Tripping back into Parisian Time.

A sweeping sensation of intoxicating lust is an ever present association with the mere word. Paris. France. There is something undeniably alluring about this place for me. This beautiful country inviting visions of ornate Haussmann buildings lining bustling streets; hills spanning miles with blooming flora, contrasting the pink hues of the setting sun, the constant noise of cars tooting, the air of racing metro’s spilling out of underground grates and the shouting from grocer’s, fishmongers and boulangers; wrapped eloquently in the French accent. Bouts of this nostalgia often wager themselves back into my life. I pine for aimless strolling and boulangerie windows filled with edible masterpieces, for the buzz of near collisions on Velibs and the picture perfect sunsets that glaze the city effortlessly, night after night. I spent a full year of my life there and yet still want to return one day. There is an aspect to life there that can’t be found elsewhere, or perhaps, I simply haven’t yet found it elsewhere. Its stereotypes hold true; it is a land of food, beauty and love. The women are thin, well dressed and smoking, and the drivers are mad. I would reminisce about walking along the cobblestone streets as the sun baked down overhead, the streets littered with tourists in love, impeccably dressed locals and the hot smell of homelessness. I miss drinking in the scenery, reading French signs and advertisements which always seem classier and more provocative than their English counterparts. What I may have lost in the barrier of language is more than made up for in the unavoidable social elements; their focus on food as experience, dining out as an adventure, the attention to fashion and culture and the focus on appearance as identity; the shine of their accent, the articulate roll with which the words part their lips. So, nine months after I left, I shall return. Paris a functional thoroughfare for one of its Americanized gems, Disneyland. I am not a first time Disney’er, my last (and first) venture there was over a year ago, on one of the first days that winter bore its menacing presence, contrasted against the smiling, sunny animated characters who roam the technicolor streets. As Walt aspired, it was one of the best days of my life. I left high on life and sugar, the remnants of adrenaline still alight. I went to sleep that night intoxicated by blinding lights, oversized cartoons and cinnamon and sugar coated sweet bread. I closed my eyes to be cast into never ending high speed, looping roller coasters, illuminated by the darkness of my eyelids. I couldn’t escape the speed, colour and activity of the day gone past; so I rode it into sleeplessness. On Friday night, my journey back began. As the sun dipped lower into the horizon and the beautiful London day was blanketed in black, my three companions and I were making our way to Victoria station; our tickets to Paris clasped in our excited hands. Our spaceship bus, clearly designed by NASA’s counterpart, was clean and modern but sleeping horizontally and remaining in one seat for over 9 hours is no one’s strong suit, and mere hours in we were fidgeting desperately towards sleep. My slumber somehow masked the journey onto the train and we were arriving into a sleepy-eyed Paris before I had time to question our location and the obvious geography blimp of crossing an ocean while seated aboard a bus. The beauty of Paris is instant and powerful; a city like nowhere else in its romantic and enthralling qualities, and we were ushered in silently, while the effects of Friday night wine and cheese were still wearing off the sleeping residents. Tracing our steps towards our hostel felt like a step back in time but our sense of familiarity dissipated with our new status as tourists. We were banished from the exclusive title of Parisian resident; instead ‘visitor’ was dripping off our backpacks, our cameras and our hostel address. However the metro was not a tangled web of confusion, the juggled placement of scattered streets was not an orienteer’s nightmare and the language dictating our every move was a strange sense of forgotten comfort; we were locals in disguise. Clad with a wide eyed wonder but filled with native knowledge, understanding and appreciation that only well-versed Parisian residents can muster. Finding our hostel (and being treated to an odd, impromptu choir rendition by fellow guests dressed in matching paint splattered suits), we quickly freshened up in the miniature bathroom and dumped our bags, before our childlike excitement guided us to Chatelet station, and aboard the RER ride to Disneyland. Never has a metro ride felt longer than when the Happiest Place on Earth lies at the end, but our bubbling anticipation remained in measure until the metro doors slid open and “Marne La Vallee” was announced on the intercom. No gates shine quite as bright as the sugar coated wonder oozing from those of Disneyland, the other-worldly funfair instantly lifts your spirits and provides a dynamic, bubbly backing track to life. Minor ticket hiccups meant observing the candied revelry from outside, our bottled delight at the brink of bursting only increasing our relentless impatience for adrenaline. Once through the barrier, Warner Bros Studios beckoned first and ride number one was a behind the scenes movie magic type tour, an easing into the expansive selection of thrills. Next was a Hollywood Tower of Terror (not for me) and followed by Aerosmith’s Rock’n’Roller Coaster, a test of neck strength and screaming capacity. We passed with colour. Passing rain squalors meant cover was key; so Armaggedon won next ride. A bizarre mix of an over-enthusiastic worker and a surprisingly quick lurch to fear was an interesting first ‘new’ ride that I didn’t do last time. We grabbed a quick overpriced bruschetta to share from my favourite café, based on High School Musical, and we were off to see another new attraction for me, the Stunt Show. Flames, water, cars, motorbikes and near death shocks and gasps provided a nice spectacle without fear of personal death. We left Warner Brothers Studios and followed the path to the source of the sing song music emanating from within the glistening gates of Disneyland. Our first ride was through the detailed and relatively tame Pirates of the Caribbean float before jumping aboard the rickety Indiana Jones roller coaster, our first one outdoors! Nothing like the wind flowing turbulently through your hair as you race at top speed and get twisted