Part 2: Fragments of Paris

I decidedly had a better time in Paris than I had in London, but somewhere along the way of writing posts about the experience, I lost sight of multiple displeasures there, and started thinking about spending a week there next year.

I had it all planned out: I was going to visit the Musée Cernuschi for Asian art, the Musée Quai Branly, which would continue my tradition of visiting so-called ethnographic museums in Europe (and show me more Asian cultural objects), the Musée d'Ennery (for a private collection of Chinese and Japanese art), the Musée d'Histoire d'Immigration (again, because an entire floor was closed in 2025), the Musée de la Orangerie (for Monet and other famous fine art), the Musée Jacquemart-André (for more fine art), and the Musée of Jewish Art and Civilisation. I was also interested in The House of Culture of Japan and the Arab World if I had time. 

Then I downloaded Nomadic Matt's guide to Paris, and I had a flashback to my feelings of anxiety through most of those Parisian adventures. The people felt inaccessible to me (even though I opened any interaction with French), and this caused me to feel lonely and like I couldn't rely on anyone to guide me. I felt an unmet need for human connection and the kindness of strangers. 

You may remember that I asked the barista at the 'City of Light' café to recommend a good salad in Le Marais. He dismissed my enquiry by commenting that the area was very touristy, and that no place came to mind. He could have redirected me to another person nearby who might have the knowledge I sought, but didn't. I managed on my own (and found the place with the delicious crêpes that also served salads), but I was disappointed in him. 

Admittedly, there was one chatty receptionist at our hotel who recommended French specialties that the locals were fond of, and that was how I ended up trying foie gras, but apart from her, my experience with Parisians was unfortunately uninviting. 

The pollution of the air and grittiness of the urban surroundings were other sources of displeasure, as were the high prices of hotels and other goods and services. All of a sudden it became clear to me that although visiting Paris repeatedly was lucrative to many Australians and people around the world, it was not, generally speaking, my sweet spot. I will look elsewhere for slow travel in the near future. 

Something curious happened during those four days in and around Le Marais, though. I was reminded of my former influence - French and otherwise - of postmodernism. Reproduced in the Musée d'Histoire d'Immigration is a photograph of Jean-Paul Sartre and Michel Foucault participating in an antiracism protest in the 1970s. Dad and I passed by the Latin Quarter's Café des Deux Magots and Café des Flores, where intellectuals such as Simone de Beauvoir and her long-time partner discussed their ideas. I had memories of a more innocent time, a time of abundant inspiration, jotting down story or non-fiction writing ideas in a journal, the outlines of the book I wanted to write in 2002-2004, words like 'fragments' and 'narrativity', sexual exploration and concepts of revolution (before I knew anything about social democracy and left-wing political culture). 

I remembered peppering my language with Ps, writing my name into narrative existence, and relishing the French connotations of 'Epiphanie'. I remembered efforts to bring the Chinese tones into the English language. I remembered trying to make my writing crisp and economical, and further on, incorporating Scandinavian terseness into English. 

This had the effect of reconnecting me to past versions of myself I had forgotten. Old Epiphanies had a lot of wisdom and talent that today's Epiphanie can be inspired by. There is power in each place to bring out a part of yourself you can't necessarily access anywhere else. Merci alors, Paris.