Not So Quiet Days In Clichy
We never got a summer in Galway. Days and weeks blended into each other, forming a dampened perpetual greyness that would depress even the most committed of ennui soaked teenager. It was with a gait somewhere in between reluctant vampire and startled mogwai that I emerged off the plane in Paris (or at least, Ryanair’s loose definition of Paris, which is about 90 minutes away). Nothing but blue skies brought a Willie Nelson song to mind, so I was happy to put away the China Mièville book that I was reading and gaze out the window for the trip into the city.
The familiar warm gusts of air upon descending the first flights of stairs into the Metro station instantly brought back so many memories, we were home again. The intricate underground routes that spread out like trails from some fossilized spiderweb are now so familiar that very little planning was needed to negotiate their crosshatched lines, pastel coloured, with names that conjure up grandiose images and historical significance. This eradicated the need to stand motionless amongst the swiftly moving crowds, gazing befuddled at a map and trying to figure out which direction to take (one of the pitfalls of any unfamiliar city’s underground systems and a great way to get mugged). As if by some delightful accident, we emerged at Blanche and discovered ourselves to be staying once again in the Pigalle / Clichy districts. Scorned by many, but without a doubt our favourite part of the city. Maybe it’s the griminess, the unabashed mix of glamour and squalor. This was Henry Miller’s stomping grounds, far less upmarket than the Montparnasse haunts of Sartre, Beckett, De Beauvoir and Camus.
On first appearance, the area seems akin to some ghastly 1980’s neon hell. A picturesque walkway of evenly spaced trees splits the street. Ornate Metro entrances and well known landmarks such as the Moulin Rouge and Le Chat Noir are interspersed with garish strip joints and sex shops. The peep shows and lap dance bars are generally advertised with sun yellowed photographs featuring girls with sweatbands and large perms, indicative of 80’s porn chic more than postmodern fashionistas. This is not to say that there was no shortage of clients flowing in and out, both day and night. Couples giggle as boyfriends gingerly nudge their girlfriends through the beaded or curtained entrances of the sex stores, only to emerge carrying nondescript bags of goods a few moments later. Groups of men haggle and barter for cut rates at the entrances to the shows, hustlers hang in doorways and the bravest of the ladies of pleasure ply their wares upon anything that passes.
The daytime is the best time for people watching, but at night, the place mutates into something altogether more frantic. The sex tourists who are far more committed than a cheeky peek in a mucky bookstore crawl out of the numerous alleyways like rats. The pimps approach and hustle, their ladies just as much, all eager to get as much money out of your pocket as possible. There are however, numerous clubs, live venues and late bars in the area, making all nighters not only an option, but a necessity.
In the evenings, our close proximity to Sacre Coeur would see us sitting on the green by the steps, listening to the freestylers and drinking cheap champagne whilst watching the sun creep away from the rooftops of the city, as light appeared sporadically and people went about their evening rituals. Time slowed down. Anxiety, doubt and frustration left my thoughts for a few brief days.
We travelled up to Porte de Cligancourt to investigate the flea markets, the majority of which sold knock off Bathing Ape’s and hip hop gear (and a wicked Eazy E t shirt that I should have bought). Mesrine is clearly back in fashion, thanks to the new Vincent Cassel films and their love of all things rap displays and radiates such an unpretentious and altruistic belief in a genre that has become almost completely destroyed in most other places. Once you make your way through the throngs and into the main area, the most amazing collection of antique stores are waiting for you. Everything from film memorabilia to collectable books and dirty lithographs, needless to say, I was in heaven. This unfortunately was not the time for antiquing. Small hint for the assertive shopper who intends to haggle in another language: Don’t drink champagne before you go to do so, you will end up a sweaty bumbling idiot who will be offering fifty instead of five for something that costs a tenner.
It was music that brought me to Paris once again. The Rock en Seine festival was on the Saturday and there is much to tell. Some bands entertained, some delighted, some made me angry and some just plain sucked. More to come.
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