15th August 2010 - Gay Paris, Grey Paris

The high-speed train – TGV – that I caught to Paris was plush. In a moment of luck I had managed to book a first class ticket for a lower price than a journey in second class would have cost me, so after my mercifully dry morning walk I sank back into my red velvet seat and watched the countryside race by, raindrops accumulating on the window and forming transparently diagonal tracks across the glass. I didn’t know the names of the towns and cities that we passed, but it didn’t matter to me. I was on the way home. I was so close, and I was ready. I panicked as the ticket collector walked towards me, startling me out of my reverie and causing me to draw a blank as to the whereabouts of the required ticket, which, as usual, was exactly where I’d put it in my bag. 

A change of train later and I was heading into the centre of Paris on the metro. The carriage was empty when I boarded, and I chose to sit alone, watching a toddler in bright blue wellies clambering over the red and yellow seats: a sampler of primary colours. There was a man, too, dressed in a black

suit. One large foot rested incongruously on the tiny pink scooter he was carrying with his briefcase. I presumed it was for an unseen child. But soon I had company. Looking up, my dark brown eyes met with an even darker pair. He was a young, black African, and very good looking. We started chatting. He complimented me on my command of his language, and flirtatiously asked me to teach him a word or two of English. He had been taught English at school, he said, but was keen to try again. We chatted for a while about the differences between life in England and life in France. So far so safe. But then he asked me to meet up with him later that afternoon. Whether my knee-jerk reaction was justified or not I would never know. I said no. On the spot I invented a fictional friend I was going to meet. I knew that he knew that I was lying.

Are you a racist? he asked me. Is your friend a racist? Are there lots of racists in England? I was taken-aback by the audacity of his questions, but I also began to question myself. Was I a racist? I didn’t know. Until that point, I had always believed that I wasn’t. But had I been brainwashed by a culture of fear, despite my wish to be open, accepting and non-judgemental? Or was I just scared by a man who chose to talk to me on the tube? Would my reaction have been different had he been white? I would certainly still have been wary, but to this day I doubt that I would have been so defensive. The North African population of the Parisian suburbs – or banlieues – were hardly exalted in the French press for their gentleness and pacifism. Prejudice prevailed.

Despite my latent racist inclinations, he went on to offer me accommodation for the evening, which I was relieved to be able to decline. Thanks, but no thanks. I wasn’t that kind of a girl. Having failed on that venture, he offered to help me find my way to my hotel from the station. He might have been being genuinely helpful, but I was scared. He insisted on walking me to the information desk so that I could get directions, where I finally managed to shake him off. He gave me the customary kiss on either cheek – although perhaps not so customary for complete strangers – and I watched him walk down to the metro stop from where we had come. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him: either he was a predator and very good at it, or else he was lonely with issues and too much time on his hands. I preferred to think the best of people. I chose the latter. 

It was a miserable Monday in Paris. All the rain that hadn’t fallen during my time as a WWOOFer fell on the capital as I arrived. I was soaked to my skin from head to toe. My worn-out trainers betrayed their holes and my feet were wet and cold; the rain came down and down and it seemed that it would never stop. Everything was colourless; rain having that ability to wash away a place’s character. Leaving my bag at my hostel, I struck out regardless towards the photography museum that I wanted to visit. 45 minutes later, standing like a waif outside the door, I read that the museum closed on public holidays. Apparently it was a public holiday in France that day. 

Hunger drove me to a small supermarket, and couscous salad fuelled me to that Parisian giant, Le Centre Pompidou. Thank goodness that there, at least, I could spend some time in the dry: the art gallery was open. A bride stood shivering outside under an umbrella, beautiful in her crystal-embellished white gown and looking like a scene from an unlikely romantic comedy. At least she was laughing. 

It turned out that entry was free for the European youth, so I wandered around, examining the galleries’ exhibitions half-heartedly, and enjoying the novelty of the escalators ascending the outside of the building. But I couldn’t be bothered, not really. This wasn’t what my time WWOOFing had been about. Paris wasn’t a farm, and its only produce was litter, fumes and university students. Now that I was no longer surrounded by greenery, I just wanted to go home.

I got on the metro once again and headed back to the hostel, intending to find a – no doubt overpriced – croque monsieur at a café nearby and to spend my evening reading.  As I stared blankly out of the train windows into the gloaming evening, I took another look. We were passing a street that was full of people, full of colour. My interest was piqued for the first time that day. I got off the tube at the next stop and wound my way back. It was the Arabic quarter. I quickly became aware of being the only woman so I put up my hood, as if that would mask my femininity.

The shops were full of spices and tagines and tapestries and teapots. There were bakeries selling nut-crammed honeyed pastries, rosewater and orange-blossom infused delights. Döner kebab shops by their hundreds spilled out their savoury scents as customers overflowed onto the street. Flatbreads were being sold by children sitting on the damp floor at low tables, and fruit and vegetables were stacked high at every turn. The gourmand’s warren was teeming with people, but they were manifestly locals, not tourists, and overwhelmingly male. And yet, despite the claustrophobia of the busy narrow streets, that half hour gave Paris a reason for existing. 

I thought maybe I would take a soggy trip up to Montmartre, which was near to my hostel, but rain and tiredness won out. I crashed onto the lower bunk of a sterile hostel bed with my book, chatted to two girls from Chicago and a South Korean called Moon, and couldn’t keep myself awake any longer. I slept well and peacefully.