Paris: The Good, the Bad, and the Unsanitary
Izzy Landell Mills
To err is human. To loaf is Parisian - Victor Hugo
Credit: Izzy Landell Mills
And loaf I have! Having successfully moved to Madrid, with the promise of a job which never materialised, failing to find another one, and now living in Paris studying at a university where I’m not required to take any exams, this year has truly been an accidental - albeit welcome - tumble into the life of the flaneur. I wake up every day knowing that I probably should go to this or that class, and that I could extend my grasp on the French language by reading Baudelaire in the original (or many an alternative pretty pretentious pursuit), with a feeling of delight that, ultimately, my time is my own, and I can do as I please. Don’t get me wrong, the options are limited by the pandemic. The great restaurants, bars, cafés, museums and galleries of Paris all have their doors firmly fermé. However, a flourishing expat community of English uni students, connected by a I-know-them-who-knows-them link chain, has popped up, and there is always someone about to wander around the Marais, or a flat hosting a wine and cheese heavy dinner. Curfew is 6pm which should make life here one long non-event, but Uber and Lime scooters allow you to zip around post curfew and flat hop around for, albeit more intimate than otherwise, soirées. Cambridge and its daily stress explosions of never-ending deadlines, relentless reading lists, and social obligations feels a world away. Across the channel is the X5 (the soul-crushing bus which slowly chugs its way from Oxford to Cambridge via all the roundabouts Milton Keynes has to offer), and I shall not be heading back in any rush.
Credit: Izzy Landell Mills
I am benefiting from a Cambridge exchange place at the ENS (École Normale Supérieure) whereby I study and receive a free room in their halls of residence, located on Rue D’Ulm in the heart of the 5th, right next to the Panthéon. The Rive Gauche is the picturesque Paris of postcards, and I feel a little ridiculous that I now do my daily exercise in the Jardin du Luxembourg with a view of the Eiffel Tower. There are great food spots in this area, and I often frequent Rue Mouffetard which has a vast array of Middle Eastern eateries. However, most of my friends live across the river in slightly less absurdly bourgeois (essentially more young and trendy) neighbourhoods. My personal favourite is the 11th, where one finds streets such as Rue de la Roquette, lined with small independent restaurants, bio wine shops, and vintage stores.
Credit: Izzy Landell Mills
Don’t get me wrong, Paris can be tough. It is by far the most expensive place I have ever lived and, despite not paying the dizzying rent fees, I still manage to spend my time wholeheartedly broke. This can make things tough, but we’re all in it together and, as time goes by, we are all coming up with hacks to get by.
Paris is not only expensive, but also filthy, and can feel cruel. In the first week I arrived, three of my friends had their phones stolen on the metro, where thieves operate on a professional level. The plumbing systems leave a lot to be desired and, once again in my first week, my sink was blocked and the communal shower smelt of anonymous urine, offering only a dribble of lukewarm water to clean it out. Parisians are not as bad as their reputation, and I’ve met a few who have helped and introduced me to the city with great warmth. But they are certainly very judgemental, and stumbling out onto the street in trackies, with scruffy trainers and untamed hair makes you feel like you stick out like a sore thumb. When I first arrived it was freezing and, having packed for spring, I felt like a bit of a sack of potatoes going around with every jumper I owned piled on top of one another. However, spring is now in the air and I can finally float around in a wardrobe which is more up to spec.
Credit: Izzy Landell Mills
However, my wardrobe was soon challenged once again by the appearance of bed bugs in my mattress. Thinking this was a shocking event, I sent a slightly raging email to the ENS Bureau d’hébergement demanding a new mattress and an explanation. The reply was a PDF of their standard bed bug protocol and a ‘congratulations!’ that I was the ‘first of the season.’ After going to the GP to get a written doctor's confirmation that my bites were indeed bed bug bites, I had to wash every item of clothing, piece of fabric, and item of bedding I owned, before moving room. After this saga, which involved taking refuge on various sofas whilst my old room was insecticide bombed and the new one was prepped, I returned home to my dim-lit brutalist halls to find another furry friend on the stairwell, a cockroach writhing around on the floor. I am now keenly awaiting a rat encounter to complete the Holy Trinity. Luckily, I spend very little time in my halls and, as insect-infested as it may be at times, it feels like home when I crawl back to it every few days.
Bed bugs!
Since the sun has come out and, despite the police’s and Macron’s best attempts to limit it, Paris’ outdoor spaces have come alive and are lined with people ‘profiting’ (making the most). Sitting along Canal Saint-Martin, on one of the many Quais de Seine, or on the hillside of Le Parc des Buttes-Chaumont with the sun shining, surrounded by the beautiful people of Paris (their snobbishness is understandable given their far superior dress sense/ groomedness), and 3 euro mighty fine plonk in hand, it’s hard not to feel the city’s magic.
Credit: Izzy Landell Mills
Audrey Hepburn famously said: 'Paris is always a good idea’. It has to be said that, after having spent three months here and being in slight shell shock that I only have three months left: bedbugs, cockroaches, rats, extortionate prices, snooty locals, aggressive police, bizarre rules and all, Paris remains a very good idea.