Back in September, my professor of my course "Paris Reading" made us visit a cute neighbourhood Buttes-aux-Cailles in the 13th arrondissement, and here is my report on it. Surprisingly got an A for this *woah*!! Anyway, here is quite a decent piece of me flanering in Paris. Enjoy!
Indeed, il fait très beau, I thought to myself. Despite living on the
ground floor where the nearby Haussmann buildings blocked the sky, it was so
sunny that rays of afternoon beams managed to come in and filled the room with
warmth. It had been a while since I last wore my sunglasses, or since I had an
urge to flâner aimlessly and discover
the less-touristic Paris. So for that
very afternoon, I decided to take my professor’s advice and visit the famous quartier du Butte aux Cailles.
Travelling to the area itself
was already something new to me - it was my first time taking a tram in Paris.
It resembled much with Hong Kong’s Light Rail, a mass transit tube on the
ground that takes you to far, rural areas. I wondered if that was where I was
heading to. Then the tram came. I was standing right in front of the automatic
doors, anxiously waited them to open, and I soon realized there was no way I
could get on. The passengers inside were already standing by the door. Then all
of a sudden people who were sitting at the benches came up from behind, shouted
at each other and fought their way into the cabin. I gave in and stepped back for
the second tram to come.
I was still glad that I have
taken the tram, though. It is after all an interesting experience of the non-stereotypical
Parisian life. I had noticed the 60s music meant a huge deal to the French
people as I could find Georges Brassens and Ella Fitzgerald as the names of
tram stations. I was also surprised by how civilized the locals were to validate
their train tickets themselves even when no surveillance took place, and at the
same time how bold some of them were to just hop on hop off. In the end my
ticket did not work well. I just treated that as a welcoming gesture from the
RATP and alighted at Porterne des
Peupliers.
As soon as I stepped out, I
was, like the fellow pedestrians, drawn to the police car that stopped in the
middle of the road. A couple of policemen spontaneously got off and approached
this invisible, young man out of nowhere. A young, fit African-looking man in
black hoodies and blue jeans, paired with a silver chained necklace. He was
pushed to the glasses by two policemen outside Allo Pizza, having his body and pockets
searched through. Was that what a smuggler looks like? Why were the policemen
smirking all along? I could not help but doubt the policemen for picking on his
skin colour. Later he was freed, the police casually drove away, and the people
moved on. Nothing seemed to have happened at all, nobody seemed to care.
I guess I was a little
overwhelmed, so I quickly started to walk to Place de l’Abbé Georges Henocque. I turned into a downslope alley
that was adjacent to a tunnel with walls full of colourful graffiti. I saw
anger and discontent, yet I also saw diligence in the pursuit of aesthetics. I
could not help but start taking touristic pictures of this collective artwork.
Just as I was trying to appreciate the street art across the road, a huge crowd
of teenagers and students walked passed it and noticed my lonesome presence. I
could not hear very well what they mumbled, but a few of the boys started to
yell at me from afar. “Hey, hey you!
Where you from, Africa?” And they all started laughing suddenly. I guess
it was some sort of joke he attempted to make, but I did not find it funny at
all. I simply neglected these ignorant people and continued my exploration.
As I walked along, I did feel
like I was out of town. Never had I seen Paris with such wide pavements, neon
lights shop signs and a setting of quiet little villages. There were barely any
Haussmann buildings, and instead they were built with concrete, glass, and even
bricks. I almost assumed I was in the countryside of England. After climbing up
and down the slopes and passing by blocks of houses, I finally came to the Place. It was funny how the place was
set in a roundabout, just like the world in its round shape, or perhaps the
United Nations round table. If you have the patience to walk a lap, it should
provide you a good taste of touring the world in 10 minutes. At the heart of
the roundabout, the little park was filled with multi-ethnicity. You could
easily find Caucasian, Asian, Arab and African mothers spending their
afternoons with their children there. Then from left to right you shall find a
crimson Harvard-like hospital, an Indian restaurant, a traditional French café,
low rise Western houses, Medieval taverns that you could still find at
Shakespeare’s birthplace, a Greek-Turkish kebab place, and a very domestic boulangerie. To me this was the greatest
juxtaposition I had seen in Paris. Perhaps this was my hopeful thinking, but it
felt comforting to see a spot that physically embraced diversity and embodied the
melting pot.
From there onwards, the walk
to from Rue du Moulin des Près to Butte aux Cailles was a series of exotic
traces and living patchworks. Apart from the mixed buildings and the diverse
ethnicity mentioned, the atmosphere between streets changed so drastically.
Walking pass one little street of garden houses, another one could be
surrounded by Brooklyn ghettos and standardized brown apartment buildings. The
people themselves were of different styles too. Some dressed like Parisians you
might find by the Seine, some reminded me much of American hipsters, and some
were still struggling to find a place for shower. Some, like young couples and
teenagers, were hazily fooling around with their youth; others, like middle-aged
adults, were slowly strolling in their neighbourhood with their guards on. Just
like this elderly lady I accidentally bumped while I was taking pictures. While
I tried my very best French accent to say pardon,
her only response was a fierce stare that pierces through my eyes. I genuinely
thought somewhere in my eyes or my head I was bleeding.
I gradually strolled to the
niche little bars on Rue du Butte aux Cailles, and it was a pleasant drinking
and dining scene to know about in Paris. I guess I would have sat down and have
un verre if it wasn’t for the weird
encounters. My head ached a bit, so I just walked by and looked for a little
bench to sit down, trying to organize my thoughts.
Did I miss something? Was
there a story behind all these nonchalance and melange? It was hard to tell what the majority population of this
quartier was. There was no dominance, and meanwhile there was no one who really
bothers to make an effort and integrate. Almost everyone in the world would
love to come to Paris and just become a Parisian, but not these people. These
people were not posh but lofty, unrefined but set free. I sensed some sort of
indifference and pride in this little town that I could not find in downtown
Paris.
Interestingly, while there
was so many differences that can be found among the tenants, what they share in
common is what they differ for – to stay true to who they are. They endear
their identity, embrace their own cultures and live with these elements
overtly. And if they are immigrants, then let them be immigrants – the hell
with all that superiority and pretense! I doubt if any one of them had ever thought
of Parisifying themselves.
As the sun came down and
blinds my view, I decided it was time to call it a day and return to my
neighbourhood in the 7th arrondissment,
where I could resume that typical Parisian lifestyle again. I walked back to
the artisan boulangerie I passed by
earlier and bought myself a baguette as an immediate snack and a souvenir of my
tour. I torn off the tip, had a bite, and could not help wondering if the boulanger accidently poured a jar of
salt into his dough. But then, I thought, who am I to judge? So I went on and
snacked on that French bun, took the metro, and made myself some Cantonese
fried rice for dinner that night. As soon as I tugged in my spoon, it felt just
right.
