A little over a week ago, I learnt of the passing of my High School French teacher. I will remember this kind lady for her strength of character and her sense of humor. It was her stories about living in France that inspired me to visit Paris. She told us of happy days and of days when she had to stand her ground to ensure that people respected her and treated her as equal. Being a black, Jamaican, woman, in a predominantly white country, she was the target of many unsavory comments and actions. Yet, because of her indomitable spirit and the presence of enough compassionate people, she thrived in France and her stories were mostly of pleasant memories. In similar spirit and joie de vivre to that of my French teacher, I will attempt to share my memories of France and Paris. Just this once, I won’t paint a picture of a fantastical, romantic, city that is devoid of maladies. Nor will I uplift the ills at the expense of all that is good. Permit me to share my experiences, raw and plain as they were, and allow me to acknowledge the simple, unadulterated truths within them.

“Marlboro, Marlboro, Marlboro.”

Those were the shouts that greeted me as I stepped out of the Train station and on to the busy, cobbled, streets of Paris. It was rainy and dank, and the crowds pushed and shouted as they scurried to get to safety and warmth. I had no idea which way to turn as I tried to look over the cigarette sachets that were being shoved in my face. Everywhere, the mood was foul. The air was smelly. I stood there, trying to push the cigarettes out of my view. I told the sellers a thousand times that I don’t smoke and I didn’t travel hundreds of miles to be barricaded by cigarette vendors. But he and several other cigarette sellers were determined to convert me. They closed in around me and their barter temporarily drowned out everything else.

I was disappointed. This was not the Paris that I looked forward to. I had imagined people dressed in the latest designs, smiling and holding hands as they walked the streets. I had imagined that whiffs of alluring perfume would gratify my nostrils, and that lights and live music would satiate and enchant me. Instead, here I was, in the middle of Paris, with cold rain drizzling down my back, trying to persuade a team of persistent salesmen that I was not in need of their wares.

When I finally walked away, the sounds of wheezing chests beleaguered with cold viruses, amplified. The stench of the city overpowered me. Within a few quick minutes, my excitement died. The lights dimmed. The L’arc de Triumph lost its curvature. The tour d’Eiffel diminished in stature. And not even the holy Sacre Coeur could mend my broken heart.

You might think that I just recounted my very first trip to Paris. Well, that was my fourth visit to the City of Romance. Every year for four consecutive years, my fiancé and I did the New year’s count down under the Eiffel Tower. That year was supposed to be just as joyous as the preceding years. But it was not. From the moment I got off the train until I returned home, my whole perspective of Paris changed. On this trip, I even got sick from drinking the wine and eating the croissants. And although cars are looted and burnt every New Year’s Eve, the reports of that year’s looting and burning scared me beyond reason. For the first time in four trips, Paris lost its charm.

Perhaps then, it is time for some back story. The year before my fourth visit to Paris, I shared an apartment with a French citizen. She seemed to have stemmed from the upper echelon of French society, and she explained to me in great details, the inequities and prejudices that exist within France and Paris. She explained the different districts (arrondissement) in the city and who lived where. She told me why she could never marry or date certain peoples who were not within her social circles. In short, she made me aware of a side of Paris, which as a tourist, I never considered. Her explanations gave me new lens and caused me to be apprehensive. Yet, I believe that her account gave me the much-needed balance to see Paris in a fuller light; a truer light. On my fourth trip, the naivety and the anxiety to enjoy without seeing deeper was gone. Now, I noticed the many peddlers and street people. I took note of how people were crammed in high-rise apartments. I observed were certain people got off or on the trains. I saw who ate in certain restaurants and who didn’t. In other words, I realized that there was more to Paris than glam and glitter. This realization was jolting but it was also sobering and relevant. This enlightenment caused me to have a greater appreciation for the beauties that the city offers and the great resilience and strength of the people.

Following that experience, for many years after, my husband and I decided to celebrate New Year’s Eve in other ways. Our yearly Paris trips came to a halt. However, three years ago, we decided to give Paris another chance. We told ourselves that no matter what, rain or sunshine, we would enjoy all the good that Paris has to offer. We gave ourselves permission to see the pearl amidst the rough. And we are glad that we did. From the shopping to the food, to the ambience and livelihood of the city, we fell in love with Paris again. The Moulin Rouge, the Louvre, the Seine, Notre Dame, Champs Elysée, everything captivated us, like when we were young and newly in love. Paris quickly recaptured its place as the City of romance. Well . . . up until it was time for us to catch our flight to return home. Paris is well known for train strikes and this time, we found ourselves in the middle of one of the notorious train strikes. Yet, even this trip ended well, and after much fretting and sprouting of grey hairs, we made it to the airport just in time to catch our flight.

Last year, as we planned our trip to Paris, we promised ourselves that even if the trains went on strike, we would have a blast. And as they say, “God has a sense of humor”. When we arrived in Paris, the trains were on strike and we had to haul our luggage about two miles to our hotel. There was a light drizzle, and as usual, the city was busy, but thankfully there were no “Marlboro” sellers in sight. Our new Parisian struggles came in the forms of uneven sidewalks and a step bridge which we had to cross to get to the other side of the river. With 50lbs suitcases, the walk was not light. But it was enjoyable. It was enjoyable because we had the right spirits and it was enjoyable because of the people we met along the way. As I labored over the steps, a young man came up to me and offered to carry my suitcase over the bridge. In fact, already as I made my way out of the train station, several young men approached me and offered to help carry my luggage since there were no escalators or elevators in the vicinity. The human interactions and the compassion lifted our spirits and gave us hope for the journey. In true French style, we experienced “amour”. Our aching arms and tired legs didn’t bother us because we were in good company and around friendly faces. Instead of walking directly to our hotel to rest, we lingered in the streets and stopped and eyed the shops along the way. We paused and chatted with whomever would have conversation with us. And through this, we discovered yet another side of Paris.

We revisited all our favorite restaurants and shopping malls. We spent nights gazing at the Eiffel Tower. We sipped wines on the grass while being serenaded by live bands. We even got so relaxed that we accidentally popped our champagne cork into a passerby’s head. And when it was time to fly home, we hauled our luggage to the Gare de Nord where a taximan from heaven picked us up and flew us, in record speed, to the Charles de Gaulle airport. Our hearts were in our mouths but as we relaxed in the plane, on the way to the next leg of our vacation, we admitted to each other that this eclectic city helps to keep our hearts aflame.

Until next time

Venture Out. Keep exploring. Travel Smart and Stay Safe.

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(Some of the photos used in this article do not belong to me.)