Life in the 17th arrondisement is quite strange. When I first got here, I was living in a run-down bourgeois apartment, in a neighborhood akin to the upper east side. Before the summer came, though the neighborhood was black like the rest of Paris. People were quiet, and eye contact was nonexistent. The change of seasons brought the tourists, and now, on my metro ride to school, I am told to be aware of pick pockets in French, English, Chinese, Italian, and German.
Earlier this evening, a man screamed from nearby on the street, “tu m’en fou! t’es dégoulasse!” A few weeks ago, I was up early, and I heard a man screaming at his girlfriend from the street, “si tu n’me veux pas, je te quitte!” I would not be surprised if it were the same man.
Last night at the market, I was waiting in line at the caisse, and a figure came up very close to me from behind. I heard a grumbling baritone voice, and the man in front of me looked behind me expressionlessly. As far as I could see without turning around, I could see a red and swollen hand, and I could feel this person’s breath on my neck. He was mumbling in French, and I could not really understand what he was saying, so I could not tell if he was talking to me, or to himself. I inched forwards towards the cashier, who was completely unsympathetic to my paranoia, and looked at the man in front of me to gauge the disposition of the man behind me. He made eye contact with me momentarily, but looked away too quickly. This confirmed all of my fears, and I immediately started imagining myself with a knife in my back. I was relieved to find that he did not follow me home, as far as I am aware of.
When wandering, I don’t make my destination often. I’ll resign to walking around until I get hungry, or bored. On these walks, I catapult myself in the direction of some landmark or monument, usually a museum or a park. If I don’t make it within 30 minutes of arriving, I detour to the first alley which presents itself to me.
In these movements around the city, I find myself walking around the neighborhoods that I have learned about: the Absesses, Pigalle, Montmartre, Quartier Latin. I try to imagine the people and energy of the temps perdu. It is not particularly difficult, not much has changed.
Walking down the Canal Saint Martin, I watch the tour boats travel through the canal. Built in 1802 by ordain of Napoleon I, the canal runs from the Canal de l’Ourcq to the Seine. The locks are rusty, and some of them spit water where the pressure has forced the gates slightly ajar. The stretch closest to place de la République is very attractive, and when it is warm the banks are occupied by teens and young adults drinking and smoking weed.
A friend and I once met some kids in a band there, and we sat and played music and talked about music. They invited us to see their friend’s band play, and we agreed. We met them there around 2 am. They were light and heavy, at the same time, and I went home too early.
I walked back from the Canal Saint Martin towards home one evening, around 8. It was warm enough, and I had a second layer. I chased the sunset between the buildings, where the light would flow out from between the boulevards. People walked with their heads down, the sunlight cascading off of their backs, landing everywhere except for directly in front of them. At Chatêlet, I took the train home.
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