True talk #3: Is Paris magical?

A reflection on the city, one year in.

For me, Paris, and the idea of it, has always been imbued with a dream-like quality. And what makes a dream good? Hope, imagination, and a fraction of memory. This is what Paris felt like to me, especially in my youth. Knowing my mum studied here as a young woman made the dream more vivid. I could picture her in her early twenties, in platform heels, a high-waist A-line skirt, and wide-rimmed shades, walking down Boulevard Saint-Germain, sauntering into shops and asking questions in steady French. The times I came to Paris as a child did nothing to wake me up — we would go to Disneyland, with its spiral sweets, happiness- themed music, colourful characters, exhilarating rides, and firework-studded parades. Otherwise, we would spend time on the Champs-Élysées, surrounded mostly by tourists, but indulging, as has always been easy here.

Paris and its charming apartments framed by patterned terraces. The stylishly dressed women that sometimes ride scooters or bicycles even in heels. Its endless rows of restaurants, where people sit watching the life that flows through the streets. Its stately sculptures that have stood for decades. The many bridges that line the Seine. The boats and the lights that dance across the river. The famous tower that people stop to awe at when it glitters. The walks that lead you round unknown corners still worth seeing. The language that seems to dance off the tongues of those that speak it. The boulangeries on every corner with the smell of freshly baked bread. The flowers that are normal to buy for yourself. The abundance of bookshops where paper has not gone out of fashion. What a sunset does to every part of the city. The beauty of it all.

This is the Paris that people dream of. The version that people flock here to experience, hoping that the dreams will come to life— that the city will work a bit of magic in their favour, for their creativity, their perspective, their relationship. In my twenties, I came with my then- boyfriend on what seemed like a necessary romantic pilgrimage, and we affirmed our love by securing our adjoining initials to the Pont des Arts. It was hard to find space on those railings, so we looped our padlock around others. Years later, I noticed that the padlocks were gone. Their weight had threatened the stability of the bridge. I wonder where they all ended up. Whether there is one in a land heap somewhere with “M&E” scribbled inside a hurriedly drawn heart. Nowadays, I see padlocks in other places— hanging on to the railings of the stairs that lead down from the Sacré-Coeur, for example. A form of prayer, perhaps. Couples capture kisses shared in front of the “Mur de je t’aime”, declaring their love in tens of languages they don’t speak, hoping that their feelings in that moment, in that photo, are sustained. Hoping that the city helps them along with a sprinkle of magic.

In the last year since I moved to Paris, I have experienced a fair bit of magical moments, especially in the form of unlikely encounters across the city. I was walking through an art exhibition, admiring the pieces, and I looked across the space to see the French president, admiring them too. I turned down a random street on the way home from a concert, and I ran into my favourite musician of all time, a Franco-Nigerian marvel. I decided to run errands before an outing and saw a Jamaican-American writer and cook I follow while turning a bend. And then she invited me to a dinner party. I went to a club and noticed a Cameroonian art curator/ gallerist, and promptly had one of the most engaging conversations on literature and art. I’ve walked past a couple of French actors whose shows have brought me joy in the last few years. And best of all, my first accommodation when I moved here, happened, by sheer coincidence, to be on the same street that my mum lived on when she was a student. Paris has been generous with me, or more accurately still, God has, trying to make me feel better about moving to a new city at this point in my life. It’s almost like little nudges where I’m being assured that I’m meant to be here right now. Rewarding me for being brave enough to come here, to explore, even in those instances, by myself. Convincing me that there is some magic for me to find and tap into.

However, since I have moved here, I have had moments when the magic is broken. When reality steps into the frame, and everything resets. Paris is a real city, after all. And it has very real problems (not limited to bed bugs!) In fact, coming from London, I was surprised by how much more overt, gaping, clear, the problems are here. Early into my move, I realised that being black in Paris is a different experience entirely. I realised that when I imagined my mum walking into stores in Boulevard Saint-Germain, she probably had quite a few looks from across the counter. All these years later, I get some looks too. Racial inequality is naked here. It is bare in a way that doesn’t try too hard to cover itself. I notice a lot of black people in lower status and service-industry jobs, which seems like the norm. There is such a large population of West Africans in the black hair business, that, in Chateau d’ Eau, there are men paid to stand outside and try to convert passers-by to customers. An uber driver told me that he gave up his job in engineering because he had better prospects as a driver rather than being stuck in middle management. I also found out that the census information here doesn’t capture race. It doesn’t “see colour”, and therefore, needn’t address it. Homelessness is painfully clear too. There are many people who unfortunately live by the side of the street, who count on being fed by asking for coins in the metro. One time, there were three different people who asked in a five-minute span. There are many ways the city can be a nightmare for those it belongs to.

There are also other ways it can be a nightmare for those that come to it. I have unfortunately experienced blistering rudeness more vividly than over my many years in London. It has manifested from neighbours who bang on the ceiling; shopkeepers that serve a side of sass; and fellow travellers who cut in front unapologetically. I was speaking to someone, and he said that Paris is a good place to visit, but perhaps not the best place to live. And I could understand why he would say that — how an overexposure to this city could ruin the image. However, even visitors are not exempt. I heard about something called “Paris syndrome”, experienced by some tourists, which is a sense of intense disappointment, and depression in some cases, brought on by how different Paris is from what they expected (expectations that may have been drawn from a certain TV show with an American protagonist). I wonder sometimes what aspect disappoints them most.

I’m grateful for the opportunity to be here; to live in yet another city. To experience the magic, but also the reality of life here. To understand what life feels like for Parisians, to understand who I am in this new place. The city is complex, with sad socio-economic truths to swallow. But what makes it bearable for me is that sprinkling of magic. The beauty, the wonder, the chance encounters. That’s what keeps me here. I hope the city has more magic to offer me.

Prompt:

When has the reality of an experience disappointed you? Write about it and share it with me (by sending it on instagram, or replying by email if you’re a subscriber) in the next week, and it will go up on the Instagram page.