Paris - the most romantic city in the world.

Before I start writing about Injah, I will share this article I wrote a couple of years ago after I got back from my year abroad. Maybe I'll insert a few titbits about places I have already been to. 

Meet cynical two years ago me:

Paris. The most romantic city in the world. Beauty, dressed head to toe in black, struts down the Champs Elysée. Sophistication personified. Charm oozes from the cigarette of the tall, dark stranger. Strolling hand in hand by the sparkling Seine, soaking up the splendour of the Sacré Coeur, stealing a kiss under the bright lights of the Eiffel Tower…    

Try spending a year there.

Paris. The land of the rude. Arrogance, dressed head to toe in black (frumpy may I add, not chic), swans down the Champs Elysée knocking down everyone in its path. The metro, engulfed in an overwhelming stench of urine, thunders through the rat-ridden tunnels. By all means stroll hand in hand by the Seine but be sure not to stare too long into each other’s eyes lest you find yourself ankle-deep in dog dirt.

The French: a nation who prides themselves on their rich language, a nation who fights to protect that full and vibrant language from the evils of English, a nation who, despite all, favours one simple word – non. Non, non and thrice non. After living there for a year you realise the frogs aren’t as charming as they’re cracked up to be. Try conversing with a Parisian. Address them in English and be greeted by a look of disdain and a smug response in English. Speak in French and the fleeting glimpse of surprise in their eyes is quickly replaced by annoyance and then a smug response…in English. And that’s if they’re kind enough to admit they understood you.     

Don’t be fooled by the illusion of romance. Sadly, there are no moustachioed onion-sellers in stripy t-shirts. Instead, faux-fur clad fifty-somethings line the walls of rue Saint Denis waiting for clients, their haggard faces lit by bright neon signs advertising ‘adult’ videos.

The Gare du Nord has become a sort of gypsy encampment. Begging in the form of cardboard scraps screaming “Give me money”. Head towards the platform, push through the crowds, run down the stationary escalator headfirst into…a strike. Another strike. Fun? Not after the fiftieth time. You ask the important looking lady in a hat when the trains will start running again. She looks down her nose as if she has smelt something unpleasant. You ask if there’s another way to get there. She bares her teeth and snarls “j’sais pas”. You stop asking questions and back away slowly.

Paris. The most romantic city in the world? Maybe for a weekend. If you constantly scan the ground for canine faeces, avoid all train stations and metros, don’t talk to anyone, pretend not to notice the disparaging looks and close your eyes and imagine the romance. Maybe you think I’m cynical? Maybe you should try spending a year there.