"Paris, je t'aime"


Someone once taught my sister that every city is a woman and that most can be grouped into one of four categories; hooker, lover, mother or wife.

Paris, from which I have just come back, is not a whore; a whore takes your money, yes, but gives you what you pay for. There is an honesty, a humility to this that Paris doesn't even pretend to have, much less aspires.

Paris is not a lover; nobody loves Paris in secret and shadows. Nobody could. Like so many before you, you have to scream it to the wind and write it down and publish it a thousand times: je t'aime, Paris.

Paris is not a mother; it does not look out for you, it is not tender or soft and its bony, perfumed arms are not warm. Besides, Paris would never ruin her figure for a child.

Paris is a wife, I think, a "woman of my life" sort of wife, in the tradition of Zelda Fitzgerald. Paris likes to show off and party and dance and drink, drives you insane, kicks you when you're down, insults you, throws away months of your work but it is for her, because of her, that you try so damn hard to write something worth reading. (This isn't it.)

When you wake up, you realise you're sleeping in somebody's couch. There's a green cup on the table next to you that is half full from the sunlight that it catches from the open window. In big white letters, the words:

WHAT THE F*CK

HAPPENED

LAST NIGHT?

Then that feeling hits you, and you force yourself back to sleep again: in slumber you have one last defence against facing yesterday's memories, drinking and decisions.

It won't last long but at this point you can't be picky.

(Stolen from Oriane, teacher, host and friend)

Toulouse-Lautrec, In the Salon of the Rue des Moulins

As I walk out of the Mayflower, a Frenchman cries out

'Salut!'

and for a second there the look on his face is of such comraderie that I think this old man is going to bro-fist or high-five me. He just walks on, smiling proudly.

Three minutes forty-six seconds earlier, three girls had surrounded me in a dark little lane, right outside the Mayflower. They invite me to come see their bar, and I politely refuse; but my hand is in their hands and I'm being pulled in. Inside, several women of all shapes and sizes sit around looking coy.

I am pushed into a little cubicle and this little lady is explaining the rules to me.

10 Euros and I can choose any one of them and have a dance in the cubicle. It doesn't look or smell like it's been used for dancing in many times. I say

'Thanks, I really just want dinner and a drink,'

and it's about half-true.

'I can come with you for dinner if you like,'

she says.

'Yeah, I'd like that, really would, but I don't think my girlfirend would so much.'

She laughs, somebody steals my hat, somebody's dancing, somebody's trying to pull me back in. I grab the hat and dash out.

This old Frenchman sees me come out of that brothel and smiles like I'm the only tourist he's ever liked.

'Salut!'

the old man cries.