Ne me touchez pas! Part I
My friend Dana requested the following when she heard I was in Paris:
"Please take note for me of all that is Paris - beautifully arranged fruit on street carts, people kissing EVERYWHERE, and the many wafting perfume and cologne scents on the Metro."
It's true: a day doesn't pass here without my seeing a Parisian kiss. It's one of the many charms that gives Paris its romantic air. I can't tell you how many times I've seen a couple walking down the street toss their heads back in laughter, halt, kiss, smile, and start walking again. It never gets old. It keeps my Byronometer running high.
"Byronometer?" Yes. Another friend of mine explained it like this. If we can take Lord Byron as our archetype for romanticism, then we each have a Byronometer to gauge the state of our romantic feelings and desires. If we do the same with John Dewey for pragmatism, then we also each have a Deweymeter. A while back, I have to admit, my Byronometer was running high. It wasn't off the charts--it never is--but I was footloose yet standing still, full of the sort of ennui that I thought only Paris could cure, missing the beauty and adventure I had recently left behind after my first trip to Europe.
Eventually, my Deweymeter kicked in, as I absorbed and cooled the humors that had been roiling my Byronometer. "I'm not going for adventure," I thought. "I'm just feeling anxious because I've been living in essentially the same place my whole life. I'll never appreciate home the way I should if I don't get away for a while. Plus, I'll learn French much more quickly there. It just makes sense, is all. It's a good deal, win win, why not."
Still, when I'm walking along the Seine and someone is playing an accordian off in the distance and everyone is speaking French and I see a couple stop and kiss as thousands of others have probably done in the same spot over hundreds of years, the Byronometer kicks in.
After riding Metro tonight, though, I'm going to have to go get my Byronometer recalibrated.
___
I had gone to see a concert just outside of Paris. It's a bit of a haul: you have to take Metro to the city line, then catch a bus. The concert ran pretty late, so I ducked out of the last set around 11:30 so I could catch Metro before it closed.
I hopped the bus and pulled out my brand new paperback copy of Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim. The bus grew more crowded as we approached the city. By the time we got to the Place d'Italie metro station, it was positively rambunctious, full of drunk 19-year-olds.
As the bus pulled to a stop, two teenagers knocked into me and pushed past to get to the front of the exit line. No "excusez-moi"; they only giggled as if they had just pulled a prank. From the back of the bus came aggravated shouting. I didn't understand the French, but it sounded like a fight was starting. It was a deep, booming cry, the sound of someone who feels he has been truly wronged. In fact, it reminded me of the most chilling screaming I've ever heard, that of Art Washington after the Los Angeles riots. Mr. Washington, an older black man, owned a store that was destroyed in the riots. PBS's Frontline caught him on camera the next day confronting the crowd. "How can you do this?!? This is MY store! I built this business!" He couldn't believe--especially after Watts--that other African-Americans would destroy what he worked so hard to create. He was stuck--on one side was the injustice inflicted on his race by the Rodney King decision that had started the riots in the first place, and the injustice of the destruction of his store, wanton nihilism perpetrated by those who were reacting to the first injustice. A totally helpless man, helpless against the system and against individuals, helpless against the debris in front of him, helpless against circumstance and chaos. No one's voice has ever seared itself into my memory like his has--true howls of desperation, the sound of the near total failure of the human race to hold society together. But this voice at the back of the bus was close.
At the front of the bus, one of the boys shouted at the driver: "Ouvrez la porte!" The driver opened the door amid louder shouting from the back of the bus. The two boys scurried off. I and several others kept looking back as we were walking away, unsure whether we should get involved or not--to call the cops, intervene, or run away, we weren't sure. The voice disturbed all of us.
I saw the boys again in the metro stairwell, still giggling. As I walked the long hallway to the platform, I heard the voice again. It was like Art Washington's voice, a sonic boom on the first word of the sentence, the rest trailing off into oblivion. Then another boom. The boys seemed to become more amused when they heard him again, although they also sped up their gait. I began to wonder if they had done something to him. They looked Algerian, and I wondered if this was a case of one minority group battling another to stay out of last place in the social order. Did these kids insult the man whose voice was getting closer and closer?
I found myself a spot halfway down the length of the platform, which was packed with young people awaiting the last train of the night. The two kids walked down to the end, repeatedly looking back down the platform. The booming voice got louder and louder, very slowly. At one point, everyone on the platform stopped talking. It was as if we were all wired the same way--we had all heard him for some time, but now our animal instincts told us that he wasn't just crazy. He was looking for someone, and he was looking for a fight. Then, just as quickly, everyone's voice picked back up again.
"InjusTICE! RaCISTE!" Americans tend to emphasize the first syllable of a word, Italians the middle, and the French the last. Here he came through the platform, walking slowly. Like in a western. "L'injusTICE! La raCISTE!" Maybe he was with a group, maybe not. I couldn't tell. He just walked slowly, barking. He passed me, and as he got closer to the two kids who may or may not have insulted him or possibly picked his pocket and farther away from me, the cries became fainter: "EES! EES! ees! ees..."
