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Published: September 6th 2015
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Originally, I was against this whole travel blog thing. It's so over-done now. Everyone has one. Old news. Besides, does anyone really care that much about my eclectic collection of Parisian adventures? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I was swayed to immortalize my experiences on the Internet by all the weird things I saw/heard/smelled in my first 10 days living in the city. What follows is a collection of my observances.
1) The Open Mic Phenomenon
Upon arriving in Paris, I met up with a friend-of-a-friend, Riyad. He invited me to an open-mic night at Café Oz. Sure, why not? Expecting some poorly executed stand-up, but counting on beer to improve my experience, I invited Michael, and set off on my first night out since arriving in the city. As I entered the bar, I noticed that several patrons had guitars with them. Sipping on a Kronenbourg (mm, French beer), and chatting with Riyad, I realized that this was a
music open-mic night. As the bar filled up, and the host arrived to set up the speakers and amps, I noticed that everyone seemed to know each other. One at a time, the musicians took the "stage"
and each played three songs. I was floored. Here, in this little bar, one of hundreds in the city of Paris, was such a collection of musical talent! Singers, guitarists, spoken word poets, and a few of them even played harmonica! How lucky was I, to see such great artists play for free?!
I later learned that this small community of artists all frequented the same three open mic nights, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, at different bars across the city. They all knew each other, and they all supported each other. Most of them had standing gigs at other bars for which they were paid, and a few of them had upcoming shows. It was a primarily anglophone group, at anglophone bars, with a few francophones mixed in. Michael and I attended two of three open mic nights that first week, at an Australian bar and then a Scottish bar, and I went to the Canadian bar on Thursday to see two of them play their regular gig. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I befriended these musicians, but at least I know where to find them a few nights per week and I
know some of their names.
2) Poverty and Public Urination
It is a fact of life that where population density is higher, the homeless congregate. After all, more people, more potential alms. Makes sense to me. And in any big city, Paris being no exception, the smell of urine sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Now, the Paris street cleaners are pretty on their game, especially in the touristy areas. Starting at 5am, the cleaning team can be seen all over the city, fighting the endless battle against the citizens who leave their (literal and figurative) shit all over the city. I live near a main Boulevard, but am nicely tucked into a quieter, slightly hidden corner. And the homeless, who probably know the city better than anyone, are well aware of that. In general, this means nothing more than a heightened urine smell when I round the corner onto my quiet little street. In general.
One fine morning, I stepped out of my front door on my way to take my first ballet class of the season. And I stopped short. Kneeling behind the car parked directly in front
of the door, was a woman peeing. Now, I don't generally condemn public urination. I've peed in my share of doorways, particularly late at night. But this was a sight I had never seen before. Clearly homeless, this woman was wearing jeans, a hoodie with the hood up, a hat, a scarf, and a raincoat with the hood up, and peeing THROUGH HER JEANS. And did I mention that she was wearing all of these layers and it was 85 DEGREES?! I mean, call me crazy, but if all the clothing you own is what is on your back, wouldn't you want to try and keep your pants clean as long as possible? But what do I know?
Shrug.
3) The Metro: A Cross-Section of Humanity
Ah, the metro. The great equalizer. Where everyone from executives to the homeless must coexist as they make their morning commute, or make their bed for the night, as the case may be. The mole tunnels of the metro, as they are out of the elements, are a prime sleeping spot for the homeless. After the trains shut down for the night, they jump the turnstiles and bed down on
the platform waiting areas. Many remain sleeping long into the day. I've encountered the dirty, the drunk, the talking-to-the-wall, and the panhandling-with-their-children/pets, all in and around the metro.
Now, let's climb a rung on the social ladder. A few days ago, walking through the République station (which connects several lines), I passed an old woman shouting angrily. On and on she shouted as she walked, in a gruff voice that perhaps was speaking French, but her anger had so contorted her words that I wasn't really sure what language she was speaking. I searched for the target of this angry outburst - and saw no-one. Many commuters rushed by, but as she screeched towards the air ahead of her, unless whoever had upset her had literally sprinted away, I think it likely that she was condemning the ghost of Stalin. And hopefully not a small child who looked at her the wrong way.
Just one more gem from the same, very eventful, morning commute: it was on the 9, the line I live on. I got on the train, and made my way to a standing position at the edge of the car. I did my usual sweep of my fellow travelers, and did a double-take. Seated near me was an elderly man, mid-70s would be my guess. He had white hair and a hardened, don't-mess-with-me look. He was wearing a t-shirt, which did not even close to cover the PRISON TATS on his arms. On his left upper arm, I discerned half a quotation, something about "la vie," in shaky, unstenciled prison ink. I think the writing was supposed to be in cursive, but the artist was confused as to how to properly connect the letters. I'm sure it was a poignant quote, depicting what you learn about "la vie" while in prison. If only his sleeves were a bit shorter. But the real kicker was his right forearm, upon which was depicted a naked woman, full frontal, in far too much detail. Excellent choice of tattoo placement, made with great foresight regarding life after prison. Glad to see he's meshed with society so well after his release. Good for him.
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