Kim Batchelor

Writer of magical realism and other imaginative fiction

Paris Me Parle

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It may be almost cliché to speak of Paris and how it draws expatriate writers (James Baldwin, Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, to name a few). No doubt a trip to Paris inspires the muse of most of us who regularly put pen to paper. (Or mouse to screen, if you insist.) The lure of the city for writers has never waned. As evidence, last month sci-fi writer Susan Kaye Quinn traveled to Paris. There, she met local writers and signed copies of her work at a bookstore.

I have had the good fortune to visit the city four times. Recent, sometimes tragic, events have taken me back to my last visit once again—in my memory. Those memories are all pleasant ones.

Spending more time than I ever have at the Louvre. Exploring artifacts from ancient Egypt and beautiful pieces from their Islamic collection. Being introduced to the mystical work of Gustav Doré at the Musee D’Orsay, my favorite place to spend time.

Wandering the streets near our apartment located between the Belleville and Republique metro lines. Pretending I actually live in Paris by enjoying eclairs from a neighborhood bakery and cheese from a local cheese shop. Meeting with a French tutor in a café near the Bastille.

Finally making the trek to Monet’s home and gardens in Giverny. On each trip, we never miss a few hours in the Luxembourg Gardens. From a park bench we spend at least one afternoon watching people walk by.

 

Fitting in

I recently saw someone post on Facebook a common belief about the city—Parisians don’t like people from the United States. I have found the opposite to be true, with one observation. I’m not the only person who will say that the reception will be much friendlier if a visitor knows a little French.

The best phrase I use if I get into any difficulty is: “Excusez-moi, je ne parle pas très bien français.” “Excuse me, but I don’t speak French very well.” I have never had a problem after that as whoever I’m speaking to graciously helps me. It is also important to say, “Bonjour” during the day and “Bonsoir” in the evening when first approaching someone.

Once in a bakery, I politely asked the man behind the counter about the éclairs we had not yet received with our tea. He threw his head back and cried out, “What a catastrophe!” in a way that made me laugh . After I took the plate of two eclairs, someone walked up to the counter and immediately said, “I’d like…” and started his order. The demeanor of the man behind the counter shifted from playful to deadly serious.

I suspect that customer came away with the belief that Parisians are all rude based on that one experience.

Pay Attention to It All

All the expected sites—the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, the boats on the Seine, the Notre Dame Cathedral—speak the loudest. On the other hand, I very much value the quieter voices of the city. The murals, the small tasks of daily life, and the lovely hair of three French schoolgirls on a boat floating down one of the city’s canals.

Residents of Paris may tire of the constant bustle of a big city and look forward to fleeing for quieter locations. I will always be one of the many outsiders—many of us writers—drawn to that city and continually find inspiration there.

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A World Outside my Paris Door

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Two years ago, I sampled life as a resident of Paris. For ten days, my spouse and I spent time in a quirky and comfortable apartment on the Rue du Faubourg du Temple. From there we set out to do what most tourists do: visit the Louvre and Musée d’Orsay, climb to the top of Montmartre, and walking the banks of the Seine.

Sampling Parisian Life

Having our own apartment helped us to learn more about the neighborhood where we’d taken up residence. We walked to the cheese store for the best brie I’d ever tasted. We visited the weekend market in the rain, a walk of only a few blocks. (Tip: Don’t pick up a handful of salad greens; wait for the purveyor of the produce.) And a short walk also brought us to the boulangerie/patisserie (bakery) where we found delicious eclairs and baguettes. The perfect existence as I had imagined it to be.

A Diverse Neighborhood

I found more than I expected in that neighborhood between the Republique and Belleville metro stops.

On the street, I passed my temporary neighbors, many of whom were immigrants or the children of immigrants. North Africans, and more recently, sub-Saharan Africans have replaced the Armenians, Greeks, and Ashkenazi Jews which were once the predominant ethnic groups. A nearby window displayed clothing of those communities, clothing I might not expect to see on the Paris runways.

Tragedies Nearby

The Bataclan, the site of the attack that took 130 lives, sits only a few blocks from where we stayed, and the Jewish store that experienced the killing of four hostages on the same day as the Charlie Hebdo massacre, is just over 4 kilometers away. Despite these tragedies, I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to return there.

As an outsider, especially one who ‘lived’ there for such a short time, I could not gauge whatever tensions there might have been. But for ten days—a brief moment in time—I did feel the richness of a culturally diverse neighborhood right outside my door.

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Flying

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For most of my life, I have been acrophobic–afraid of heights. Once, when I was about ten years old, I found myself clinging to the wall, as far as I could get from the railing, while standing 12 stories above the ground at the base of the Iron Man statue in Birmingham, Alabama.

I experienced airplane travel starting at six years old, but in spite of decades traveling by air, as an adult I went through a period of white-knuckle flights during any kind of turbulence. Luckily, that only lasted a couple of years–after I learned the statistics on how rare it is to die in a plane crash.

My acrophobia sometimes creeps in during sleep. I find myself in planes without ceilings. Or I step from elevators reaching the highest floor of a building and discover that the walls haven’t been built yet. I keep my head down on the topless plane or cling to the floor of the unfinished structure trying to figure out how to get down.

But in my dream life as a child, I always loved flying. My favorite dreams were of jumping off swings and soaring over backyards in my dreamy neighborhood. Skirting the clouds, approaching the moon, experiences that, for most of us, only happen in our imaginations, or while we sleep.