upside down and back to front. We even nipped in with the under 5’s to get a go on the traditional Dumbo, the flying elephant ride, before making our way to an underground submarine and then Space Mountain to experience pure terror and exhilaration in perhaps the craziest ride yet. The twists and turns are not even countable (being in the dark makes it harder) and cannot be registered as you become thrown this way and that under the mesmerising lights flashing from all directions (if you can manage to open your eyes, of course…) Warmth and dinner inside the Videopolis, watching Disney characters supersized on screens all around and eating burgers from boxes plastered with Mickey, Minnie, Goofy whose smiles announced our enjoyment of the food before we’ve eaten. Then onto the Star Tours simulator to mix with Obi Wan Kenobi before setting up a spot in front of the magical castle in preparation for the 20th Anniversary Light Show. An absolutely incredible performance of dazzling lights, with Disney characters cast across the castle, water flying in cascading beauty and fireworks illuminating the dazzling work under the night sky. It makes it impossible to not be Disney inspired as our imaginations are set alight with the promise of a shiny, glossed world; free from imperfections and laden with unbridled happiness. A picture perfect end to an action packed, adrenaline fuelled and entertaining day. Joining thousands to board the RER back and collapsing into our strange, over-used hostel beds, sagging with the weight of countless bodies who had shared the wonder of Paris’ attractions and activities, for a wonderfully horizontal and much needed solid sleep. Our eyelids couldn’t close fast enough – too quickly to thank Walt for a day spent wrapped up in his reality. We rose swiftly and eagerly the next morning, boosted by a fantastic yesterday and a day ahead that was laced with promise, opportunity and crepes. We planned the timing to catch breakfast closely, and arrived with around two minutes left on the breakfast clock. Grabbing what little there was left from the odd array of cereal, yogurt, biscotti, baguette and brioche and talking animatedly about the day’s plans, we were soon approached by a small, stern looking French woman who had replaced the missing inches of her height with a frightful seriousness. Ordering us to finish in French before swapping to perhaps the only English word she knew “finish!” and shouting it in a way that twisted it into an insult, a command wrapped in menace. Attempting to eat faster but obviously failing according to her strict guidelines, she visited again; armed with more of a scowl and an increased rude demeanour. We eventually left, trying as we could to stay and enrage her, because her killjoy was ruining our holiday. Erupting into the empty streets, Paris’ early morning calm and irresistible charm soon soothed our frazzled breakfast nerves. After a 9 month absence from the city I once called my own (though constantly aware to add ‘temporary’ to that somewhat misleading title), returning for a weekend felt less like a homecoming and more of a ‘realising’ that I actually once lived there than I could have anticipated. Our walk was laden with personal epiphanies as we rounded corners and walked in the neighbourhood I used to canvas daily to collect groceries, meet friends and complete seemingly mundane daily tasks. My apartment stood in the same place and from the outside, looked identical. I could picture my 9 month younger self strolling through the doors, a local style apparent in my orientated, self-assured approach. But in every way other than structure, the apartment had changed. The image of what I saw was matched while everything it represented now felt amiss. It felt foreign. I had to physically remind myself I used to live there. I didn’t expect my towel to be hanging from the balcony nor our New Zealand flag to be visible through the wide shutters, but I didn’t expect to feel such a loss of attachment to something I had come to call my own so vehemently. Buying falafel in Le Marais, the Jewish district I came to bond with, at Chez Hanna, I recognised the signs, the street and the menu but the familiarity was lost in the sense of abandonment with which I had left. Eating in Place des Vosges, passing shops I spent Sunday mornings in, Chocolatier’s my thighs had to thank for and boulangerie’s nice enough to allow me to buy 90 cent baguettes with 100 euro notes. The pavement was worn with the tread of my footprints, traversed every Saturday for my favourite baguette, but was replaced by the shining remnants of eager eyed tourists and their temporary lust. The brutal reality that this city I had called so much part of me I was now no longer a part of started to hit home, as if the scorn of me leaving was written on every surface; lying quietly behind the ever-present beauty. In some sense, this made the city more alluring; it’s often glossed, shined and buffed image was truer than ever; as we strolled the streets I was falling in love with the City of Love, all over again. It had changed since I had left, and I was cast under its spell once more. Meandering from shop to shop, glancing at shoes, books, movies and watching 150,000 people strong protests before spending a sitting minute in front of Notre Dame and collecting Velib’s to compete with angry taxis on Haussman lined boulevards. A city I knew so well, yet seemingly not at all. Not needing a map to navigate the streets, but requiring a compass to relocate the memories I had experienced in pockets across the city. The day dawned so limited for a vast, expansive city in which visitors spent weeks, but 24 hours seemed long; the fullness depleted from the year I called it my own, the iconic romanticism a blurry veil stretched thin from the bulk of memories I shared with the city. We boarded our bus back to our current home across the channel; a home I feel more familiar in, and more entitled to call my own, but lacking the brightness around every corner, shrouding every moment. Glancing back to bid farewell to a city I may never see again lent a strange understanding to the movements of living, the fragile nature of the human impact and the reality that we are all roaming, we are all gypsies. We move on, part of a restless roller coaster that broadens, twists and turns and which leaves our past behind; stationary and concrete, unable to hold a lasting image of who we were in that moment; before the next group arrives and prepares for the ride of their life.