IV

A/N: I will most likely be adding on to this post.

In New York I wander a lot. I do it most during finals week when I’ve hit a wall in my writing and my coffee begins to taste like water. I actually hate when I do it because I feel as though I’m giving up on overcoming the obstacle. I’ll close my computer, put on my headphones, and walk out the quiet and tense first floor computer lab in Arnold Hall. Initially, I tend to always walk in the same direction, towards the West Village, but rarely ever seem to end up in the same spot. During these walks I’ll overanalyze scenarios that are consuming my mind in that given moment not out of anxiousness, but for pleasure. It’s probably not healthy but I’ve always found it amusing to overthink things. In doing so, I acquire deeper, more significant views and answers. It’s mathematical in that sense; you start with your base problem and answer, then you add an alternative way of looking at it, which adds more presumptions to your mind, and then when you’ve acquired a myriad of thoughts and conclusions, you divide them by half with ratiocination, and eventually subtract the remaining filler until you’re only left with your final decision or conclusion. I’m pretty sure I tried explaining my thought process during walks to someone and unsurprisingly they didn’t understand. So I just left it at, “yeah, I walk a lot.”  

I haven’t wandered enough in Paris, at least not for non-academic purposes. I should more often; walking and coming back home with the obligation of recounting my experience—predominantly visual—bothers me because it becomes the central focus of my walk; I stop enjoying the walk. Though when I realized the theme of this week was psychogeography, I couldn’t have been more pleased. Psychogeography highlights the psychological benefits of drifting around an urban environment. It encourages the average walker—me in this case—to stray away from his or her regular path, and instead explore unknown ones to in the end acquire newfound awareness and knowledge of not only the city, but of themselves—the term for this objective is “dérive”, originating from the 1940’s artistic and political, Letterist International group of Paris. Naturally, Le Marais seemed like the ideal spot to fulfill this mission.

Having just returned from sunny Barcelona, I felt annoyed slipping into my multiple layers of clothing simply to comply with another overcast day in Paris, though the resentment faded as soon as I thought of my friends in New York shivering with numb toes. Then, for some inexplicable reason, after putting my clothes on, I decided to Google Ernest Hemingway’s writing—albeit that’s not entirely random considering his unavoidable presence in this course—and I came across the quote, “write drunk, edit sober”. Various forums argued whether or not those words were Hemingway’s or actually Peter de Vries (who was titled as the “funniest writer on religion ever”), but regardless those words resonated with me. So in the spirit of immersing myself into the culture, I decided to drink an obscene amount of terrible white wine before my walk, as well as right now, before continuing onto my following paragraph. Though I suppose to be “fully” present, as I’ve stressed the importance of before, would require being sober. But I’m young and a Sagittarius, therefore impulsive and occasionally facetious (is that bad to admit?), so this is a natural decision to make. I apologize for what and how the following comes out—these are simply the thoughts I remember having during the walk, and am currently accumulating as I type.

My previous statements sound very much so like those of an alcoholic, concerning and distasteful, though I assure you my intentions were solely to experience an aimless journey like Hemingway, but in my own body. I’m not sure if that really makes sense and when I’m sober tomorrow there’s a high chance I’ll look at that with scrunched eyebrows and a Mac Dre Thizz frown (Oakland reference—Google in order to fully understand). Anyways, I decided to not follow the guided tour as I figured that was going completely against the idea of psychogeography. I got off St. Paul, walked straight towards the church, and then turned a right. I made a conscious effort to not remember any of the street names I walked on or turned on so that I wouldn’t take the same stroll again. And if I were to do so, considering I have an oddly good photographic memory, I would just consider it luck/chance and not just another a predictable act.

Walking through Le Marais—an undeniably beautiful neighborhood, both in its aura and architecture—I felt very Parisian. Not because the area is filled with fashionable young men and women, but because I wasn’t shocked or stunned by anything I saw; this, despite what the words may convey at first read, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sure the tags were cool, and spotting the little ones on poles and corners of walls felt just as rewarding as spotting Waldo in a sea of clones, but none of it overwhelmed me. This may also have to do with the fact that most of my friends in New York are notorious taggers, one specifically who sprays “Harlem” in giant letters in virtually every nook and cranky of the city. And another, a sweet and subdued Brazilian, who one would assume spends their day drinking coffee and reading a collection of used books, sprays “pixote” in massive letters, letters so big it’s one of the first things you see driving off of the Williamsburg Bridge. So essentially, tags to me, are for a lack of a better term, “normal”.

 Strolling aimlessly reminded me of strolling aimlessly in New York. Whether or not I knew where I was going, or had ever been where I was going, I felt comfortable and knew I would eventually make it back home safely. I’ll admit some part of this confidence and comfort must stem from my fluency in the language, but nonetheless, there’s a very specific type of encouraging energy within Le Marais. As I walked down the little alleyways, many of which I now appreciate on a deeper level after reading about Haussamannisation during the 1850’s, and walls covered in beautiful graffiti, I didn’t feel the need to take my phone out and take a photo, despite the assignment rules and ending up at possibly some of the most beautiful residences.

However, me not taking pictures or not being stupefied by the street art around me is no way an act of rejection or carelessness, but rather a sign of deep appreciation. I find that contemporary society has recently become so consumed with capturing moments to share with others later instead of treasuring the moment for it’s given beauty in that specific moment, without any filters or highlighted saturation—hash tag instagram. Admittely, I have been and occasionally still am guilty of this, which is why I appreciate the moments I’m not. Actually, I feel like “honestly” might be too modest. I’m completely guilty of the superficial, must-capture-this-moment phenomena. On a completely different note though, I will say Le Marais is in fact nothing like Williamsburg. It’s a bit too bourgeois, even with its colorful street art, so if anything it’s like Soho. I think many often compare Le Marais to Williamsburg because of it’s alternative image in comparison to more classical parts of Paris, but the area is so rich with history, but with stores like Adidas and Zadig and Voltaire’s alongside of primeval walls, it’s an incredible hybrid of old and new.