Je suis in Paree
So, here I am in sexy Paris. I'm staying in Shakespeare and Company, a beautiful English book shop right in the city centre. It faces Notre Dam. In fact, yesterday I closed a window to keep the bells of Notre Dam out. Who would do a thing like that? Only a gen-u-ine Parisien, which is what I am as of Janvier 11.
Here it is, the glorious Shakespeare and Co.
The first things I notice is that everything is so wonderfully gothic and mysterious. Even the trees look gnarled and bewitching. Winter definitely suits Paris. Leaveless trees make the city look like the set of some kind of twisted fairytale. Unfortunately I forgot my camera, so for the moment I will have to feed your mind's eye with other people's pictures, stolen from google images...
Oh. 'paris gnarled trees' brings up nothing like what I want to show you. Imagine black bark, and amputated branches, planted in rows. Spooky, isn't it?
The second thing I notice, a bit later, maybe around the same time I realise that I will never be able to afford to live in a city such as this, is that everyone looks so Parisien. This is a bit unnerving, and makes me fear that the place has turned into a museum or even worse, a shop, selling Paris. (This opinion might be warped by bitterness. Not only can't I afford it here, I also feel very unchic, and although I was previously unaware I was aiming for chic - in fact I hadn't even used the word before, it popped into my head on arrival - I resent being made to feel this way. Trying on clothes in a shop earlier, I thought, It is not my clothes but my body that is unchic.
Who's to blame for this terrible self-hating thought? Me? You? Paris? Exactly. Paris. Oh look, off it skips, all nonchalant and wearing those thick rimmed angular spectacles...
In hindsight, maybe the centre of Paris wasn't the best place to come to write. I haven't got many new words since arriving. But to read! I feel such a fool for packing books! This place is full to the brim with intriguing and marvellous novels and poetry. It smells incredible too. I feel such a fool for packing shower gel! Without it, I too, could now smell wonderful, like antiquated books.
Part of the deal of staying here, is that 'tumbleweeds' which is what us boarding writers are called, have to help out in the shop for a couple of hours a day. This is basically brilliant, as you get to be overwhelmed by the amount of books that people have managed to write since time began, and how you will never ever, no matter how fast you go, get through even a tenth of them, plus, when you have to and cannot cannot resist, you get to simply stop sorting and have a little browse.
Today and yesterday I rearranged the poetry section, and was delighted to reread some much-loved poems by friends: Tim Cockburn and Sam Riviere, and to find new poems by poets I hadn't heard of before: Nikki Giovanni and Daljit Nagra.
Right now, I can hear the bells of Notre Dam as well as somebody playing the Shakespeare and Co. piano and a fellow tumbleweed struggling to open the door to the library. (There is only one key for us, and to make sure we don't lose it, it is kept on a piece of wood that you could eat your dinner off. This makes opening doors noisier and more of a challenge.) Later, I will eat Japanese food.
So, oui, Paris, you pretentious swine, je t'aime.
Here it is, the glorious Shakespeare and Co.The first things I notice is that everything is so wonderfully gothic and mysterious. Even the trees look gnarled and bewitching. Winter definitely suits Paris. Leaveless trees make the city look like the set of some kind of twisted fairytale. Unfortunately I forgot my camera, so for the moment I will have to feed your mind's eye with other people's pictures, stolen from google images...
Oh. 'paris gnarled trees' brings up nothing like what I want to show you. Imagine black bark, and amputated branches, planted in rows. Spooky, isn't it?
The second thing I notice, a bit later, maybe around the same time I realise that I will never be able to afford to live in a city such as this, is that everyone looks so Parisien. This is a bit unnerving, and makes me fear that the place has turned into a museum or even worse, a shop, selling Paris. (This opinion might be warped by bitterness. Not only can't I afford it here, I also feel very unchic, and although I was previously unaware I was aiming for chic - in fact I hadn't even used the word before, it popped into my head on arrival - I resent being made to feel this way. Trying on clothes in a shop earlier, I thought, It is not my clothes but my body that is unchic.
Who's to blame for this terrible self-hating thought? Me? You? Paris? Exactly. Paris. Oh look, off it skips, all nonchalant and wearing those thick rimmed angular spectacles...
In hindsight, maybe the centre of Paris wasn't the best place to come to write. I haven't got many new words since arriving. But to read! I feel such a fool for packing books! This place is full to the brim with intriguing and marvellous novels and poetry. It smells incredible too. I feel such a fool for packing shower gel! Without it, I too, could now smell wonderful, like antiquated books.
Part of the deal of staying here, is that 'tumbleweeds' which is what us boarding writers are called, have to help out in the shop for a couple of hours a day. This is basically brilliant, as you get to be overwhelmed by the amount of books that people have managed to write since time began, and how you will never ever, no matter how fast you go, get through even a tenth of them, plus, when you have to and cannot cannot resist, you get to simply stop sorting and have a little browse.
Today and yesterday I rearranged the poetry section, and was delighted to reread some much-loved poems by friends: Tim Cockburn and Sam Riviere, and to find new poems by poets I hadn't heard of before: Nikki Giovanni and Daljit Nagra.
Right now, I can hear the bells of Notre Dam as well as somebody playing the Shakespeare and Co. piano and a fellow tumbleweed struggling to open the door to the library. (There is only one key for us, and to make sure we don't lose it, it is kept on a piece of wood that you could eat your dinner off. This makes opening doors noisier and more of a challenge.) Later, I will eat Japanese food.
So, oui, Paris, you pretentious swine, je t'aime.
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