A Writer, Writing in Paris
By Melissa Shanley
My spiritual practice for the next 2.5 months is going to be not swearing my way through constantly changing throughways… or at coming wanderers, here for The Olympic Games, without compass for where they are, or need to go, in the accelerated stop motion evolution of Paris.
Even those familiarly in love with this City will not recognize their Love. Since March—with the City Government’s attempt at kindness, by warning us— temporary buildings, stadiums and bleachers are being erected, rapidly, in the wide spaces around and between Paris landmarks.
Tam High School bleachers appear to me more sturdy. Metal poles and slats hurry their ascent upward, in the hands of Saturday workers.
Saturday workers!
They must be behind… without revealing their stress, however, or the pressurizing weight of Olympic Organizers, hidden behind meter thick walls of various historic “hôtel”.
Shiny but awkward tinted metal structures block boulevards, traffic and general flow of energy. Weeks ago, I was prevented from walking to the doctor by multiple, suddenly sprouted, temporary stadiums in front of the Eiffel Tower. (Volleyball, I think…)
I now understand Omega has erected a countdown clock at the site, which I envision I will not be able to access, either.
Forced to absorb beauty, infused into me by the streets I walked, the long way round, to the doctor, I began considering the temporary alteration of Paris, and the Parisian response.
Now that Paris is an Almost Bike City, we are all addicted to our three and four lane, dedicated bike pistes, which have taken over main boulevards since COVID. As I write, I am hiding myself and my bike from the sudden sprinkling of barely May rain none of us believe will amount to much, and continue through. Cyclists and pedestrians make their way past me along the water rutted earth, under a parallel row of chestnut trees adjacent to La Place de la Concorde.
It is an area rarely noticed, as it trims the freeway-off-ramp-like, noisy route at the base of the Champs Élysées. Taxis prefer it. Ambulances curse it—when stuck, like impotent noise, in its sloping tunnel.
Tourists are charmed by the unpopulated, adjacent park, when they loose their way to “The Most Beautiful Boulevard in the World” —or to the most expensive shopping street, almost parallel.
Today, it is a main thoroughfare of two way bike traffic dodging three meter rain puddles, and walkers dodging dodgers.
Even street markings can’t keep up with changes in flow. This current detour was altered from the altered route I discovered in my first excitement at seeing the partially erected metal Tinker Toys. (I reminded myself to look up what games would be played there… I never did.)
That altered bike lane was an adapting of a bike route I had to re-learn two weeks previously, when blocking began, before erecting. The original modification became blocked as two more temporary stadiums expanded over the detour, mushroom-like.
Today, I turn around at my construction site dead end and follow a purposeful cycler who seems to have found the way. I notice we pass white street markings: temporary arrows fused to the pavement, which must have shown the way a week ago, and are now, too, partially covered by the expanding site. The truncated arrows look as confused as we do. Amputated, they now direct the way directly into temporary fencing, guarded by a man on a folding chair.
He looks bored.
I would have looked amused… but he has been here longer than I have.
The dodgers and the walkers plod. None complainingly. All is calm and peaceful, except for the sound of city bikes rattling over holes in a path not made for them.
I lean against a chestnut tree I hope is as charmed by the human, quiet chaos, as I am.
A Philippino Parisian approaches me, dazed, and slightly racy.
“Where is the 63 bus?”
She asked directly. Inhibitions evaporate in overwhelm.
Yikes. I don’t know. It won’t be where it is supposed to be, either, I am sure. I attempt to look it up on my transit app and the app doesn’t respond. The Games haven’t even started and 5g is already reduced to noG before millions of visitors and press even arrive to flood the normally very good internet access. Could the shiny, new neighbors of Parisian landmarks actually be blocking internet energy, as well?
I directed her through the rutted lane to the River Seine. She could find her way, once across, she said.
No use remembering the way. It will change tomorrow.
A native Parisian would not have asked, I ponder, watching her walk away. It would reveal cracks in their calm resignation.
It’s coming. They will complain, later… softly, briefly, beautifully. Then they will move on.
Calm resignation of the Parisian… The dreamy goal of an expatriate.
The sun is now shining through the chestnut tree leaves, and I move on.