Inspirations from Paris

Early on I wrote about seeing the Woody Allen film, Midnight In Paris. I mentioned too how love Paris and an “affinity for the artistic, bohemian lifestyle.” How did this begin? 

It has been decades since my first trip to Paris. It was during the Spring of 1975. I went as part of a leadership study group from school and it was sort of a graduation present from my parents. When the plane landed at Orly I could not see the ground until I was  half way down the stairs from the plane; it was that overcast. After getting my bags, I boarded a bus to make my way into the city and to the hotel.

The hotel was at the end of a narrow street called the Cité Bergère. It is not far from where Blvd. Montmartre meets Blvd. Poissonière and not far from the Opera National de Paris. An old sign hanging near the archway reads “Les Hotels de la Cité Bergère” but it gives me no reminder of what the name of our hotel was. There were a few hotels along the street.

What I remember about our hotel was a grand staircase leading from the lobby that was carpeted in a dingy burgundy colored carpet that smelled like old sour wine. The wallpaper was faded. It has a old lift to service the upper floors. The hallway leading to my room leaned just a bit and the floor boards creaked as I walked down the hall. I had a small room. Dark colorings and dimly lit. There was twin sized bed along one wall and wardrobe on the other. A sink was fixed in the corner. Next to it was the bidet. The toilet was down the hall. 

My window overlooked the narrow street. I kept the window opened so that I could hear the noise coming from the street. When I had a bit of time I would lean out the window to watch the activity below. It was not too busy, but busy enough to hold my interest for a while.

I was only in Paris for a short time, but it was long enough to fall in love with the city! During those two days my imagination was fueled with thoughts of what life must be like in Europe. I didn’t know much about it, just enough to be dangerous perhaps, but my curiosity for this place had taken root. It was a idealized vision of life could be. A romantic ideal of living and studying abroad; enjoying, appreciating, indulging in a centuries old country with its art and architecture, its music and history, and everything else in between. 

But for me was a ideal that would only be played out in my dreams, but never fully realized. I was never bold enough to give full rein to this ideal, this dream. Instead, the thought of what I thought this lifestyle may have been was played out in my mind through arts and literature.

Is it any wonder that Puccini’s La Bohème became my favorite opera? Many times I have listened to the story of the young bohemian lovers. My emotions are still stirred with the final cries of Rodolfo over the deceased Mimi.

I revisit my old friend Somerset Maugham, I have twice read his The Razor’s Edge. The first was when I was in a particularly difficult time of my life. Maugham’s main character, Larry Darrell, had reached a point in his life where things have lost there meaning and he sets off on an odyssey of self-discovery. A portion of his time was spent in Paris where he embraced a lifestyle that was unlike the one he came from. We find him eking out a living in a menial job, living day-to-day with the Parisian locals and  living in what some would call squaller in the most basic of living accommodations. Yet,  he seems happy and fulfilled. His life was rich with discovery. 

He left the life he’d known to discover the life he was to have. “He is without ambition and he has no desire for fame; to become anything of a public figure would be deeply distasteful to him; and so it may be that he is satisfied to lead his chosen life and be no more than just himself.” I feel that too often we are asked to be, or are expected to be, something that we are not. Larry Darrell walked away from that and became Larry Darrell. What a wonderful notion.

Maugham’s character was fictional. Ernest Hemingway was not.

Hemingway was part of group that became known as the Lost Generation. Coined by Gertrude Stein, the term referred to a generation of young people who settled in Paris following World War II. Notable to group was, in additional to Hemingway and Stein, was F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and others. In his book, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway tells some of the story of these people in this time and in this place.

It does not take much for me to imagine a similar life. Of mornings spent pouring over the paper while having a too-strong cup of coffee. Or perhaps an early evening meal at a sidewalk cafe with friends discussing a book or the latest film. Later, we’d wander the streets for hours enjoying each others company and talking about meaningless and meaningful things. In my ideal I would have a place that I would frequent and there I’d spend time writing or reading. Maybe I’d have a pen and Moleskin book to sketch in.

I once had this in London; a small place that was “my own.” I’d spend afternoons at the Angel & Crown, where I’d set at a small table in the back room. There I’d sit nursing a pint of ale and read. Sometimes I’d write in my journal. What I wrote would be special to no one, but it was important to me. And there were sometimes when I’d simply visit with friends.

This is all fanciful thinking. I know this. It is sitting here and giving flight to a life that was once dreamt of but never was. Or was it?

What we read, what we see, what we hear; they all become a part of who we are. I am still that teenager walking the streets of Paris and dreaming of what it would be like to live and be creative in such a great city. The Spring in 1975 still inspires the Spring of 2012. The young man who wanted a life in the arts, has lived to a small degree, a life in the arts. That 18 year old wants to experience a renaissance in the older man he has become. 

The older man still desires to draw, to paint, to write, to create. He still desires to explore and think about what could be. He is still on this journey and literature inspires the journey. It inspires him to become what he is meant become. It inspires him to not stand on the sidelines of life, but to seek new things, new adventures, new places. As idealistic as it may appear, as romanticized as it may be, he wishes to see the world he wants to see, and not that one that is served up to him.

Literature inspires. It can inspire dreams. And sometimes, when we’re lucky, those dreams inspire action. And on some occasions, those actions cause a change in our reality and we begin to live our dream!

Greg

____________________

Photo notes:  the photos of Cité Bergère in Paris and the Angel & Crown in London are screen captures from Google Maps. The photo of the window at night is taken in the French Pavilion in Epcot's World Showcase and was taken by the author. I do not pass this window without thinking about what life might have been like living in Paris. And I certainly hear Rodolfo crying over Mimi.