Paris: A situationship
I love Paris, but it's taken me a long time to get there
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There are 270 steps up to the Sacre Coeur, and on this week’s trip to Paris I’ve walked exactly none of them. Lucky then that I still get to see it: working from the kitchen table my eyes can’t help but be drawn to the ornate, ivory basilica in the distance, perched atop Montmartre like a Kardashian wedding cake.
No one really climbs up to the Sacre Coeur to see the church, though - even if that’s what they think they’re doing. First-time Paris pilgrims follow it like a North Star, second only to the Eiffel Tower. They watch over her as the plane comes into Charles De Gaulle, or hunt her white walls all the way from the Place de Concorde. You can even snatch a glimpse of her from a precise point in the Tuileries. The Sacre Coeur is always there, ever-present and omniscient, daring you to come and find her.
But once they’ve taken her up on the offer, climbed up the winding streets and stone steps, before near-collapsing at the feet of this majestic Grand Dame, they turn their back on her. They’d rather look at the view at the city they spent years reading about, watching movies about, dreaming about, even if they don’t really know why.
Paris: A situationship
The way we tourists treat the Sacre Coeur rather sums up my complicated relationship with Paris. Lucky to have come here since I was a child, I spent a long time wondering what the fuss was about. The words ‘Paris is overrated’ even came out of my mouth once or twice - and in my twenties, no less.
It wasn’t that it wasn’t beautiful - even as a child I was lost in its beauty. Or that it didn’t lure me in with its life story - the whole city is a living museum. It wasn’t that I hated city life - as a teenager I dreamt of the day I could move to the big smoke and ‘real life’ in all its grime and glory.
No, what frustrated me about Paris was the sense that it was always ever-so slightly out of reach. I could sense the cool, the charm, the glamour of the place, but it wasn’t ever where I was. Just like reaching the summit of Montmartre, any time I felt I was getting close, something seemingly better would appear over there in the distance. Wherever I wasn’t.
Lost in translation
It doesn’t help that I don’t speak more than about eight words of French: ‘bonjour’, ‘bonsoir’, ‘merci’, ‘ici’, ‘quatre’, and ‘j’ai dix ans’, which gives you an idea of the last time I spent any time trying to learn. It’s taken this trip, with my fluent French speaking partner, for me to realise just how much of a mental block I have with the language. And I only realised because he was the one who brought it up.
“It’s funny how you seem to have such a psychological block with French when you’re able to speak Spanish pretty well” he commented last night at dinner in the relaxed manner of a man who can speak five languages, three of them fluently. I know, sickening. My mind instantly tracked back to asking for deux cafe au lait to take away the day before and how I felt I had to profusely apologise for not being able to speak French. Think ‘lapin in the headlights’.
Part of it is being British, for sure: we know our reputation precedes us. And some of it must be some sort of weird self-criticism-slash-superiority-complex: I’m ashamed I can’t speak this language, but wish I could somehow communicate that I can speak another one, especially given how nonchalantly cool Parisiennes are (side note: how do you say ‘I’m not like other British girls’ in French?)
But the largest part is just your classic, run-of-the-mill, negative childhood experiences. I was terrible at French, despite having a head-start learning it. My childhood best friends and I were enrolled into French lessons from the age of about four - not that it did anything, clearly. I then studied it again at primary school - the entire experience of which appears to have been blanked out of my memory, let alone the words themselves.
What looms large is my high school French lessons with Madame McDonald (despite the surname she was indeed French). Week after week of ‘1/10’ marks in my exercise books. Week after week of mixing my fille with my filles (they still sound exactly the same to me). What’s more, the lessons were conducted out in the mouldy pre-fabricated buildings constructed to contain the school’s overspill. In the Winter they were so cold we had gas heaters to warm them up, and one lesson I sat too close to the flame. Trying to alert Madame M, I was told she wouldn’t do anything until I told her in French. By the time I was able to tell her, my plastic chair had melted right into the floor.
The words never came but the love did
If you’ve ever learnt a language you’ll know that frustration of feeling like you cannot communicate, and - as that chair incident illustrates - the latent vulnerability that underpins it. Couple that with my propensity to like 1) talking a lot and 2) activities I’m immediately good at, and you will begin to see why French gives me such a feeling of tightness in the chest to this very day.
And yet I keep coming back. Another week in Paris and, surprise, I am no closer to speaking French. I still pronounce everything like it’s Spanish. I still make a face like a goldfish when anyone asks me anything. But thirty years on from my first visits, I know I’ve finally fallen for the City of Love.
It’s helped having close friends living here, who can lift the lid on the real city operating behind the tourist track. And I suspect my own confidence has grown as I’ve gotten used to being a fish out of water in other cities. But my relationship with Paris has become less complicated as I’ve accepted my own limits with the language.
Now, that love might not ever be fully reciprocated: Paris might need more commitment from me and the Duolingo owl to love me back, but that’s okay. The Sacre Couer’s taught me that the beauty of this city isn’t just in the things you can reach—it’s also in the ones which are always slightly out of grasp.
❤️ Thanks for reading today’s edition of Scrambled Eggs. If you enjoyed it, please hit the heart to let me - and others - know.
Lost in translation. Love that movie. Human connection is sometimes the only thing that can help us find our way when we become lost.
Excellent. I totally relate to your sentiments.