It doesn’t sounds so scary, moving to Paris. For most, it sounds like an exotic adventure, hardly the stuff that should fill a 33-year-old global nomad with dread. It’s not the place that frightens me, it’s the expectations I set up for myself here. “One of these days,” I arrogantly bragged, “I’m going to Paris and I’m going to write a book.” Never mind not having any writing experience or training – I’d convinced myself that purely by being there, I would through osmosis soak up the talents of the literary greats who called the city home. Unfortunately when one is speaking whimsically, it is often interpreted literally, and before long people were enquiring about this book. So in the height of the glorious Australian summer I packed my bags, abandoned my job and rented out my flat in Sydney to fulfill my promise. No more excuses.
Making pilgrimage to the cafes that lent shelter to Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, de Beauvoir, Sartre, these unremarkable places where remarkable things happened, I hunted osmosis. And I realise my folly – for nothing will reveal with greater intensity ones’ own inadequacy than standing in the shadows of literary legends. Racked with fear of failure, I shrunk under the weight of a single, debilitating thought: What could I possibly contribute that could compare with those who have preceded me?
In a fog of despair I clamored out of the Montparnasse district, desperate to escape the oppressive weight of it’s heritage. I crossed the Pont des Arts, the bridge where lovers attach padlocks onto the handrails as a declaration of their devotion. Contemplating the void where two of the handrails have collapsed under the burden of padlocks, I felt a great kinship with the bridge – it was also struggling under the weight of greatness.
In Pere Lachaise cemetery, where neatly organized footpaths belie the chaos of life and death, Oscar Wilde lies. His tombstone, suffering erosion from the lipstick kisses of admirers, is now wrapped in prophylactic plastic. Even in death he is eroded by admiration. “Oscar, my love,” I ask, “Did you ever get writer’s block?” A fellow tourist, overhearing my conversation with myself, inches ever so slightly away.
I drift down the Rue Rivoli into the Marais. Here, the gothic walls are rendered less oppressive – even cute – by street art depicting little mosaic space invaders. The fog lifts a little – this city has a place for the profane. Number 59, an art gallery/squat house showcases art from found objects. Each room is a fantasy world, carefully constructed from old candy wrappers and beer bottles, and it’s beautiful. Diamonds from dirt.
I turn my back on the greats and seek refuge with the ordinary, the scum and the grit in Montmartre. Following the fading strands of sunlight trickling down from the Sacre Coeur, chasing it through little dog-poop lined alleyways, tiptoeing discretely past the strip clubs that pave the streets of the Pigalle, it was no surprise that I found myself in a bar. I ordered a glass of Bordeaux and the barkeep placed the bottle on my table. It wasn’t exactly the kind of osmosis I was looking for, but nevertheless, it would not go astray.
The girl at the table next to mine spills her drink on the notepad she’s been scribbling in. She curses, desperately trying to wipe the notebook dry with her scarf. I pass her a stack of paper napkins.
“Anything important?” I gesture to the notepad, taking the opportunity to be nosey.
“I’m just trying to write some song lyrics.”
“Oh?” I press on with the dreaded question. “How’s it going?”
“Terrible.” She wailed in a familiar tone. “It’s all clichés and flowery metaphors.”
I poured her a glass of wine. “It can’t all be coffee and croissants.”
She smiles at my lame attempt at comfort. “That wasn’t a cliché, but it’s still pretty terrible.”
As the retreating sun lays waste to the failings of today, we toast in solidarity to our mediocrity, and beg of tomorrow to make mountains of us little molehills.
Back in my tiny unremarkable room I wonder if something remarkable can happen. I look out the window to my neighbours across the road, silhouettes backlit by art deco lamps, they put dinner on the table like hungry shadow puppets. In the deserted street below, a stray pedestrian walks stoically home, footsteps tapping out a steady rhythm, a rhythm which is echoed by the tapping of keystrokes on my laptop as I tentatively begin to write. Bon courage, la petite Australienne. Lets do this thing.
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