Make no mistake, women from Africa are loud. For over an hour one had stood shouting in
the street just below my window. It was 2:30 am and, having mistaken her high
pitch for ordinary communication, I ignored her, and pulled my American blanket
over my American head and rolled over on my tiny clic clac. The three cats that
were nestled into the contours of my body were not pleased by this sudden shift
of movement and they told me so quite loudly.
They had good reason to lament their space, for a ‘clic clac' is the French name for a
futon, although it's probably not fair to describe our tiny cradle as a futon,
since it barely folded into love-seat size when company appeared. That was just
one of the many peculiarities of my apartment at 18, Rue des Chartres, which is
pronounced "Chart-tttruhs", but not really. My one and only window was typically
Parisian, reaching from ceiling to almost floor level. It was brand new and
insolated and faced out into the chaotic street below.
Good thing too, since
there was always something going on at my corner. That was to be expected, in such
a large Arab and African community that houses the largest and busiest
open-market shopping spot in all of Paris. And, for added emphasis, not half a
mile away, there was the Gare de Nord, one of the busiest subway stations on the
globe, with its regular deposits of wide-eyed tourists, hostel-bound students
and petty thieves.
To say my apartment was small is to be modest, a habit I eventually outgrew
thanks to the French. As the romance capital of the world, Paris is seductive
about everything except personal space. To live there means to make due with as
little creature comfort as possible. That's why food and sex are so important to
the French, they are the two things that can neither be interrupted nor usurped.
Talk of the Parisian nightlife is ritually mystified in books, films and songs,
but the truth is far less glamorous. The reality is that the apartments in Paris
are so cramped, old and damp, with over-inflated electric bills and doors that
swell shut when it rains, that few people rushed home after work. As to the fact
that extended families are still the norm in France, and it's guaranteed there
is always someone at home; a mother, uncle, cousin or such.
Six people in two rooms? Where's the rush?
Unlike Americans, who boast of one
or two bedrooms per person, Parisians know nothing of rushing home to change
into comfortable clothes and eat pizza in front of the television. Most prefer
to wait until the last possible moment to return to their prisons. Another glass
of wine, another cigarette, one more café. Postponing the inevitable, it's the
French national pastime.
go to part 2...
