Amélie’s Paris
On this day we were at a concert, in the heart of Paris.
I often see that real Parisians look down on tourists. Often I have noticed the arrogant smile on the face of a "native Frenchman" when seeing a family photographed in front of the Eiffel Tower or the kilometer-long line to the Louvre. What can I say, over the years I start to notice this smirk on my own face more and more often.
It says, "Paris is not the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower. The number of craps eaten in Montmartre won't bring you closer to feeling what it means to be a Parisian." In our opinion, the real Paris, which at least once broke our hearts, with far more metro-boulot-dodo (Metro-work-sleep) than eaten croissants, is not at all like the romantic Paris shown in Amelie.
But if this is really so, then why, after all these years, am I again and again, unconsciously searching for that “Amelie's Paris”? How does it happen that, mocking the stereotypes about this city, I find myself at a candlelit chamber concert in the heart of Montmartre, listening with a sinking heart to the pianist playing "La Valse d’Amélie"?
Maybe I'm not as different from the tourists as I think I am. Maybe this cynical smirk is just a mask I wear to avoid showing the enormous and intimate love I have for this city. Maybe this mockery hides the envy of seeing how the tourists discover what I have almost lost?
That evening I tried again in vain to feel the magic of Paris, picking up its elements one by one: the tender July night, the familiar melody of Yan Tiersen played on the piano by candlelight, the cobblestone streets of Montmartre, the beloved girl walking beside me. It was a beautiful evening, but sadly, Amélie's magic was not there.
As I walked down to the subway station, where Amélie disappeared after leaving a blind older man, I noticed a couple of young people sitting on the balcony. They asked me to hand over the tobacco bag that had fallen down, and in return I asked permission to photograph them.
In front of me was the missing piece of the puzzle.
It was a young couple of foreigners, hanging their bare feet off the balcony, enjoying a conversation on a gentle July night. They were smoking a joint, with a box of beer next to them, and the city with its nighttime lights spread out in front of them.
I don't know if they were lovers, brother and sister, or just friends. But those 20 centimeters between them were filled with the magic of that very Paris.
After taking a few pictures, I exchanged contacts with them.
If they stay in this city long enough to get used to it, or leave it forever, these photos can always remind them of that warm evening when they were young in Paris.
Also on this day:
