish both fleeting visitors and the more faithful settled inhabitant. Time and energy is running short for this Parisienne of passage, sadly leaving much untested. I will however be taking with me my small taste of city bearing such a mysterious charm. And since the feast isn’t going anywhere, I can always come back for seconds.

Exploration, Escapism, and the Paris culture-trail.

Now settled into life in Paris 15eme, but with the gradual fading of Monday-morning excitement, and the appeal of a familiar and slow-paced summer at home growing with every hot and crowded metro journey, it could be said that this traveller is experiencing some French-fatigue.  At the same time, in Paris the guidebook-in-hand-clan is ever growing. Queues, cameras, tour-guides with clipboards and the streets resounding with a cacophony of languages anything other than the local. The tourists have arrived. En masse. And if you can’t beat them, why not join them. This has been my line of thought over the past couple of weeks, as instead of counting down the days and moaning about my job, its more enjoyable working out Ellen-suited ways to “make the most” of my time left on French soil.  Profitons-en!

Although not feeling any desire or need to embark on a sightseeing whirlwind, I have had fun with my own itinerary of cultural exploration Paris-style. A surprising discovery of mine has been that art museums actually are enjoyable. Formerly one who would head straight for the café, last weekend I decided to give it another go and visited the Musée de l’Orangerie, small but impressive, and housing the Nymphéas by Claude Monet, 8 paintings made for this space. In no way a connoisseur, I learnt what “impressionism” meant, and that I actually quite liked the landscapes and colours. Interestingly enough, Monet’s intention was to encourage calm reflexion, offering with his painting “the refuge of peaceful meditation”, somewhat fitting for my current all-frenched-out state of mind. Having enjoyed my artistic-debut, this weekend took me to the Musée d’Orsay, and a slightly different exhibition on gothic romanticism. Cue works inspired by Paradise Lost, nightmarish scenes, and an insight into the somewhat disturbed minds of French artists and intellectuals post-revolution.  A contrast to the previous discovery, but the same (free) pleasure from whiling away a couple of hours mingling with the artsy-bourgeois (and tourists) and learning a thing or two along the way. I have not yet made it to the Louvre; we’re building up to that one.

It goes without saying by now that I am one for a brief escape from the stress of the day-to-day with a story or several, and as the theatre-scene is not something to be skimmed over, I thought I’d brave the slightly impossible choice and find a performance to lose myself in. First stop was a slightly off-the-tourist-track event, located in a hidden theatre in the 20^th arrondissement: L’habitude de la liberté – a marathon literary reading in which 72 female writers read/performed extracts from their books/plays over a period of 24 hours. Admittedly not committed enough to camp out the for the entirety of the spectacle, I did however sit in on 6 mini-performances, feeling a little out of place amidst trendy Parisian feminists and arty-types, but enjoying the short stories (that left me wanting to read/watch the next scene!). Inspired to treat myself to more theatrical moments, a student-friendly price brought me last night to Inventaires, a play in which 3 women each recounted the events of their lives using an object as the stimulus for their story. A simple piece, with the focus all on the performance of the actresses, in one of those small spaces where you feel more like you’re in someone’s living room than at the theatre. The intimate setting and powerful delivery of harsh truths and poignant realities left me completely absorbed, immersed in the significance and very sounds of each word and phrase uttered with complete precision and intended effect. Stories told and acted make you even more susceptible to complete immersion, leaving you refreshed if not a little disorientated when the lights come up and you re-join reality and the metro home.

One thing this year has taught me is how refreshing it is to become immersed in something different, provoking reflection, or simply indulging sheer escapism.  Be it anxiety, homesickness, or the “I’ve had enough now” phenomenon, putting aside unsettled thoughts to fix your energy on something stimulating and distanced from the reality is both beneficial, and enjoyable. Be that art, theatre, or the classic good-read, sometimes a little bit of culture takes you a long way. 

Living like a local (or just taking it easy)

Three weeks later and I am pleased to inform that I am adjusting to both the requirements and the routine of the life of a stagiare, having passed the clearly crucial milestones of having company at lunchtime and learning the art of strategic metro shuffling for the journey home.  Professionally there has not been that much development (it seems diversity of tasks for the interns is not high on the list of company priorities) but with a stimulating environment and fading of the fear of making minor mistakes, working life remains enjoyable enough. Besides, as one is frequently reminded, we all have to start somewhere.

The passing of the month of May also brought with it a slightly unsettling alteration of plans, leaving me with an unanticipated change of desk and view (along with the altogether unexpected dose of sunshine) in which to continue the Parisian story. After a windy weekend with the female members of the Grace family (making up for in company what the weather failed to provide), spent strolling and sightseeing in a leisurely manner with many pit-stops for refreshment (apologies for authorial repetition, but some things will never change) the pace picked up slightly following a necessary demenagement and consequently a week spent searching for my next abode and not really achieving anything other than honing my awareness that French landlords are even more willing to exploit desperate students than their English counterparts. Just as I was on the brink of switching from appartager.com to flybe, a last minute rushed response to an add and flying visit left me 24hours (and a traumatic metro journey across Paris) later bedding down yet again in another strange room, slightly disorientated but relieved to not be on the plane back to England.  And being the new lodger of a retired editrice (tiens! qui aurait cru? fancy that!) means I am now, quite literally, surrounded by books. In further reminders of Gods humbling faithfulness and provision, I have found myself not only with a new place to leave my toothbrush, but an environment wonderfully suited to my current needs. 

Furthermore, swapping student-artsy-chic of the 5^th arrondissement for the leafy residential Paris 15eme, it’s not just the house rules and the tea-making facilities that I am assessing. With the stress of the 4^th house move on French soil in the past 8 months leaving me a little on the weary side, there has been nothing to write home about in terms of Parisian adventure since we last spoke. However this has left me well placed for trying out living-like-a-local in light of weather too warm to brave the metro and a district rather enjoyably devoid of tourists.

Highlights thus far have been the market that happens on a Sunday morning, quite literally on my doorstep and encompassing an impressive part of the surrounding streets. I was a little overexcited at my first real French market (in Paris of all places), and bought more fruit and vegetables (from a variety of stall holders) than it was possible to consume in a week. Today was spent catching some rays (i.e. applying sun cream in the shade) in the local park, persevering with a novel so as not to make hasty prejudgments of Camille Laurens halfway through her work (though I’m pretty sure her collection on my bookshelf ends here), as well as the lighter activity of some picnic-people watching. The 15^th is also complete with a (wait for it) marché du livre on Saturdays and Sundays. This isn’t entirely helpful considering my penchant for book buying and the less-than-generous salary of a stagiare, but I’m not complaining. Perhaps I will need to limit my strolling in that direction though, considering I have been here 7 days and already have two new additions to what is going to be a rather heavy suitcase home.

The sunshine has now been rather meanly pushed aside by some threatening clouds on the horizon, and there is rain forecast for tomorrow, bringing what I hope is only a brief interlude in the long awaited onset of summer*. Luckily once more the company will outshine the showers, as on the agenda is a reunion with an old friend from Alsace, une francaise among a few that point to the bright side of sometimes unsettling changes of country, city, and postcode. Welcome encounters and new friends make each move memorable, and lunching with Annie in Paris will be a surreal but thoroughly enjoyable reminder of quite how much adventure has been had this year. Even if that adventure looks more like day-to-day french-life, with all the moving around or perhaps just sitting in the park that goes with it.

*I have noted an all too frequent referral to the weather in my musings, and have come to the conclusion that 8 months in France has provoked a necessary reaffirmation of my English-ness to avoid confusion and ease the eventual reinstitution into the green and pleasant land. 

Ellen Grace, Assistante Editoriale.... aka, the intern.

With the preceding tales of cultural excursions and lazy afternoon strolls, you’d think I was on a not-so-mini-break in the capital, wearing the corners of my Gilbert&Jeune map-book and trying to avoid the flock of tourists that May has brought to Paris (despite the rain). However, regardless of appearances I am not a 9-5 sightseer. Au contraire, my primary role is that of stagiare. For those unfamiliar to the concept of interning, it boils down to a handy exchange of interesting and necessary work experience for the student, in return for the financial benefit of cheap labour for the employer. Add to this a French-speaking environment, and an excuse to live in Paris.... it sounds good to me.

With the official title assistante editoriale, I am in effect working as an intern in the editorial department of a small publishers, banlieu-located, and interestingly eschewing all normal conventions of the sector. The vision of Edilivre is to open up the market to any inspired writer, regardless of experience or genre, allowing amateurs of any level to see their work on the shelf. Granted they might not be about to win the prix Goncourt 2013 but at the very least budding authors can make the move from a 106-page word document to something that actually resembles a book. And working in editorial means my role is in this very process.  My main duties thus far have been in the initial “selection” of manuscripts, which involves “reading” what we receive, and offering a summary/comment/score to facilitate the next stage. Some are interesting; some need work, and others downright questionable. Not my place to judge whether the vocation of certain authors has been wisely chosen, I put it down to literary democracy and diversity, and move on. Aside from reading, I am also implicated in the editing side of things. Checking and logging modifications (primarily the small details, but hey, getting the spelling of the authors name right is pretty important) has been the latest learning-curve, with the main challenge being the navigation of a rather confusing online administrative platform, and colleagues who combine both being incredibly busy with being incredibly Parisian, resulting in much interpretation (on my c.v. I’ll put “initiative”) rather than actually comprehending the instructions I receive. 