In spite of my continuing fear of heights, flying often finds its way into my magical realist novels. My children’s book, The Island of Lost Children, a modern take on Peter and Wendy, is naturally full of children flying. In my novel, GEM of the Starry Skies, the main character, Gwen Mora, takes to the skies, fueled by her growing love of astrophysics. And in The Mists of Na Crainn, the main character, Lyric Doherty, experiences signs that she’s developing the ability to ‘soar’—a wind-swept capability that keeps her above ground but close to the treetops.

Me, I only wish I could fly in real life. Part of me is an acrophile, someone who loves (imaginary) heights. But I’m not inclined to slip into a hang glider or wingsuit. I satisfy my craving instead in my writing and occasionally by climbing aboard the Soarin’ ride at Disney.

If wishes were horses…then Pegasus would be real. Or maybe just a character in my dreams.

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Lost Girls

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I have often wished into being a peaceful place for those who experience difficult lives. Perhaps a clearing in woods, a waterfall replenishing a quiet pond, a soft breeze always blowing through it. I wish for the scent of grass damp from morning dew and the perfume of assorted flowers coloring the ground around it.

Listening to the pain of those individuals is a privileged role. It’s not often an easy one. Not often a comfortable one. And not always a satisfying one. Still a privileged one, when someone shares their burdens and challenges.

As an educator and counselor in a clinic serving women, most of whom were in their teens and early 20s, I spent hours as a listener. Several times a day, I found myself sitting across from someone stressed, angry, weeping, hopeless. Often, I could provide some small measure of useful information. Often, I could only listen.

A well-dressed high school student wore a blank look as she related how she no longer had a place to live. We connected her with resources to find one. I wanted to take her home with me.

A 16-year-old girl traced the lines of her initials that she carved into her skin. Her mother’s boyfriend had assaulted her. Her mother took his side and forced her out of their home. The case was reported, as required, and I connected her with resources. The girl went on her way leaving behind that image of her scar tattooed into my memory, along with anger at her mother’s selfish actions.

I listened to the despair of a young woman who suffered from the agony of the aftermath of pelvic infections that left scarring. She shifted from anger into resignation after I explained the source of her pain. Only surgery could fix the problem—I could not fix her, the nurse could not fix her, but when we both assured her that the pain wasn’t just in her head, she managed a smile.

One morning on the way to work I listened to Joan Osborne singing, “What if God was One of Us?” A stranger on the bus trying to make his way home. Or a young woman struggling with addiction, exclusion, eviction, rejection. In the parking lot, I stayed in the car crying for a few moments before leaving it to start the day.

Some moments reminded me it was worth it. The woman I barely remember, beaming, who made a point of coming to tell me that she’d left her abusive boyfriend and had turned her life around because of my help. The teenager who didn’t care if she got pregnant who later requested birth control from the nurse after I asked her to put herself in the place of any baby she might conceive. And then there was the day that Tiffany showed up at the clinic, clear-eyed, in recovery, and employed outside of the sex industry. Smiling. A new woman.

I wanted to draw their pain from them, send it hurling through space to dash against a passing asteroid. At times, their stories feed mine. When I wrote of a girl who had to grow up too soon, I created an entire island for her to be a child again. When I wrote of a girl with an expansive imagination and a mother suffering from a serious illness, I gave her a starry sky and a quiet children’s garden in the midst of the city and a group of mentors and supportive friends.

I can only wish with an oasis for all the women I had the privilege to know. A place for them to feel safe, a place for quiet among the tumult of their lives. And even though I can’t make it for them, I send that wish out into the universe of quiet places.

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Pablo Neruda and a Storm in Small Spaces

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When I am in the midst of a storm I often think of Pablo Neruda.

April is here, bringing promised showers and sometimes with them, tumultuous weather. A few nights ago, a thunderstorm passed us, tearing through the neighborhood, downing trees and severing the connection of thousands of my neighbors to electricity. I cursed my neglecting to charge my phone the night before and worried that we’d be without electricity for so long that my tablet and computer would also hibernate along with the power. While one February we’d suffered through four days without heat or hot water following a snowstorm that dumped several feet of snow on this city unaccustomed to much accumulation, this time the electricity returned after only a few hours.

I have often written of my appreciation of the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. Storms sometimes remind me of a story from his autobiography, Confeso que he vivido: Memorias, published as Memoirs in English, leaving out the “I Confess That I Have Lived” in the original Spanish title. I learned from the book that Neruda had been a diplomat and had spent a good deal of time in Asia.

On a flight from Colombo, Sri Lanka (what was then called Ceylon) to Rangoon, Burma (what is now known as Yangon, Myanmar), Neruda saw the plane crammed with “turbaned passengers, covered with colors and loaded with baskets.” A tropical storm along the way caused the plane to “shudder” and a darkness darker than true night time edged out the daytime sky. Lightning illuminate the sky accompanied by the booms of thunder, and the plane began to “stagger.”

Rain began to fall inside the plane.The water came in in heavy drops that reminded me of my house in Temuco (Chile) in winter. But ten thousand meters up, those leaks did not amuse me. The amazing thing, though, was a monk sitting behind us. He opened an umbrella and with Oriental serenity went on reading his texts of ancient wisdom.

I rarely fear the turbulence of a flight, unless it is particularly fierce. I occasionally fear the possibility of tornadoes in a storm, a fear I carry with me from my childhood. I have never found myself on a flight or in a storm as frightening as the one Neruda described. If I ever do, I hope I will find enough peace to simply open an umbrella and continue on with my reading.

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