Art Walks the Cobblestone Streets

Paris, France is known to many as the city of art and love. It has played the backdrop to many romantic finales in movies for decades, and it has been a source of inspiration for designers to look to for new trends and styles. If one spends leisure time in Paris, then that person is assumed to be a very successful individual. These are just a few assumptions about Paris, and to an extent, they are all true. What people who have not spent time in the city of art and love fail to realise, is that Paris is so much more.

In Oscar Wilde’s “The Artist,” the reader is learns about a “bronze” way of thinking. The character of the short story goes through life only being able to “think in bronze” when it came to what he desired in fashion and art. In summary, the character was so focused on seeing things one way, that he missed out on all other possibilities of representation that could have been equally if not more beautiful. It was not until he let go of his one way of thinking that he was able to create an image of a moment, instead of a general scene of forever. In the end, he was able to create something that reflected a moment in time that could never be captured again, instead of a generic cliche that would be witnessed by others time and time again. Though Paris is made up of grand assumptions, repeated cliches, and iron structures, the true grit and mortar of Paris lies in the moments that take place on the cobblestone streets and metro systems. That is where the true art is made.

These moments, that are so easy to miss, take place every second of every day. It is these moments that are the true art of Paris. Museums hold beautiful paintings and sculptures of masters from years and years ago, and it is no doubt at all that those canvases should be admired and studied. However, the life-changing moments a visitor has in Paris are not going to take place in the echoing walls of a museum. No, they are going to take place on the authentic cobblestone streets of the bustling city.

A couple sits on a bench in Notre Dame’s park area. The couple is withered and wrinkled, but the smile on their face radiates the day that they said “I do.” The relaxed tilt of the woman’s head resting on her husband's shoulder, with his arm acting as a fortress of protection around her reverberates even louder that they still do. This is a moment of pure, unduplicatable happiness and love. This is true art. In no other moment is love as strong and true as this scene in front of onlookers who care to take notice. This is a moment that makes Paris special.

A drunken man slumps into sleep on a subway car towards Les Halles. His wedding banded finger clasped around his empty can as he drifts off into an unfeeling slumber. Two seats away, a mother and her two children sit quietly, the boy obviously more attached to his mother than the sister, who is older. This contrast is often a forgotten moment that takes place in Paris. Visitors do not like to remember the uncomfortable realities of the Parisian beggars, drunks, drug addicts, and the homeless. The truth of the matter is, this man probably has a wife at home, and due to his age, it was quite possible he had a son, just like the one seats away from him, wondering why his father was not there to tuck him goodnight. The little boy on the trains father may be a successful and loving figure, or he may be just as ebriated and unhappy as the unconscious man snoring across from his child. The innocence of the children on the metro train is painfully exuberant when compared to the drunkard. It is heart wrenching to know that either of these children, should their path be so unfortunate, could end up being just like the drunk on the train later in life. This is a moment in Paris that no one likes to talk about, but it is also one of the most beautiful and sad moments that the city has to offer. Not all art can be joyous. With happiness, pain must also balance out the scale of life on the metro.

A woman waits on a train platform with a worried look on her face. She is very sad and troubled about something, and it is obvious. The French tend to wear their emotions on their shoulders. There are bags in front of her, and she is fiddling with her thumbs. It appears she has been waiting for a while. At this moment, a man that she is obviously relieved to see takes her wrist and turns the woman into him, bringing her hands up around his neck. Her furrowed brow morphs into a smile, and for a brief moment she is happy. The couple kisses as hurried folks rush past them, unaware of the proclamation of love taking place. The woman begins to get sad again, and her eyes fill with tears. The man hunches down to eye level, and frames her face with his hands. He whispers some things that only the two of them are meant to share, and the woman hurls her arms around the man and buries her head in his shoulder. He closes his eyes and hugs her back. They are deeply in love, but are being torn apart. Finally they must step away from each other as the train pulls to a halt on the platform, and prepares for boarders. They kiss a final time, and the woman boards the train. The man walks slowly down the length of the train, perhaps searching for a reason to leap on. This is another moment that shows the art of Paris. The art of Paris is the heart of Paris and the people that dwell on the platform. The passion, the tenderness, and the willingness to let everyone see is what allows so many visitors to look around and feel completely immersed in love. That is an art of all its own. 

The most important moments of Paris, as a visitor would know if they bothered to look up from their tour guide book, are the moments taking place between the people on the streets. Couples in love, businessmen arguing, market workers selling, and children playing -- art truly does walk the cobblestone streets. The interactions that take place everyday are readily ignored by people too ignorant to see the art right in front of them. The life of the people of Paris, France is perhaps the most under appreciated masterpiece of all, and once one realizes that, only then can they truly become An Artist.

Finding the Damn Water

It was day five, and I had finally discovered the campus cafeteria. I walked through the ordinary wooden doors with a smile on my face. I had this whole Paris thing completely under control. I mean, I practically lived here, right? I was a complete Parisian genius. I confidently trotted up to the chef behind the counter and mimed my food order. Parisians, I’ve learned, are always willing to play a game of charades with me. I graciously accepted my enormous portions of carb-loaded food and paid the cashier at the check out line. It would be four euros. That is two of the bigger gold and silver coins. Easy. I could even count Parisian money. I was so good at this. A sat down at the grey-topped table and silently applauded myself.. I had conquered the food court.

Then I needed water. Water… Where the heck was the water? I was baffled. France apparently did not have water. I stared at the empty, overly elegant water dish on the table. Not a drop. I was going to die of dehydration in Paris. I clasped my determined hands around the neck of the vase, rose to my feet, and accepted my new Parisian mission. It was essential that this vase be filled. I decided that I would simply use my American charm and ask the next person I saw where the water was located.

I scanned the cafeteria. I was the radar of a warship scanning the seas for submarines. Spotted. A tall, attractive, blue-eyed vessel was eating his cous-cous with his fellow vessel approximately three tables to my left. I marched right up to this unsuspecting, beautiful gentleman and opened my mouth in preparation to astound him with my absolutely grammatically perfect, may as well be native speaking, French.

It was then that I forgot the French word for water.

I stood there for a moment, jaw hanging open and vase gripped tightly in my white-knuckled hand.

“Umm…” I began. He stared. “Umm…”

Water. What the heck is the word for water? It starts with an ‘L’. Ugh! What is it?!

I was helpless. “Umm…” I said once more. “The lee? The lou? The low?”

My face drained. I put my free, sweaty hand on my forehead. The French must hate me. I looked up with an apologetic smile to see that the man that I had approached was simply smirking at me. I lowered my hand and silently pointed to my empty vase.

“Water?” he laughed. He spoke perfect english. He and his perfect teeth were snorting with laughter. What a punk.

He got up from his meal, still gasping for air as my American idiocracy was obviously just too much to handle, and led me to the fountain of hydration. He took the vase out of my hand (oh my gosh, he touched my hand, oh my gosh) and placed it on a dispenser on the right wall. He flipped a magic switch, and suddenly the most beautiful stream of liquid splashed magnificently into my glass. This english-speaking man was my water-finding hero.

“Mercy boo coop! Mercy boo coup!” I smiled. For some reason he laughed some more. I am pretty sure he just fell in love with me, being in Paris and all. “Aur revaur!”

I made my way back to my table and filled my petite water glass with the best water I had ever tasted. I smiled to my mashed potatoes. I was basically a Parisian already.

Love in Paris

“I just do not think I will ever love you.”

And with that, I was alone in Paris. I closed my laptop, stunned. It was only day three, and I had five weeks left in a land I had only ever known from movies and books. As I hugged my knees to my chest in my now spacious twin bed, trying to decipher if the last ten minutes were truly my reality, I began to cry. I was broken-hearted in the city of love. I called my sister and my mother, who both were as equally as stunned as I was. I was consoled with you deserve better’s and he is just scared of being away from you’s. I knew all of these were true, and as fast as they had started, my tears had stopped.

I was in Paris, dammit.

I thanked those who comforted me thousands of miles away, and I finally closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I decided, I would wake up and soak up every sun drop, every morsel of magic that the city presented. I knew that even though he said he did not love me, I was in the city of love. Though I might never see him again, I was in Paris… I was in Love. I let out one last chuckle as his expense. The best place to be released from love is where love is all around.

I woke up the next morning not feeling sad, but feeling an odd pang of energy in my gut. It can only be described as a kind of energy that demand I propel forward, refusing to slip into depression for even a second. I was the child who hopped down the sidewalk, careful not to land on any cracks.

Around noon, I stepped on the crowded Metro towards Notre-Dame cathedral. There are few places in the world I have been where I truly and unquestionably feel safe. Notre-Dame is one of them. I am not a particularly religious person. I simply believe that people should pursue their lives and beliefs in whatever way makes them better and happy. However, as I approached Notre-Dame, I felt a welcoming that can be compared no other. I walked up to the enormous structure and gazed at the eyes that looked down into my soul. In one glance, I knew the building was conscious of what I was fighting, and the massive wooden doors welcomed me with open arms. Walking into Notre-Dame is like walking into safety. The stone walls rise up, up, up to the groin vaulted ceiling, and offers itself as your armor from the outside world. It promised that nothing could hurt you. The entire area was silent, and the only echo throughout the aisles were the footsteps of those who also shared this fortress of sanctuary.

I spent about a half an hour sitting before the enormous glass stained windows, emitting streams of light down to my feet, illuminating the way to brighter days in an otherwise dimly lit world. I looked at the various groups of people sitting around me. One elderly man and his wife sat hand in hand, with the wife’s head resting peacefully on his shoulder. Every once in a while they would whisper something to each other in a language I did not understand, but I did not need a language to communicate that they also found protection and serenity from Notre Dame’s walls.

There was one other man as well, who sat four chairs to my left. His hands were clasped in his lap, and his head was tilted towards the stone sky. He had not opened his eyes for several minutes, but his eyebrows furrowed in such a way that I knew he was waiting for whatever pain he was experiencing to be lifted out of him. He was static in his position for many more minutes, and finally he opened his eyes and offered a weak smile to the Savior rows before him. He got up, and silently stepped out through the doors, ready to return the trials that had brought him here in the first place. I spent a few more minutes in my chair, gazing at the altarpiece before me. I realized that Notre-Dame was the only place I have ever been that felt as if it could not be constructed by man. It was the only place I had ever been that truly felt… holy.

I gathered my belongings and rose up out of my chair. I nodded my head to the pillars, the paintings, the groin vaults, and the stained glass masterpieces in thanks. Notre-Dame had given me the protection I needed, and promised to be here should I need it again. I greeted it in desperation, and in a matter of hours left it as an old friend. I exited through the same wooden doors that had beckoned me in, and turned to look up at the gargoyles that seemed to be dreaming of the day they would explore the grounds below them. They begged me to enjoy what they could not, and I promised them I would. I walked away towards the Metro, and turned back to wave goodbye to Notre Dame one final time. The hearts of the saints and the gargoyles that adorned the walls and rooftops of Notre-Dame may have been made of stone, but mine was not. He may not have loved me, but I was in Paris, and I was in Love.