Beyond The Chicken Coop III – Paris « en plein hiver »
View From Belvédère de Belleville (Photo: Luca Howes)
Rue Racine in the 6th Arrondissement (Photo: Luca Howes)
In Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch (2021), the “chicken coop”, in reality a prison cell, comes to symbolise the isolation and foreignness of being an émigré in Paris. Inspired by the expatriate journalists at the centre of the film, Luca Howes aims to overcome this loneliness, bringing warmth and familiarity to his descriptions of the city where he is spending his year abroad.
In January I moved back to Paris for my second semester, beginning a spell here that will last until July. This feels daunting, a full six months in another country is a long amount of time. I can’t predict how I’ll feel at the end of it, I can’t even predict how I’ll feel from one month to another.
January is the heart of winter. I’ve never enjoyed this season. The short days, bitter weather and return to academia after a glorious two week spell of yuletide idleness all mean that the first month is often the hardest. This year’s edition didn’t disappoint.
Paris now feels extraordinarily real. The novelty is gone, the honeymoon is over. The tram is always full, the park closes at 5pm, it’s raining yet again. And I need to buy groceries. When it rains it has ceased to be the romantic, Midnight in Paris-esque rain that begs for a stroll through Montmartre. Instead, droplets seep through your shoes and clothes as you fight through a crowd on Boulevard Saint-Germain.
It feels like I’m waiting for Spring when the city will warm back up. I’ll have more energy and the days will be longer. I’ll spend my days around Canal St Martin, playing basketball at Champ de Mars, or reading in Parc Montsouris. I’m waiting for the slog to be over. This year I live in an 11 m2 student room in a halls of residence. The opportunities for cozying up in an armchair or sitting by a fire, or even having friends over for dinner have dwindled like the light.
Winter is about making do and slowing down. Hearty meals and long chats around a candle-lit table with close friends. Trips to the cinema, bundled heavy with scarves, hats, gloves in the biggest jacket you can imagine. Tucking into a book nestled in a comfy chair. I just don’t want to slow down, don’t feel it’s something I can afford myself. I live in a foreign city and I don’t want to be lonely. I feel like I should be taking advantage of this year away from breakneck Cambridge terms and do more. Go out more! Stay up late! Meet as many people as you can! Or on a different note: Network! Write more! Get an internship! Instead I’ve just been tired and ill. Overwhelmed by the amount of admin I had to do when moving back to the city, films to watch and books to read for my courses this semester, and people to see before saying goodbye as they head to their next Year Abroad destination. January has been a perfect storm of stress. I’ve eaten more meals alone and missed basketball practice more times this month than any other months I can remember.
I want to like winter, I really do. It seems that no matter how many podcasts I listen to about “embracing the season” I can’t get over my low energy, disposition to illnesses and lowered mood. Is it about getting over something? Is thriving in winter the same as thriving in summer? No, I don’t think they are. But the demands placed on me by my commitments don’t change from September to June. There’s a middle road I’m sure, some kind of balance and moderation that could be achieved. Right now I don’t have the solutions to these problems, or seemingly the time to think, to reframe the “problems” as just things that happen in life and to consider how I’m going to behave. Winter has a propensity for being tough. At these latitudes the wind bites your ears and the rain creeps into your socks. At least some things haven’t changed with the seasons : there is always a football match being played on the pitch in front of my room. The boulangerie still makes the best bread I’ve ever eaten and I still get my French corrected by waiters and bartenders.
Yet this month hasn’t been all blue. There have been some lovely moments, for one my brother came to visit and in my viral state we still managed to see the city. We ate lunch at Bouillon Chartier, a restaurant in Montparnasse that offers traditional French grub for cheap. We dined on bouillabaisse, herring, braised leeks, duck confit and a mont blanc, absolutely wonderful food. There are still some comforts to be found after all.