"Please take note for me of all that is Paris - beautifully arranged fruit on street carts, people kissing EVERYWHERE, and the many wafting perfume and cologne scents on the Metro."
It's true: a day doesn't pass here without my seeing a Parisian kiss. It's one of the many charms that gives Paris its romantic air. I can't tell you how many times I've seen a couple walking down the street toss their heads back in laughter, halt, kiss, smile, and start walking again. It never gets old. It keeps my Byronometer running high.
"Byronometer?" Yes. Another friend of mine explained it like this. If we can take Lord Byron as our archetype for romanticism, then we each have a Byronometer to gauge the state of our romantic feelings and desires. If we do the same with John Dewey for pragmatism, then we also each have a Deweymeter. A while back, I have to admit, my Byronometer was running high. It wasn't off the charts--it never is--but I was footloose yet standing still, full of the sort of ennui that I thought only Paris could cure, missing the beauty and adventure I had recently left behind after my first trip to Europe.
Eventually, my Deweymeter kicked in, as I absorbed and cooled the humors that had been roiling my Byronometer. "I'm not going for adventure," I thought. "I'm just feeling anxious because I've been living in essentially the same place my whole life. I'll never appreciate home the way I should if I don't get away for a while. Plus, I'll learn French much more quickly there. It just makes sense, is all. It's a good deal, win win, why not."
Still, when I'm walking along the Seine and someone is playing an accordian off in the distance and everyone is speaking French and I see a couple stop and kiss as thousands of others have probably done in the same spot over hundreds of years, the Byronometer kicks in.
After riding Metro tonight, though, I'm going to have to go get my Byronometer recalibrated.
___
I had gone to see a concert just outside of Paris. It's a bit of a haul: you have to take Metro to the city line, then catch a bus. The concert ran pretty late, so I ducked out of the last set around 11:30 so I could catch Metro before it closed.
I hopped the bus and pulled out my brand new paperback copy of Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim. The bus grew more crowded as we approached the city. By the time we got to the Place d'Italie metro station, it was positively rambunctious, full of drunk 19-year-olds.
As the bus pulled to a stop, two teenagers knocked into me and pushed past to get to the front of the exit line. No "excusez-moi"; they only giggled as if they had just pulled a prank. From the back of the bus came aggravated shouting. I didn't understand the French, but it sounded like a fight was starting. It was a deep, booming cry, the sound of someone who feels he has been truly wronged. In fact, it reminded me of the most chilling screaming I've ever heard, that of Art Washington after the Los Angeles riots. Mr. Washington, an older black man, owned a store that was destroyed in the riots. PBS's Frontline caught him on camera the next day confronting the crowd. "How can you do this?!? This is MY store! I built this business!" He couldn't believe--especially after Watts--that other African-Americans would destroy what he worked so hard to create. He was stuck--on one side was the injustice inflicted on his race by the Rodney King decision that had started the riots in the first place, and the injustice of the destruction of his store, wanton nihilism perpetrated by those who were reacting to the first injustice. A totally helpless man, helpless against the system and against individuals, helpless against the debris in front of him, helpless against circumstance and chaos. No one's voice has ever seared itself into my memory like his has--true howls of desperation, the sound of the near total failure of the human race to hold society together. But this voice at the back of the bus was close.
At the front of the bus, one of the boys shouted at the driver: "Ouvrez la porte!" The driver opened the door amid louder shouting from the back of the bus. The two boys scurried off. I and several others kept looking back as we were walking away, unsure whether we should get involved or not--to call the cops, intervene, or run away, we weren't sure. The voice disturbed all of us.
I saw the boys again in the metro stairwell, still giggling. As I walked the long hallway to the platform, I heard the voice again. It was like Art Washington's voice, a sonic boom on the first word of the sentence, the rest trailing off into oblivion. Then another boom. The boys seemed to become more amused when they heard him again, although they also sped up their gait. I began to wonder if they had done something to him. They looked Algerian, and I wondered if this was a case of one minority group battling another to stay out of last place in the social order. Did these kids insult the man whose voice was getting closer and closer?
I found myself a spot halfway down the length of the platform, which was packed with young people awaiting the last train of the night. The two kids walked down to the end, repeatedly looking back down the platform. The booming voice got louder and louder, very slowly. At one point, everyone on the platform stopped talking. It was as if we were all wired the same way--we had all heard him for some time, but now our animal instincts told us that he wasn't just crazy. He was looking for someone, and he was looking for a fight. Then, just as quickly, everyone's voice picked back up again.
"InjusTICE! RaCISTE!" Americans tend to emphasize the first syllable of a word, Italians the middle, and the French the last. Here he came through the platform, walking slowly. Like in a western. "L'injusTICE! La raCISTE!" Maybe he was with a group, maybe not. I couldn't tell. He just walked slowly, barking. He passed me, and as he got closer to the two kids who may or may not have insulted him or possibly picked his pocket and farther away from me, the cries became fainter: "EES! EES! ees! ees..."
posted by disappearingink at 1:29 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home