Postcards from Europe #6
A series of my first time travelling through Europe before settling into my writing residency at the Chateau d'Orquevaux. This postcard is from Paris, France
The Postcards from Europe series chronicles my first trip to Europe visiting Vienna, Bratislava, Budapest, Novi Sad (my father-in-law home town), Belgrade, Paris, Dijon and Joinville. After this I commence a three-week writing residency at Chateau d’Orquevaux.
Catch up on previous postcards
Hello my dear Musers
I’m writing to you on the way from the train on the way to Dijon from Paris. J is asleep next to me on this over-booked and super fast traintrain. People stand in the aisles, more were left of the platform unable to squeeze their way in. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be to have booked a ticket only to find there’s no space, or that you have to stand for three hours or more.
Paris, France
Maybe I should say Montmartre rather than Paris as this narrows it down a little. Paris huge after spending so long in smaller cities and I have to admit I had a sense of overwhelm when I first arrived.
I also had a sense of heat exhaustion. The pilot announced as we landed at 8.30 pm that it was 38 degrees in Paris. We found our way to the metro from the airport to Gare de Nord. It was hotter inside the train than out, if that was possible. The windows cracked opened did barely anything to alleviate the heat. All the women here carry fans to cool themselves and I wished the fan I bought in Novi Sad wasn’t deep in my pack. By the time we found our apartment, I was saturated from carrying my pack on my back and backpack on my front. Nothing a cold shower couldn’t fix thank goodness.
Our apartment was in an old building again. I have chosen all of the places on this trip through AirBnB for their proximity to the old parts of cities, their decor suiting the city, and their walkability to things. Again, I was not at all disappointed with my choice. It felt like Paris. Shuttered windows overlooking the street and an inner courtyard, quirks of modern living refitted in a centuries-old apartment, heavy doors and loads of character. This one didn’t have aircon, which might have been good, however, it did have portable fans and the wide windows allowed for the breeze to push through.
I’m always drawn to the private lives of the people who live in or own these places and, like in writing, I begin concocting a story of who they are. I look for clues from the paintings, books and furniture. From what is provided, or not, in the kitchens. It’s a fun way to travel, more interesting than staying in hotels where the character is the same as every other room. I was very clear when deciding which places to book, that they were not something I would find in any other city: no cookie-cutter Ikea or Kmart apartments. This one did not disappoint with huge and bold paintings, books about travel through countries I am yet to discover, hand made ceramics and a well-loved throw on an Eames chair.
We were staying upstairs from a bistrot that was still open at 10 pm (we learned that most places stay open quite late around the area) and ordered cold drinks and salads. This place became a regular for us as we dropped in our way back from being out. From what I could tell, it was a little neighbourhood hub: men drinking coffee in the mornings, families in the early evenings, older folk after them and young adults until the wee hours of the night. I loved the sense of community there that the staff obviously worked so hard to make by a chat here and there with the people. I even felt like I’d been embraced by it last night when I paid for my last Montmartre champagne before wandering back upstairs.
Au revoir, the two men who had been so attentive to us over the three evenings said as I paid the bill. Come back soon.
I hope I do.
M only had one full day in Paris as he was heading home on the twenty-eighth day of my two month trip. Between he and J, they came up with a bunch of things that they wanted to see on another very hot day.
The metro was stinking hot even first thing in the morning and people fanned themselves with anything they could put their hands on. We got off at the Champs-Élysées–Clemenceau stop and tried to take in all the big grandeur. It was like walking through Vienna again past grand palace after grand palace. People say that Aussies love big things, but I think it began back in Europe with these palaces (which, obviously, have much more grandeur than a sheep, mango or lobster).
Paris seems to know how to tourist. There is so much on in the city for the summer season and a load for free. We explored the free Ernesto Neto exhibition in the Grand Palais and were all struck by the enormity of the innards of the palace along with the exhibition. While M walked around touching the huge steel structure, I sat and absorbed Neto’s crocheted masterpiece strung from the ceiling to the floor. It invites people to interact with it and and young and old played the drums and other pieces of percussion while walking barefoot through the tanbark. It was magical to be a part of it.
We’ve become huge fans of the picnic lunch and in the morning, M and I explored Montmartre and discovered an on-street market on the footpath. It was a feast for the ears and nose. Fresh berries, tomatoes, basil. Cheese, fish, olives. With my terrible level 19 Duolingo French, we bought tomato, basil, lettuce and cheese (a brittat-savarin recommended by the seller) and a baguette.
Beside the Seine, we found a seat in the shade and ate our picnic. I love finding quiet shady places in large cities where you can observe the life of it. From there we walked to the Eiffel Tower and before heading into it, watched the ebb and flow of the tour groups, family groups in matching shirts, touters selling spiky tower souvenirs and sunglasses, and a bunch of young women petitioning strangers to sign for something (Excuse me, excuse me, do you speak English?).
I found I was more drawn to these interactions and that of the birdlife than the tower itself, which felt sacrilegious but there’s only so much grand building this girl can take in. I saw doves that were bigger, different to the ones I know, a bird in a tree that may have been an owl but my camera couldn’t get the detail, birds (common swifts?) nesting in famous archways.
