Room With a View
Paris Kiosque - December 1997 - Volume 4, Number 12
Copyright (c) December 1997 Françoise; Giovannangeli - used with permission
surreal - adj. back-formation from surrealism (1943) having
the intense irrationality of a dream -- Webster's Dictionary
Real or surreal? Some things in Paris are difficult to qualify. The strikes
of December 1995 led to situations that even those who lived through them
still find hard to believe -- commuters (lucky ones) getting to work by
Bateau Mouche; the city's sidewalks crammed with people of all ages on
roller skates, roller blades, skateboards and anything else that could
move. And everywhere a sea of traffic that inched along like some great
glacier.
Extreme circumstances aside, simple day-to-day living here is sprinkled
with events that anywhere else might be considered bizarre, but which in
Paris are taken in stride.
Consider the following scenario: Just the other day, around 8 AM or so, I
was groggily preparing my morning coffee when I heard a tapping sound
coming from the direction of the bathroom window. It was louder than a
pigeon, but what else could it be? Many of the attic rooms in older
Parisian buildings have been converted to apartments, and here, high above
the traffic, only a thin zinc ledge about 30 centimetres wide wraps around
the edge of the roof, supporting the gutter.
The second time it was louder; I knew it wasn't a bird. I peered around the
corner to investigate and instead of the usual view of the upper half of
the Eiffel tower, I was greeted by the sight of a nervous-looking man
crouched on the ledge. He was dressed in a suit and had with him a
briefcase and a garment bag. As soon as he saw me he started to wave.
I opened the window a crack and said hello.
With an eager, hopeful smile he proceeded with a request: he had been
locked (inadvertently?) into an apartment by his girlfriend, he said,
vaguely pointing to the vast emptiness behind him. Would I be so kind as to
let him in so that he could somehow get out?
I pulled the window open all the way and he tumbled in, bags and all,
looking slightly embarrassed as I stood there staring at him in my
bathrobe. He then straightened himself out, smiled and thanked me, and I
led him to the front door, at which point we wished each other a good day
before he made his exit down the hall.
All of this happened in less than a minute -- or so it seemed. My coffee
was still hot. After a few soothing sips I began to wonder about what had
just taken place -- not so much about this man's predicament, but why we
had both acted as if this was a completely normal way to start the day...
Françoise Giovannangeli is a Canadian freelance writer who lives in Paris. She
can be contacted via
this link.
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