i feel bad about my neck

from: paris

i walked out of shakespeare & company with a stamped nora ephron under my arm. after the advice of my patriot friend (who in turn was advised by dolly alderton), i had chosen i feel bad about my neck as my next paris read. 

and what great advice it was. 

i devoured the book, as my tendency used to have it, in my favourite place: in bed with all the windows open, the draft cool on my skin, white curtains billowing. 

& it was reading ephron, writing about her love for her rent-controlled apartment building in nyc, that i got the lovely phrase: making a religion out of my neighborhood. 

i couldn’t help but realize i had been doing the same.

so let me tell you about my religion. 

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neighbourhood nature morte.

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stepping out the door you are hit with the tempting smell of the boulangeries – soft, buttery, oven-warm breezes from the bakeries – and then the nauseating smell of the boucheries – pigs feet, severed cow heads, parts of meat laid out like pearls at the jewelers. closing the door, walking up the street, you feel the crunch of peanut shells under your feet; spoils from the vendors selling small bags at every street corner. as you pass (or: as you try to pass) other slow walking pedestrians, you are hit with the realization that the footpaths of paris is a land where chaos reign. women with strollers walk in the middle, refusing the indignity of choosing a side. stepping over outspilling crates of fruit from the roadside sellers, exotic vegetables impeding the way, you realize you have never seen this many plantains. there are also women selling little purple fruits that look like small aubergines out of black plastic bags, safou safou safou they yell, as they sit on the ground (so you have to be careful not to step on them or their small purple fruit). on some days they also sell mystery drinks, water bottles filled with unidentifiable contents. (you want to know what is in these bottles, but you daren’t ask. some things are better remaining a mystery).

past the women and their merchandise, there is the fruit market. which during the night turns into a pop-up multimedia store. this transition is how you know paris is no longer operating on daytime. once all the perishables have been cleared away the men come out from she shade of the tabaccherias to sell fake phones fake airpods and fake everything. on makeshift stands of old fruit boxes they lay out their fake goods on sheets of linen. (which use, i once observed, was simply out of convenience: when the cops showed up, you could simply gather the ends of the linen and be on your way – a makeshift bag – and hence close up shop in mere seconds).  

after the fruit/fake market, there is the metro stop. when it is night and no longer daytime sizzling corn and kebabs are sold from makeshift grills built into steel shopping trolleys. these you can smell as soon as you step out of the metro sliding doors, all the way underground. it always amazes you, stepping out of those doors, that you can smell your neighbourhood before you see it. travelling down all those long flights of staris like a loyal dog welcoming you home.

after the metro and trolleys that are also grills there is mobile lane, as ive named it; or gadget lane, depending on your needs. here phones and tablets and every multimedia thing encased in plastic you can imagine are sold. along the streets full of vacantly-faced parisiennes the sellers try and out-scream each other for the best prices to your new abonnement. 

then comes suit lane. which is a very exciting street to walk down. here is the land of the mannequins, the very smartly dressed mannequins. among the sea of fabric it is always as impossible to tell a mannequin from a vendor, as they both tend to stand as imperceptibly still, surveying the flow of street in front of them. it is only when you get close and think a mannequin started to move that you realize it is a person. no matter how many times you walk past, you are always surprised when this happens. this illusionary transformation of plastic into flesh. 

walking past, it is easy to get caught up in this sea of fabric. when the vendors are not mannequins surveying the land they are out in the street competing for the privilege of selling you the best suit for your needs. and they are prepared for every need possible: velvet, linen, glitter and egyptian cotton. in every color and combination imaginable. but not in the color or combination you would like to imagine. 

one time, as we walked past a shop advertising their latest salmon pink suit (complete with a buttoned, bejeweled vest), a bypassing american tourist stared at this concoction of fabric and exclaimed: 

you can’t put a price on quality. 

no, you can’t put a price on quality. 

but quality is 50 euro. 

after the mannequins and the suits there is the occasional bridal boutique. but these look like they fit into the neighborhood, and blend in with the rest of the streets. no longer an eyesore, the neighborhood has transformed itself. charming cafes, boulangeries, franprixs and the baguette-carrying parisians are everywhere now.

here every street looks like every other nondescript paris street. 

having made it this far down, you being to wonder if your neighborhood even exists at all. (was it merely a fever dream?)

but after spending a day strolling the boulevards of montparnasse, the banks of the seine, visiting museums and restaurants, you begin to make your way home again. 

and then the smells and sensations return. 

the besuited mannequins and the blinking lights of mobile lane. pedestrian-chaos, bodies pushing, vendors shouting in every language possible. the sizzling corn and kebabs, summer peaches and fresh-baked baguettes. safou safou safou. you hold your breath as you walk past the open storefront of the boucheries and you are careful not to step on anyones toes or goods. 

you arrive at the red door. the plantains the last thing on your mind as you unlock and enter. 

as you’re making your way up the rickety flights of stairs, your friend sighs and says: 

im grateful you couldn’t smell the severed cow-heads for the guy smoking a joint outside the shop.

you smile. 

why would anyone chose to live anywhere else? 

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to boulangeries and boucheries, alliteration and assonance.

see you with the last installment of the paris adventure:

cusk and circularity.

love,

e.