China Daily Global Edition (USA)
Touring ‘real’ Paris
Doing something a little different in the capital produces some insights, and one or two losses All the people who appeared to be of Chinese origin in Chinatown were as much a part of the city’s fabric as the Champs-Elysees, the Seine and the Eiffel Tower
Exploring the layers and historic wonders of the City of Light.
Whenever anyone talks about Paris as a city of romance they are obviously not referring to those of its streets whose dank fragrance is that of an army barracks latrine.
But forget these odd cases of odeur toilette, think rather of eau de toilette and just sniff the love in the air. Yes, there really is a lot in Paris for the romantic and the adventurous.
Who could not be charmed, and envious even, seeing Parisians gathering in front of small galleries hidden deep in labyrinthine alleys and regaling the many art forms on display, and others — or even the same people — out on their morning rounds buying a baguette for breakfast and taking it home naked under the arm. Laid-back Paris chic even seems to allow the unlikely ensemble of running shoes being worn with a stylish, body-hugging leather jacket wrapped around a white T-shirt.
And no matter how cold it is, it’s as though the locals prefer to sit outside drinking bottomless cups of coffee, a fair few of them smoking as though there is no tomorrow and watching the world go by.
I and a few of my friends have all been to Paris a few times, one living there for a few years, and when we went there as a group at the end of March we decided to see a few places around the city that are a little off the beaten tourist track.
Chinatown
So we headed to Chinatown, on the Left Bank, which is the spiritual heart of Paris’s Chinese community, said to be the largest of any city in Europe. The metro line that services Chinatown was out at the time, and we jumped instead onto a packed bus. “Bonjour, Beijing?” “Xin chao, Seoul?” “Hanaseyo, Ho Chi Minh City?” “Ni hao, Paris?” It was hard to know exactly where we were because so many Asians stood and sat beside us.
In fact we were heading toward Place d’Italie, where almost everybody got off. Naturally enough that got me thinking about New York, where I once lived. Italian and Chinese communities there live shoulder to shoulder, each with their distinctive feel, but Paris’ Chinatown lacks that strong feel of an ethnic enclave.
On the other hand, it is much bigger than its New York counterpart. Nevertheless, if it were not for the Chinese, Korean, Thai and Vietnamese on the signs of shops and restaurants, you would be hard pressed to distinguish this from any other area of Paris. Then again you do come across the odd Buddhist temple or shrine on a street corner, and there are at least a dozen Asian supermarkets. My previous visits to Paris have revolved around high-end fashion shopping, but this was shaping up to be a little different. From one of those supermarkets I emerged triumphant with my first purchase of the holiday: three packets of instant noodles.
Our relaxed mood turned somber later in the day, March 22, when we heard that little more than 300 kilometers away in Brussels terrorist bombs had killed dozens of people, and French television was abuzz with debate about what to do about immigration. As we strolled through busy shopping areas in central Paris young people were distributing leaflets that beat the antiimmigrant drum.
It occurred to me that all the people who appeared to be of Chinese origin in and around Chinatown earlier in the day — in their dress, with their shopping bags and their conversation — far from seeming like intruders were as much a part of the city’s fabric as its art galleries, bakeries, the Champs-Elysees, the Seine, the Eiffel Tower and much more besides.
Flea market
The next day the metro line that services Puces Saint-Ouen, in the northern suburbs of Paris, was doing its job and we boarded a train for the 6 kilometer trip. Puces Saint-Ouen is home to what is said to be the world’s largest flea market, which has more than 2,500 stalls covering 7 hectares.
About half of those selling goods in this cultural melting pot seem to be of Middle Eastern or North African origin. However, that pot seems to have two distinct halves, those from the East who sell cheap clothes and handicrafts, their French counterparts, most of whose stalls are located together, selling mainly vintage fashion goods, old books and pictures, and antique furniture. The clientele are also a hodgepodge, of locals and tourists.
We scoured stalls that sell fabric and women’s clothes representing four decades from the 1950s. One shop’s specialty was lace, with hundreds of different kinds for use in clothes making. There are also nearly 100 stands that sell all kinds of used bracelets, brooches and other accessories. I bought an exquisitely carved silver bracelet for 20 euros that I hope to restore to its no doubt glorious, original unoxidized state. A friend parted with 10 euros for a beautifully enameled bird-shaped brooch after playing with it and accidentally parting the bird from one of its wings.
After visiting the flea market, we took the metro back to the city center and the cobbled streets around Rue Montorgeuil and Rue Tiquetonne, another mecca for secondhand fashion, in the second arrondissement. We went into one of the bigger shops, called Espace Kiliwatch, which was packed to the rafters with well-dressed and obviously well-to-do customers, and in an atmosphere of festive chaos people of all ages, male and female, queued in front of its fitting rooms waiting to try on its stylish clothes.
On this particular day Paris had decided to turn wintry on us, and I decided to restore a bit of warmth to body and mind by buying a pair of mountain boots bearing the Land Rover logo, as well as a large cashmere scarf. They were a snatch at 30 euros and 18 euros apiece. (Here I realized that Parisians are obviously taller than Chinese because most of the clothes were much too large for us. A “mini-skirt my friend bought reaches her knees.)
At the behest of our male com- panion we headed to le Palais Royal, about 1 kilometer away. It turned out that his interest turned on a delicately decorated covered passageway that is part of the palace complex where, apparently, in the 19th century women shopped without having to expose themselves to the sun.
The passageway still bubbles with shops selling expensive vintage fashion, and we looked in awe at the Chanel and Dior dresses and suits from as far back as a century ago, the pencil-thin waists resembling those that populate European period dramas. “This is the real Paris,” my friend kept exclaiming in French, as if he, too, were now part of the Parisian fabric and had something to boast about.
Architecture
From there it was onto the Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris’s southeast to take a train to the town of Blois, about 180 km southwest of the capital on the Loire River. Once there, and before boarding a bus for the nearby Chateau Royal de Blois, we joined a queue at a bakery to buy a baguette.
The chateau was the architectural showpiece of several successive French kings in the 16th and 17th centuries, as well as their residences and seats of power. The facades of its buildings are all ornately carved, and every room has been decorated in strongly bright blue, gold and red.
In one of the reddest rooms, in 1588 King Henri III had his arch-rival, Duke Henri I de Guise, murdered by royal guards, and had the duke’s brother, the Cardinal de Guise, killed the next day. Henri III himself was murdered eight months later by a vengeful monk.
From Chateau Blois, we took a taxi to the nearby Chateau de Chambord, which you could be excused for mistaking, on first glance, for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry of Harry Potter fame.
The chateau, almost like a small city, has 440 rooms, 365 fireplaces and 84 staircases, including a staircase reputedly designed by Leonardo da Vinci, a huge garden and a forest. It was built over 30 years on the orders of King Francois I, who reigned from 1515 to 1547, and became the largest and grandest chateau in the Loire Valley. The expansiveness of all its rooms is such that they exude everything other than warmth and homeliness.
Hanging in and around chateaux, swanky shops, swish clothes and chic Parisians over a few days had obviously rubbed off on my friends, because soon they were acting like 21st century emperors and empresses. That pair of boots I had proudly bought so cheaply only a matter of days before were falling apart and my friends felt uncomfortable being seen with such uncool, unParisian company. Unless I dispensed with the boots, they warned, they would dispense with me.
In the end I reluctantly jettisoned the boots in a hotel room, and the scarf I bought the same day may be lying in the lost-property office of a railway station. From Paris, city of romance, city of style and city of loss, we headed south.