Writing in Paris: Partie Cinq

One of the ways, my writing in Paris guru, Eric Maisel suggests to begin your writing adventure in Paris is to become a flâneur. According to Wikipedia: "The term "flâneur" comes from the French verb flâner, which means "to stroll." A flâneur is thus a person who walks the city in order to experience it."

Charles Baudelaire, the French poet and critic, forever changed the meaning and significance of the flâneur by elevating it to a great cultural import. According to Baudelaire, the "gentleman stroller of city streets" has a key role in understanding, participating in and portraying the city. A flâneur is a detached social observer and simultaneously impacts the environment he observes.So, Maisel is saying that to write in Paris one needs to stroll in Paris. I have to say, that, I am not sure if I am capable of anything other than a saunter in Paris. Okay, maybe, if I was trying to catch a bus I could up my pace to an inelegant speed walk--but there would have to be a very good reason to be in such a gosh darn hurry while in France. Maybe, if Laduree where giving away free Macaroons.

In New York I walk a very focused "don't f*ck with me" walk. In Chicago, my pace is a little slower; it is still a city where you see women in business suits and New Balance running shoes scurrying to the Mercantile. However, one is less likely to be accosted in Chicago; so, the second city speed is a definite downshift to third. And as far as walking in L.A., haven't you heard the song, "Nobody walks in L.A."

On a recent visit, I decided to walk down Melrose Avenue and browse. I thought I might run into Heather Locklear or lesser cast members from Melrose Place, but there was no one there. I was all-alone on Melrose. I started to wonder if it was a holiday or if maybe there was a big casting call somewhere. Truly, for seven blocks of walking, I only saw one person who was waiting for a bus. Instead of feeling the freedom of the open expanse, I felt an anxiety one feels when in a ghost town (Um, not that I have ever really been to a ghost town; but I do remember a "Brady Bunch" episode where the family went to a ghost town. I remember feeling scared when I watched Greg and Marsha explore the vacant village). Melrose was so abandoned and spooky that I half expected tumbleweeds to blow down Robinson Blvd. and bluster into the open doors of Fred Segal. In Paris, I can imagine being a professional flâneur.

When I start to walk somewhere in Paris, I start out with the intention of a destination and yet as I walk the destination seems to grow farther and farther away as I surrender to the journey. To be a flâneur one must stroll at an extremely or even exaggeratedly leisurely pace. Slowness is not the only element to flâneurie. Intense observation is also fundamental to a successful flâneur. This is a walking meditation of transcendence and beauty--- and certainly more transformative than any mantra I have ever half-heartedly mumbled.

As I walk, my heart rate continues to grow slower and slower. There is no cardio benefit to be gained from flâneurie in France. I assure you that flâneurie will never catch on as a fitness craze in the states. There will be no exercise DVD's featuring Flâneurie Fitness, "you too can flâneur you're way to fitness!" I can see Baudeliere spinning in his grave---and I am not referring to the sweat inducing bike class style of spinning! I feel confident in assuming that poets don't go in much for gyms.

In Paris, I truly cannot walk more than a few steps without stopping to look at the way a grocer has arranged the asparagus. The tender loving care he has taken with turnips and the nurturing he has shown the nectarines. I am filled with awe and beauty and a sensory overwhelm. I somehow gain the strength to take a few more steps and then there is the cheese shop. I have to stop, even though I had just stopped at the cheese shop down the block. I need to once again fill my lungs with the perfume that escapes from the door when someone walks in to buy an ashy dusted round of goat cheese. The French, and they should know, describe that delightfully cheesy aromatherapy as the smell of angel’s feet. Aaaah, heaven!

I have to stand with wonder at the variety and assortments of cheese the way tourists in America stand in front of the Grand Canyon. There are pictures to be taken. There are souvenirs to buy. There are clichés that need to be said. "How can they create so many cheeses just out of milk and bacteria." I have to stand in front of the cheese chasm that divides our two countries. And, I will wonder where America's fear of unpasteurised cheese comes from. I will be overtaken with the fierce existential dread that I will not live long enough to try all of these cheeses. I will never know all of their names or all their pleasures. It is a moment of both pleasure and pain....life and death. Weakened by the experience, I take a few steps and look into the window of the pharmacy and see an ad selling a serum made by La Roche that promises to give me a smooth, supple and round ass, like the Casaba melon I had just seen so lovingly caressed by the fruit vendor down the rue.

I am trying to get to the 6th, but I wonder if I will ever make it out of the 7th. There are the flower shops that cannot be ignored. There are the bouquets that are too grand and elegant to be considered mere bouquets. I pause to worry whether all of the arrangements will be purchased. I ache with the imagining that some will decay without ever having someone fully love and appreciate them. And, what does that massive bouquet with the orchids, roses, peony, pineapples and peacock feathers cost, anyways? And, who will get it? My imaginings blossom.

None of these arrangements are available at my local FTD. I see no baby's breath, bright blue carnations or assorted helium balloons. These are not mere florists---they need to have a better name. Maybe, haute flower designers or institutes for the elevation of the fleur to a grand art? I stand at the window; I am far too afraid to go in. I know my French is inadequate to express my profound admiration for their beautiful creations. I fear that my attempt at flattery would insult rather than inspire. I walk away feeling much like Eve must have when she was given her eviction notice from Eden.

And, don't even get me started on the boulangeries and the bookshops, or, the chocolate stores with their ever-changing confectionery displays. Then there is the architecture; each building a new poem that deserves reverie and reflection. And then there are the bridges. I could spend a day at each bridge that connects the Seine in an effort to understand the vagaries of emotion each one inspires.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I don't need Maisel or, even, Baudelaire to tell me to slow down and stroll in Paris. It is all well and good to be a flâneur in Paris. It is a cheval of a different colour to attempt that in the Midwestern Mayberry in which I live. What I need to do is to start to be a flâneur here at home. I admit that strolling does not come as naturally to me here. My pace is quickened and intentional when I go to the Jewel to do my shopping. I feverishly bag the asparagus; I then make a mad rush to the deli counter, so as to get there before the 3:00 rush. I most definitely do not stop and lovingly gaze at the cheeses in the case and romanticize neither the Sarah Lee cheddar nor the Oscar Meyer honey baked ham that's on sale. I hurry past the floral section of my market on my way to the register and am unmoved to stop and smell the wilted roses.

To be continued(sometime next week), Part Sept: The Artist Date

Cheese Variety, Paris, France Poster by Artist: Lisa Engelbrecht courtesy of Allposters.com.