PARIS Gare du Nord. Where the journey begins. I step off the train from Amiens, and it's in that first step, on the proverbial Paris soil, that I realise the gravity of where I am. The city of love. The fashion capital. The Mecca of art, culture, literature and gastronomy; France's throbbing heart.
Reality quickly replaces reverie: right hand firmly on handbag, you've heard about the muggers here. Left hand casually resting into left coat pocket, you ought to keep it chic all the same- you're in Paris now.
The Metro. An underground (ha, of sorts) created solely for the purpose of self-righteous Brits to condescendingly point out at every opportunity possible, the hideous differences between the Parisian metro and cross-border cousin, our personal pride and glory: The London Underground. Oops. Made a sly remark already there. I can't help it, I'm a Londoner! We have the most superior transport system in the world, didn't you know?
"Goodness, would you get a whiff of Châtelet station ? Scrubbed down till it sparkles, our King's Cross. You could see your own reflection at Chancery Lane!" "Trains only coming in from the left? What's that about then?" "Hold on to your iPhones lads, heard the pick-pocketing here is rife." Us and them. The UK and Europe. Brits and Europeans. Our island mentality makes it all too easy to become cynical of the unfamiliar.
One thing that is as sure as rain in England, is that Paris is beautiful. Not to sound cliché or anything, but it really is a far cry from London. I'm talking that eye-watering, eyebrow-raising, head tilting northward until it can't come back down- type aestheticism .
Getting off at Passy metro station, it's only a 5 minute walk before you are confronted by the 324 metre long iron monster that is the Eiffel Tower, the most cherished emblem of the capital. A monumental feeling, a very David and Goliath type moment (psst, you're David). Ascending from Charles De Gaulle-Etoile station, and it's love at first sight with l'Arc de triomphe. A colossal arch symbolic of the fortitude of the French Empire, and constructed in the most grandiose of ways only dear old Napoleon knew how. Tearing your eyes away from this edifice and turning southward lies les Champs Elysées- the most beautiful boulevard in the world. Walking down it's 2 kilometre long stretch feels like walking down an inflated catwalk, and fittingly so, as the avenue boasts some of the greatest haute couture houses in fashion history. You notice a Louis Vuitton store to your right, grand enough to house the entire cast of Downton Abbey, the Queen and the Obamas all at the same time. Leaving Anvers, you'll enter one of the most visual time warps into the religious importance of Paris. Here lies the Basilica Sacré-Coeur, an ivory-white cathedral in Montmarte, or the Mount of Martyrs. Perched on the summit of the city, walking up the cobbled streets starts to feel like a pilgrimage in itself, but the panoramic view of the capital once you're up there? Indescribable. Detour to Palais Royale-Musée du Louvre. I am not, and have never been big on art. Having said that, coming face to face with the Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa, staring her squarely in the eye, does things to you.
Home-time. Making your way back to Gare du Nord, a child-like sadness slowly creeps over you, like when you were younger, in the middle of a life-changing game of "Grown-Ups" at your cousins' house, and your mum comes up to tell you that you're leaving in 5 minutes. The sadness allows you to reflect on the metro journey back, and perhaps appreciate things you didn't care to notice before. Like how the mysterious male/female voice on the tannoy always announces the approaching station twice, and in the cutest French accent: "Réamur-Sébastopol...Réamur Sébastopol".
Like how Parisian people, as a subtle act of kindness, always give up their seats near the doors to make more space whenever it gets the slightest bit crowded.
Like how, at least once in your lifetime during a Paris metro journey, you are accompanied by a jolly accordionist/guitar duet/jazz-blues saxophonist, just trying to get by in life but simultaneously loving what they do.
The city of Lights has a dark underworld. Homelessness is Paris' epidemic; whole families lay strewn on streets and children cling to mothers on rues worth more than the clothes on their backs. Chronically unemployed youth, dying to kill the banality of their lives, turn to theft and violence; idle hands do make the devil's work after all. Ill-lit alleyways laced with lewd neon lights, where paid sex is promised on every street corner demonstrate more than anything, the ironic cost of living in the world's most romantic city.
But it is REAL. And coming from London, I am more than familiar with reality.
Huh. Maybe I should have applied here after all...
Shirley Ahura
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