In the Skin of the Vache: Je t’aime Paris
–Nabina Das
What were you doing with cows in a romantic place like Paris?
My friend’s question threw me off for a bit but I didn’t lose time telling her that the cows were one unique reason why my Paris trip of 2006 was a grand success.
People talk of Paris for various reasons. They go see various famous landmarks. I did too. Tour Eiffel, the Bastille, the Louvre, Champs–Élysées, the museums, Galeries Lafayette, the cafes, and the beautiful roads and boulevards and what have you.
That summer, we found ourselves in a studio in the relatively less “chic” but fascinatingly diverse 12th arrondissement, on the long-flowing Rue du Foubourg Saint-Antoine, stout and hardy in its concrete glory like an alligator’s back.
Living right atop a crêperie made me feel there’s not one moment when Nutella was not being lavished by my tummy. The fresh baguettes – a predicted surprise each time – from the corner bakery where they very quickly got used to my bad French, were a constant companion tucked under the elbow.
The day I arrived from Upstate New York, dressed in gym pants and a tee, even the taxi driver at Charles de Gaule woudn’t look at me to say “bonjour.” Yes, I knew the French, especially Parisians, were rude people according to oft-repeated urban legend fanned by visitors, gawkers and losers.
But who’d know things would improve a tiny bit when I donned trousers – May was still passing with little swabs of cold now and then – to sip mint tea at the outside seating of my neighborhood café Au Canon de la Nation. The stern-faced waiter tipped the tea pot like it was a paint-laden artist’s brush – so as not to spill too much – to re-fill my French-sized cup – yes, as opposed to the perpetual ‘grande’ style vessels in the US – and step back just one step to accept his tip. I was aware of his gaze while fumbling inside my purse. But his impeccable shirt collar had a match in my ruffled-neck Egyptian cotton top, thankfully.
I learned from my mistake of dressing in printed pajamas while sauntering in the chic Galeries Lafayette, sniffing tester perfumes. More salespersons hovered around men in ties and women in stilettos and stoles. Therefore, a dress or skirt with matched top and accessories became my password to genial smiles and bonjours as we went about discovering the city ensconced in both its past and modern glory. Then, I have to say I wasn’t quite prepared for the austere and almost severe “Madame, puis je proposer un snack,” on the salon compartment of the Bonne-to-Paris TJV. We’d found a very cheap deal for that salon compartment and naturally, were thrilled. The numbing experience with “puis”, I learned later, was only the result of being dressed to the hilt.
The only time this rule got bent is when I visited the weekly farmers market near Bastille. The Greek condiment seller, the Turkish kebab maker, or the Chinese fish vendor, were all ambivalent about my sartorial choice. We purchased road-side tees from a man that had a graffiti representation of the Eiffel and a Tintin in impressionistic mode to keep with the mood.
Well, back to the cows now, the reason why I started this story. Cows that made me feel at home in whatever I wore and didn’t hold back a silent hello. Again, the venue was Bastille, near the Opera house. I remember trying to negotiate the traffic lights for crossing to the other side of the confluence of the meshed up roads Dressed in an ordinary white summer top – now summer had hit Paris with mild heat waves – and a blue cotton skirt with Turkish paisley prints and a pair of sandals, I suddenly found myself among cows. Of myriad colors. Cows with red flower printed hide. Blue cows and green cows. Rainbow cows and golden cows. All sorts of cows standing and watching traffic go by, and cows that seemed to want to run away from the humdrum, and cows that seemed amused and suddenly found my company exhilarating. I posed with a few of them, not afraid at all about hearing any taunt or comment!
Later, I learnt that the cows were a part of an artistic campaign called “Vache art” or CowParade initiated by the Swiss-born Pascale Knapp. All for the cause of health, nutrition and allied issues in affected parts of world. There was a breeze and my skirt was caught awkwardly between my legs. But the cows didn’t mind. Our skins were touching, my clothes the cows’ art prints and their fiberglass smoothness a strange calm I felt. It indeed seemed a prolonged happy bonjour. These were certainly friendly cows, not holy cows.
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