We were swept into the flock of tourists moving from one grand thing to another as sweat dripped off our backs and found ourselves in front of the Arc de Triomphe. Tourists pushed in front of each other to get the best shot. Stood in the middle of the maddening traffic so they could see themselves in a photo in front of it (Look, I was right there). A bunch of lads who looked like Aussies (white bonds singlet, birks, black shorts, mullets) merged in front of us in the river of tourists sweeping through the tunnel. Then I heard them speak and yep, they were.
The heat beat me so we returned home to the calm of our corner of Montmartre before heading out for dinner and M packing one last time. I discarded clothes I knew I would no longer need as I wouldn’t be cold again until I returned home. There was a quiet that evening as M reflected on the great trip and all it had given him. I held onto my feelings of him leaving. The four weeks had gone by so fast, yet we had seen so much: seven countries, nine cities, friends of long standing, new friends, places of family roots, amazing meals (and some terrible ordering fails), birds, plants, grand buildings and crumbling buildings. It has been an incredible time. But I was staying and he was going. I felt a pang for home, for the comfort of it, for not having to pack and unpack, for not having to negotiate language and strange cities.
We ate breakfast out the French way on M’s last day – pain avec beurre et confit for J and I, eggs for M. M gave his fatherly advice to J (look after yourself, then your mum, then G [J’s girlfriend]) and cross-checks with me to make sure I was okay about the next leg of my travel. We walked to the bus stop and he kissed me and said: Go now and don’t look back. A firm hand on my back steering me away. That’s when it hit. He would be gone and I was still here.
I walked. Even though I wanted to cling to him and beg him to stay. The complexity of me and how I have wished for alone time to think and write, yet now I would have it, I didn’t want it. Time travelling is slippery. A month seems forever until it goes in a flash.
Of course I looked back. I stood on the other side of the road and watched him walk around with his pack on his back waiting for the bus stop. I cried. He knew I would if I looked back. J waited for me until I was ready to start our day together.
It was also my youngest P’s birthday. For the second year, we would be on opposite sides of the world and none of us were there. As J and I took in the grandeurs of the Place de la Concorde (crowded by Tour de France structures), Jardin des Tuileries, Lourve (a hive swarmed by tourists pushing into through the entrance), a nursery market, Notre Dame in its repair state, and the Pantheon, I tried to call him. In front of the Pantheon, we talked. It had been a rough day and I felt that ache I couldn’t make things better for him.
The privilege of love and travel.
That night J went out with a friend who is living in Paris and I sat downstairs at L’etranger bistrot, journalled and drank champagne while soaking in my last Montmartre moments, for now.
Before I came to Paris, I was firm that I would not love it – that’s part of my desire to love the underdog, maybe. There are so many cities in the world to love, why does everyone have to love this one. But there it was in the quiet of that evening that I realised I did love it, damn it, and I’ll have to come back. I’m returning to Paris for two nights after my residency and am really looking forward to it.
I have been fortunate, though, to see so many beautiful cities as well a Paris. For example, Bratislava was an unexpected gem that has so much to offer and makes me want to go back for longer.
Now, Dijon for mustard and wine.
My writing
I’ve been journalling and thinking as my residency gets close. It’s only five days away now and my excitement is building.
Need help with your writing?
When I return, I’ve got a bunch of events kicking off that might be helpful for you.
Group coaching – Effective goal setting
I’d love you to join me at my next group coaching session (in my first week back) where I’ll explore the things that get in the way with goals and provide you with tools and strategies to help set effective ones. It goes for one online and is recorded so you get lifetime access to the recording. I’ve bundled this with the other four group coaching sessions this year for the price of four. We will most likely talk about other things to do with writing and creativity as well during the time.
It’s on Monday 4 Aug at 12.30 pm Melb time. I’d love to see you there
Writing Momentum Chapter 3: connections and distances
This is an eight-week online writing group where you get a poetry-based prompt, 40 minutes of quiet writing time, accountability and a writing community. This Writing Momentum Chapter is looking at the connections and distances within the writing. You get a life-time access to the recordings and much more. I promise it will help you with your writing.
When: 6 August at 7.00 am Melb time
Retreat with Meg writing retreat 21-23 August
I’ve only got one spot left now for a writer who needs time to think and write. My retreats are for writers of any genre/reading age and at all stages. If you’re keen, reach out to me on WhatsApp, email or book through the retreat page.
If this date doesn’t work for you, there are two more retreats this year: 20-24 October and 20-23 November.
Next?
Dijon: mustard and burgundy wine. Not sure what else, but I’ll start with that!
I love hearing from you!
Until next time, with a postcard from Paris!
x M
PSST: if you’re new here, welcome! It’s lovely to have you here. If you haven’t checked out my Welcome post, I’d recommend that to find your way around
Added bonus
Since you’ve made it all the way to the end, I’ll show you some more pics (I have to do something with all these photos!)
