Paris by night

Paris (France) – The taxi speeds through the empty streets.  It’s a typically mild but humid night, with a bright moon bearing down on the sleeping city.  The street lights drop circles at their dark bases like lime lights.

Oumar has been driving all night. I can see his dark, chubby face reflected in the rear-view mirror; there are heavy bags under his eyes. On his stereo he plays Malian wassoulou music on loop and taps his fingers in time on the steering wheel.  Another few hours – some airport runs, drops to the major television and radio stations, a shift worker or two – and he’ll be home.

We pass the big bars on the Boulevard de Clichy.  The red-neon sails of the Moulin Rouge are still turning but the doors are shuttered and balled-up flyers promising ‘an unforgettable night out’ litter the footpath out front.  Next door, the Irish bar’s terrace is still full.   It’s Tuesday night and sunrise isn’t too far off, but tanned, young tourists in casual shorts and sandals are still working through pints of pale beer, at ease in the world of backpacking where the days of the week and time of night never matter.

Past the bars and fast food restaurants we drive into the quieter residential areas.  The shutters are drawn and the homeless are taking advantage of the lull in foot traffic to bed down in the doorways.  One man in a thick, mottled winter coat leans on a shopping trolley piled with coloured plastic containers, shopping bags and tins he salvaged from the rubbish bins.  In the whole street only the windows of the boulangerie glow orange.  A baker in white overalls is pulling fresh pastries from a tower of trays, and stacking baguettes into the baskets behind the counter.

The lights change, we drive on, drawing parallel with a night bus.  Two men in suits with red faces and loosened ties are locked in a fit of laughter.  The rest of the passengers, a collection of weary party-goers and bleary eyed blue-collar workers in uniform – watch them absently.

Finally, we round the corner and the taxi draws up outside Maison de la Radio.  The avenue is deserted and there is a full row of Velibs lined up across the road.  Inside, the broadcasters’ day has already begun.  Soon Paris will be waking up, hungry for information.  While the city slept and the young partied there will have been bomb attacks, rebellions, murders and stock market fluctuations.  Soon we’ll clear our throat, take the mike and patiently watch the clock tick to the top of the hour, to smile: “It’s four hours universal time, six am here in Paris.  Good morning.”

Je défends – Standing up for Parisians

Paris (France) – “Aïe! Touch my dog and I’ll show you!”

The woman’s threat comes hurling across the quays over the din of morning rush hour.  There are dozens of honking cars arranged in crooked lines, vying for a spot in one of only two lanes, with two-wheelers and pedestrians weaving brazenly around them.

In the midst of this noise and aggression, a big, black Labrador had preempted the green light and trotted straight into the path of my bicycle.

“Zut!”

That cry was mine.

I clamp down sharply on the breaks, swerve and with the owner shouting the kind of profanities that should leave her begging onlookers to excuse her French, keep on cycling.  Just another weekday morning.

Steve and I have been living in Paris for almost three months and swapping stories of Parisian flare-ups is part of our daily routine.  There’s the time a man in a tweed suit chased a cyclist who brushed against his Union Jack-crowned mini.  “But you broke the red light!” cried the cyclist, peddling for his life.  There are the scribbled notes in the lift of my friends’ apartment building reminding the occupants of the studio on the fifth floor to take off their shoes before walking across the floorboards on a Sunday morning.  And the man who snapped: “do I look like your personal map reader?” at another friend asking for directions.

“Paris would be just perfect if it wasn’t for the French,” one American tourist said to me. “People say New Yorkers are rude, but they’re just under pressure.” She had wandered into the boutique I ran for the first two months of our stay in the city.  It’s the kind of shop where the handbags on display have more breathing space than the average Parisian toddler.

“Parisians are under pressure too,” I wanted to argue.  But I didn’t, knowing that those who think life in Paris is easy are just as likely to think the city is flat.  Walking the broad boulevards of the Champs Elysées and the Rue de Rivoli, admiring the 16 km of exhibition space in the Louvre, or gazing up through the hollow frame of the Eiffel Tower, you don’t see how little room Parisians have.

Peak hour, Paris Metro (France)

There are over 2.2 million people crammed into the urban centre’s 105 km2, placing it firmly among the most densely populated areas in the world.  The capital of the Philippines, Manila, at the top of the list, has 43,079 people per square kilometre.  Another famously crowded city,  New Delhi in India, has 29,155.  And Paris?  In the city of lights and love 20,807 people live in each square kilometre.  Consider also that the suburbs of Levallois-Perret and Vincennes are even more densely populated, and that a huge number of their inhabitants travel into Paris for at least 35 hours each week.  Add to that over 15 million annual tourists (Paris is the world’s most visited city) and you begin to understand why Parisians treat so many exchanges as invasions of their precious, personal space.

Too many people and too little space mean higher rents.  Accommodation is advertised by the square-metre: 9 m2 for the former maids’ quarters favoured by thrifty students, 25 m2 for a basic studio, upwards of 50 m2 for a two-bed and 600 m2 if you’re the disgraced ex-finance minister, Hervé Gaymard.  But, that’s another story.  Every additional metre counts and Parisians expect to sacrifice anywhere from a third to over half of their salary for the added luxury of a separate kitchen-living area or a balcony the size of a window box.  Then there are charges communes to pay, lengthy contracts to negotiate . . .

. . . And usually a significant commute to your workplace/friend’s house/occasional dinner date.  Cue hours spent in traffic or in the metro, shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of other strangers who would rather not be several metres underground in stuffy carriages.   Getting from A to B takes too much time, and additional obstacles – indecisive tourists, pram-pushers, sidewalk cyclists – spark frustration and worse.  There is one surprising bonus, however.  Blatant traffic offenses, queue-jumping and disruptive, mass protests are more likely to be met with empathy than anger by the general population and the police.

These inconveniences don’t put people off and in the last twelve months over 10,000 people  joined us in moving to Paris.  It has a reputation as a centre for arts and fashion and has attracted the world’s biggest multinationals.  But, the competition for each job is tough and we have met more than one university graduate working in hospitality or retail simply because the market in their area of expertise is saturated with over-qualified, young hopefuls and, as a result, the pay as a waiter or shop assistant is better.

All of this leaves little time or disposable income for the pleasures most of us associate with Paris: croissants in the morning, café terraces and museums.   Visitors will say the Parisians are rude or arrogant, perhaps they’re just épuisés.

As for the newspaper vendor who balled up the receipt, threw it in my face and shouted: ‘what?  You can’t put it in the bin yourself?’ . . . I don’t know what his excuse is.