Latina in the Latin Quarter

Like most neighborhoods in Paris, the Quartier Latin in the fourth arrondissement unyieldingly rejected modernism. The bohemian energy once described and appreciated by intellects like Camus and Sartre is no less present now than it was then. Upon walking out of the Saint-Michel metro station, I see the hustle and bustle of the area, but can’t hear it because I have yet to my take my headphones out. Rarely do I walk around listening to anything other than my own music, but I decide to take my headphones out to fully experience the commotion.

The cliché saying, “it’s the journey, not the destination” certainly applies to the walk to Shakespeare and Company. It’s an overcast day—of course—but despite the sky’s melancholic gray hue, the lively locals and tourists generate more than enough warmth. From the Saint-Michel stop, I walk up to the main boulevard, Boulevard Saint-Michel, and turn onto Rue Saint-Séverin. This street marks the beginning of the alley-like street series—goodbye to commercial McDonald’s with free wifi, hello to Mom and Pop’s. Immediately I feel like I’m in Little Italy, but instead of older men unsuccessfully seducing me to “try”  (they really mean sit down, take a menu, spend x amount of money and time) their pastas and cannoli’s, it’s Fondue and “world famous” Gyro’s and Falafels (you'd think the Latin Quarter, despite it's Ancient Roman roots, would have some sort of Latino/Latina food options--not quite). Admittely, it smells wonderful, but seeing skinned lamb meat hang directly in front of me has never really helped my appetite, no matter how good it probably tastes. I continue down this street for a little longer, shocked and impressed by my willpower to not give in to the endless crêpe options that encircle me (though I did sample—baby steps, baby steps), and turn a left onto Rue Xavier Privas.

 Within the first 20 minutes of the first day of class, my Making of Paris class professor encouraged all of us to question why streets in Paris are given the names they are. Coming from New York, specifically from Manhattan, where the majority of streets are just numbers, it’s true I have never once taken the time to question why Broome street is Broome street and why Jane street is Jane street. I pause and look at the street name for a second, writing down the name Xavier Privas in my phone. I later find out Xavier Privas, originally named Antoine Paul Taravel at birth, was a French singer, poet, and composer. Moreover, born in 1863 and dead in 1927, Privas was a true Bohemian, even having earned the title of “prince of songwriters” in 1899. My little moment ends, and I continue making my way to the mecca of overpriced books, turning a right on Rue de la Huchette.

I can tell I’m very close as I see the main intersection, Rue de Petit Pont, in the distance and a restaurant on the corner with the words “Le Petit Pont” lit up and in cursive. Unsurprisingly, I see people sitting at the outside tables, some enjoying coffee, others a glass of red wine and a beer, but all of them glamorously smoking long, thin cigarettes. Had I not needed to come to Shakespeare and Company to buy books, I probably would’ve gone home directly after school, hopped in bed and procrastinated on my homework. A true California girl at heart, my body is not designed to enjoy weather that goes below 40 degrees. This is either not the case for Parisians, or they simply, for a lack of a better term, do not give a shit. Rain or shine, the French will rarely let weather become a hindrance to enjoying life. In fact, writing that and seeing those words before me, I realize how silly it is that many of us do.

I reach Rue de la Bûcherie, pass the “Le Petit Pont” and the two restaurants next to it (everyone is doing the same thing—drinking themselves a sweater), and finally I reach Shakespeare and Company. Before entering I turn around to acknowledge Notre-Dame and all it’s grandeur. The cathedral’s flying buttresses, gargoyles, and general gothic appearance dominate all of its surrounding areas. Even from a block away, I am intimidated by its stature, but transfixed on its beauty. I avert my gaze and look around me to see if anyone else has stopped to look at it also. When I realize it’s only me, I wonder if Notre-Dame to locals is Times Square to a New Yorker? Though I understand the initial excitement and interest in and of a monument fading, I can’t imagine that an edifice as aesthetically and structurally flawless as Notre-Dame could ever become banal.

After 4 minutes that felt like 14, I turn around and enter the bookstore. Immediately I feel weird about it. Though I appreciate the décor and surplus of literature (so much so, I can’t stop touching each book I pass), a part of me feels like Shakespeare and Company could be found on Disneyland’s Main Street—touristy and inauthentic. Though most of the vendors in the Latin Quarter (and in Paris in general) speak English, their English is broken, which I find endearing, and here at Shakespeare and Company, I feel as if I’m back in the West Village with native English speakers. Also the prices of books—high and thereby, disappointing—add to the unshakeable sense of tourism. A true bohemian would never dare to pay such high prices to fill their intellectual cravings. Even Hemingway’s opening sentence of his third chapter, titled none other than “Shakespeare and Company” states, “In those days there was no money to buy books”, so he’d borrow books from there. (31). Thus, isn’t pricing the books so high kind of add to Hemingway’s struggle and go against the life of poverty which he adamantly romanticized? This is also ironic because Hemingway might actually be the reason why the store is so famous. He also later states that he, again in true bohemian nature, made a deal with the bookstore owner, Sylvia Beach, which allowed him to “take as many books as [he] wished”: such a deal would never take place now, regardless of how nice and hip the cashiers may seem.

Following tourist protocol, but also fulfilling my academic requirements, I purchase my two Hemingway books, A Moveable Feast and The Sun Also Rises, and leave the store. I figure to get back to the train I’ll just go back the way I came. As I walk through the small little alley streets, the same vendors from earlier shamelessly attempting to persuade me again, I look up and suddenly feel small compared to the towering apartments. It’s not so much that they’re actually tall and eclipse conventional New York apartment height, but more so because they are placed so close to another and all the main action lies on the lower levels, you can’t help but feel like Remy from Ratatouille, scurrying through the mazes of the Latin Quarter.