Though the tasks may be somewhat repetitive, the environment a little unique, and my place categorically at the bottom of the book-chain, I am learning none the less what it means and takes to work in editorial. And my small input in the creation of a book, plus a significant amount of time spent reading (however varied the material), means it’s not with reluctance that I resume my post of a Monday morning. After 7 months “working” as a language assistant, adapting to the 9-6 rhythm of full-time employment has proved a slight challenge, but for now I am relishing the routine and sense of productivity. It is also a relief that the commute i.e. twice daily battle with the French underground, is proving manageable. Having mastered the art of reading standing/squashed up against a metal pole, I make the most of my morning 50 minutes to read (this time material of my choosing). That is of course in between seeing the funny side of being so involved in fellow passengers conversations it’s almost impolite to not join in, and playing a favourite metro-game of sussing out the literary tastes of other commuters (you can tell a lot about a person from their livre de poche). Thus passes a day in the life of the assistante editoriale, literally book-ended and worthy of a few stories of its own. 

Premier pas à Paris

Errer est humain, flaner est Parisien

To wander is human, to stroll is Parisien…

(Victor Hugo, Les Miserables)

Typically French isn’t it, to claim an activity universally undertaken is somewhat more meaningful when its them doing it… add à la française to anything, and its ultimately, infinitely, just better.  My first week in the capital has afforded me plenty of occasions to embark the Parisian stroll, aided by the fact that two bank holidays (also typically french: declaring un jour ferié at every opportunity) meant an initiation into the hard life of a stagiaire (more on this later) that consisted of a 3-day working week. Thus, map in hand I embarked on many a meander, ditching the tourist checklist for a more spontaneous (trying something new here) approach to discovering my new home.

Wednesday, being a day devoid of sunshine, took me to the Pompidou centre – home to a modern art gallery, alternative-cinemas, other random exhibitions and a cool view over the city. Despite being hardly a connoisseur, I benefited from a guiltless free entry (France likes 18-25 year olds, or at least is on a mission to make us cultured) to browse the galleries and generally feel artsy and (fake) Parisian, before indulging in some people watching in their conveniently placed mezzanine café. Parfait.

Thursday saw a rather elegant choice of location for a day’s balade, less cultural but equally appreciated. After pause at the Arc-de-Triomphe (they’ve even put a little seating area opposite for this purpose – it is after all, a cool way to eat your packed lunch) I meandered my way down the Champs-Elysées, browsing but not buying, before finding myself in and pulling up a seat at the Jardin de Tuileries (another beautiful green space no one told me Paris actually contained) to work out where I was and how I would get home. Convenience had it that I wasn’t too out of my way to take a detour home past another, if different, discovery: Gilbert Jeune, a second hand bookstore that covers 5 floors (and this is just the literature department). Many a student is to be found on Place St Michel picking up a livre de poche or 3, and I am now amongst the regulars that have to limit themselves to one-a-visit (these visits will have to get less frequent) for the sake of bank-balances and suitcases alike.

The weekend brought with it a little less warmth, but luckily a well-timed Sunday-educational-excursion (last weeks got good feedback from all participants). On the itinery was a visit to the apartments of Victor Hugo, situated in an impressive building in the 4^th arrondissement overlooking another (if smaller) garden.  Not only do you get to see where the Hugos ate their Sunday-lunch, and how bad their taste in interior design was (mind clearly on other matters), I also satisfied my inner geek with a visit to the exhibition currently running on this famous French writers often side-stepped political legacy. So busy shedding a tear over the death of Fantine in Les Miserables, we sometimes forget that old Victor also had quite a lot to say where politics, education, and social justice were concerned. AND, even more exciting, his literary talent was the primary means of such political engagement. Perhaps you don’t find this quite as thrilling as I do, but hey, chacun son truc. Strolling back in the vague direction of chez moi, brought me through the Marais, a lovely little area heard of but up to now unlocated on my self-guided walking tours. The cute but overpriced boutiques gave the signal that this is the quartier of choice for the trendy-professional-strolling-type but I wasn’t letting that dampen my pleasant perusal. Whilst thus wandering (I’m human, not Parisian), I stumbled across Village St Paul, curiously named by in fact a series of four courtyards, hidden in behind the designer labels, and containing all sorts of antique and generally random-stuff shops that abandons all pretention to become nothing but cute and French. It was here that I couldn’t resist one petite pause, at a simply named establishment, le café de la cour that ticked all the boxes: nice coffee, well presented, colourful furniture (with cushions) and a potted plant on the table for good measure.

And so my premier pas à Paris have been literally that, first (and subsequent) steps. Aware that I lack the necessary Parisian sophistication, I will stroll none the less, pretending to be cultured, and wandering through the weekend map-in-hand. Sounds rather like a holiday doesn’t it. Don’t worry, its back to the office tomorrow.