Parisian Delirium

Working on three and a bit hours sleep at the time of writing, the cusp of delirium draws ever nearer, sitting on my shoulder, waiting to seize even a slightest act of surrender. I’m quite proud to have held it off for quite so long. My long weekend in Paris (acting as both a final reunion of flatmates and a celebration of the Tour de France) operated on a system of long days, late nights, and sleep being consistently demoted in favour of talking, walking or occasional doomscrolling.

Adding to the creeping sense of madness is the nature of Paris itself. Years ago, cycling into Paris with Explorers, I wrote a crap blog entry, where I referenced how the traffic lights offer a greater ambience to the city than instruction to passing vehicles. In that regard, little has changed. Cities are places of purpose, action, intention. Desires are geographically concentrated for your convenience, activity is the currency of a city’s success. Arriving on Saturday lunchtime, having been awake for nearly eight hours, I was whisked across the Metro and around the great sights, in stifling heat. Sweeping across the Louvre and the Jardin des Tuileries, the urge for a lie down was inescapable. The urge for an ice cream irresistible. 

That evening, squatting in the middle of a Parisian square of bars and bistros, eating Crepes, as an accordion serenaded passing cyclists, I felt a bag of onions away from a full house. It was at once immersive and overawing. Simultaneously at ease with this stereotypical surrounding whilst feeling extremely out of my depth. The bare, decaying bones of primary school French undoubtedly contributed to the slight unease.

On Sunday, my linguistic shortcomings were overcome by my surroundings, namely a bastion of modern art that resembles a waterpark eternally under construction. At the Pompidou,  our chosen exhibit was trilingual, and centred around German New Objectivity in the 1920s.

In the aftermath of the First World War, Germany retreated from increasingly expressive, emotive artistry to a constructivist approach that sought to redefine and reclassify German culture. Individual expression is superseded by broad depictions of the masses. Where facial expressions once projected emotion, they instead sit vacant, if they indeed sit at all. In architecture, the growing Bauhaus movement sought to tie in artistic design to efficiency, mass production and utility. Decades later, when the Protests of 1968 partly reflected a desire to revolt against Anglo-American influence and reignite a German cultural scene, many artists used the ideas of New Objectivity as a starting point, seeking to maintain this burgeoning artistic tradition as if it hadn’t been corrupted or dismantled by the rise of fascism. Musically, Kraftwerk are a prime example of this artistic interpretation.

In the afternoon, we separated into two groups and, whilst the others sought out snails and Amelie filming locations, we pursued what Kraftwerk defined as the ‘sprint final à l’arrivée’ of the finest bike race around. Fuelled by baguette and houmous, we settled on the Rue de Rivoli, eventually finding a place on the railing which subsequently required fastidious defending from encroaching small children. The 6ft 9in flatmate proved a useful deterrent to several potential threats.

After six arduous hours of standing in wait, punctuated by ice cream, the Tour de France Femmes, and the stinginess of the publicity caravan, the peloton eventually rolled in, led by Jumbo-Visma and their maillot jaune, Jonas Vingegaard.

Having brilliantly fought to take the jersey in the Alps, Vingegaard appeared imperial, shadowing his closest rival Tadej Pogačar for much of the race before dropping him again on the race’s final summit finish in the Pyrenees. The rivalry between the two men contributed to one of the most exciting, dynamic races in years, and it would all conclude in front of our own eyes.

Every eight minutes or so, the race would screech by at speeds greater than most cars achieve on these roads. A small break eventually got away, containing riders who knew they stood no chance of victory, yet instead rode for the intangible internal pride. For most though, the game was already up. Legs tired after three hard weeks of racing, many soft pedalled in the wheels, savouring the noise and encouragement we tried to offer. As debutants, retirees, domestiques, and leaders, they perched proudly on their machines, satisfied in making it this far, grateful for the relative lack of drama ahead.

The eventual sprint, scrappy and tired, was won by Jasper Philipsen. Far behind, his compatriot and rival Wout Van Aert sat up and celebrated the achievements of himself and his Jumbo Visma team. Riding past us on the final lap, they too soft pedalled, allowing wheels to open up, time to briefly slow down, us to gawp in amazement for a moment longer, It reminded me of the gulf in class between us and the immortals in the peloton. It made me forget the stiffness of my legs and the long wait that had induced it.

The action in the city swiftly resumed in the aftermath. The temporarily silenced streets bustled, as crowds swarmed the Metro in pursuit of a quick escape. We rejoined the Amelie fanatics in Montmartre of all places, sitting on the hill in front of the famous basilica until dusk had long since given up. We reflected on the past day, and on the intense speed with which the last two years had passed. The hundreds of people also gathered on the hill likely philosophised over similar matters.

Monday brought a final day blitz through the likely Covid hotspots - the Opéra Garnier and the Galleries Lafayette before hotfooting it to the Arc de Triomphe. The appeal of each location was easily apparent. The uniform elegance of Baron Haussmann’s cobbled streets reflects both the beauty of the city and it’s confusion. Whilst Victor Hugo once remarked on the difficulty of identifying individual shops in this cream-coloured metropolis, I failed to identify whole squares. It was always different, but always the same. 

The afternoon’s lounging in a park after an excellent friend's lunch was a welcome relief, and a tacit acknowledgement of a creeping fatigue that would eventually conquer us all. My evening run was my temporary fightback, an attempt to both reenergise and reorient myself in the city, aided by another good friend. Its success can perhaps be measured by the speed of which the wine later went to my head, and the quality of photos taken of the Eiffel Tower.

Later that night, we regrouped and set about seeing the city’s great sights at night, acknowledging each landmark in isolation from it’s wider surroundings. Crammed into a Nissan Micra, skirting the realms of legality, we arrived at the Eiffel Tower in time to see it light up - seemingly to mass applause. The Pyramid of the Louvres also impressed, though I still preferred its appearance under the stewardship of Christo and Jeanne-Claude. 

It was a Grand ending to a ‘Grande’ weekend, endlessly fighting a losing battle against fatigue for just long enough to make it back home. From such a brief visit, I can only comment on the snapshots of emotion generated from each day. 

Paris is a city of mania. If New York is the city that never sleeps then Paris is the city that only dozes lightly, the bustle of its infrastructure - exacerbated by a language barrier - make it a frantic hub of life. In many ways, the archetypal city.

But within the mania sits beauty, not only from the architecture and design of the city, but within the aspirations and hopes of the people that make the city as manic and, overwhelming as it is. The delightful French Delegation of friends that hosted, accompanied and guided us through this trip exemplify that. For all that they disparage their home, they are fuelled and inspired by their surroundings, living lives others would dream of. Like the finishers of the Tour de France on Sunday, they should feel an immense internal pride for having fulfilled a part of themselves in this city, contributing to its life and vibrancy each in their own wonderful ways.

Now though, the vibrancy here feels dim. For all the life the city can bring, the time has finally come to sleep. Editing and publishing this article will have to be tomorrow's job.