Balcony Diaries 1

What do I know of Paris?

What I saw inside the endless maze of the Louvre wasn't Paris, maybe Mesopotamia, Iran or Egypt, robbed treasures, not Paris though.

What about the scene from my balcony bathed in red neon light at the Hotel Richmond located in what appeared to bet the Paharganj of Paris. Boys in hoodies, loose jeans and football shirts huddled in a circle, clapping and freestyling a rap. They meet each night at the cycle stand at Gare du Nord, friends come and go, add bits to the songs. A boy in a white hood sings an African folksy sounding song while his two friends beatbox. The Lefevre building is under construction, the Bistros serve late night drinks to weary travelers emerging from the station and regulars coming in for post-work drinks. I sip my Kronenbourg after a long hard day of getting hopelessly lost on my first day here. I discovered Montmartre, got ripped off by a portrait artist (who somehow ended up drawing a beer goggle version of me which my mother insists is actually a good likeness, despite my not wanting to have a bloody portrait in the first place), smiled nervously at hoardes of excited Algerian football fans, lamented at not knowing French while looking wistfully at the books on the Sunday flea markets, argued with my mother several times about where we were and where we were going, got help from smiling strangers and finally made it home.

Today we went to the Louvre where for 4 hours, we weren't feeling like aliens dropped on to Earth. We shared an odd sense of camaraderie with the excited Americans (one of whom made friends with Ma over a shared aversion to walking and having family members interested in photography). 

After several hours of torturing our bodies and my geek-boners at almost everything, we made it out somehow  - to the sun, the sky and the breeze. 

For half an hour we wandered about the general Louvre area, feeling totally lost, but cocky still, not in as much despair as yesterday, we had developed a sense of humor about our situation and now got all our information from Punjabi men selling bottles of water for 1 Euro. At last we ended up spotting the Eiffel Tower (how?where?) and got on bus 72 to get to it. 

At the Eiffel tower, we were smothered by the Spanish schoolkids who there is only one word for - उजड्ड .

But I did fall temporarily in love with a green eyed, brown haired stranger and my eyes searched for him desperately throughout our trip but ended up meeting usually with Creepy Desi dude who looks like the hero of a soap my mum watches called Do Hanson ka Joda. At the Eiffel tower, as with Montmartre and Sacre Couer that we felt the picture postcard evocative power of Paris, except that at the summit of the Eiffel tower, you forget everything (except green eyed strangers). There is just so much to take in that every photograph seems uninspired, the mind doesn't possess the  capability to process all that information, you just stare and stare.

But of course, there are the endless queues and by now your body aches from walking and carrying a bagpack all day and you want to sink into a nice tub and pass but you still have to get down from the bloody Eiffel Tower. We somehow made it down literally crawling to a riverside cafe where one spaced out waitress was doing all the work, the hyper Spanish kids refuse to leave our side and were now singing Spanish football songs. 

2 beers down and feeling only marginally better at around 930pm, we decide to try and find out way home, 72 again, then 38 in the wrong direction, then 38 in the right direction. I think we know a bit of Paris by now, the back alleys, the Halaal shops, the women drying their clothes on the balconies while their babies cry out in the next room, the Tamil shops that sell oily bondas and sweet appams. At 1130 we hobble back to our room carrying up a couple of beers and looking contentedly at the lads having a laugh downstairs.

Day 3 

Today I walked down the Champs Elysee (yes, I did end up saying "New York Herald Tribune!" a couple of times). I saw Paris of the fin de siecle through the eyes of the Impressionists and symbolists at the Musee D'Orsay. I got to see the works of some of my favourite artists up close - Monet, Manet, Gauguin, Van Gogh, Degas, Renoir, Klimt, Franz Von Stuck, Goya, Rene Magritte, Andy Warhol (the last few being a part of the morbidly fascinating temporary exhibition Crime Et Chatiment). I literally had goosebumps several times. For a day that started with Idli Sambar at Madras Cafe listening to Soni De Nakhre, it did turn out to be rather enlightening about Parisien culture. 'High culture' mixed with 'low culture' - Nina Ricci next to a store selling shiny leopard print tights. A street dance crew b-boying for the tourists in front of the Arc de Triomphe. Crazed teenage football fans (I think it was Mexico this time) holding up traffic at the Champs Elysee waving flags and chanting while impeccably dressed office goers take a break at the expensive cafes. 

A couple says a lengthy goodbye outside the station. She's come to drop him off, but can't seem to let go and keeps him tethered to herself with lingering kisses. He now stands outside smoking, pacing, texting.

A man, attractive but coarse rolls by on rollerblades, cigarette dangling from his lips. He runs his fingers through his hair and a few tendrils of his messy brown hair escape from the bun and tease him as he wheels into the Gare. 

The wind rips through a line of travelers waiting for taxis outside the Gare, one makes a run for a bus. The sign for the Hotel Richmond creaks in the wind, potted plants are knocked over, the awnings of the bistros puff out like sails, my handwriting deteriorates as I shiver. Men stub out their cigarettes and head underground to catch the trains. The hooded boys take shelter inside the station, and I in my bed. 

After 4 hours of waiting in the sun at the Birmingham airport, my brother finally arrives. Now familiar English countryside sashays past us at 90 miles an hour but in slow motion, caught in the golden glow of the sun so precious to the English. The clear, pale blue sky is sliced by silver streaks from the jets as they nosedive to the horizon. The whole scene looks like it's frozen in ember and enamel, like a locket. Freeway, cars and trucks - we return to Sheffield.

The cathedral bells ring, offbeat like the chimes were thrown from a height. I'm taking in the rays of the parting sun on the balcony, reading Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. A desi family takes a picture in front of a completely nondescript building next to the HSBC office. The wheelchair bound grandmother flashes a peace sign.

A feather floats by lifted by the benevolent breeze as the sun's intensity fades and I pull my sweater over my dress. I get a whiff of some serene, androgynous perfume, the source of which is nowhere in sight. The work that started a month ago on fixing the pavement under us has still not been finished, the workers sitting on the steps chat and smoke, I have one more day here.