Au Revoir Paris...

Today, after a break during which I spent some time in the UK and some in Spain, I find myself enjoying a coffee at the almost ubiquitous Starbucks. Normally, I am not a great fan of this particular multi-national, but being in central Paris, and finding the cafes in the Avenue Champs Elysee itself wanting to charge seven euros fifty for a tiny cup of coffee, I chose to put my normal objections on hold and enjoy a long Americano in their outlet in the Arcade Champs Elysee. Truth be told, this place has a rather impressively grandiose interior, with ionic columns in marble supporting a mock vaulted roof. For me, it evokes images of the original flaneurs who would have haunted these very halls well over a century ago now.
This is my first visit to Paris for around 20 years or so. The demographic changes in that time are stark indeed. It is almost as if the centre of this once great metropolis has been all but abandoned to another culture, one that has little sympathy for, or understanding of, the history of this fantastic city.

Before arriving in Paris, the previous few days had been spent deep in the Normandy countryside in a tiny, one bedroom gite just to the west of Falaise. The contrast between rural, small town France which barely seems to have changed at all, and the capital, is huge. The borgoisie seem more discretely charming than ever in the villages, towns and smaller cities such as Caen, Falaise, Flers and Bayeaux. Life seems relatively slow, relaxed and polite in such places. Paris, however, is completely different; fast paced, frenetic, distinctly rude and often more than a little dangerous.
Much the same difference can be seen in Britain where London seems to be in the process of becoming a distant satellite of the UK in general, as are some of the other larger cities. The distance in politics, philosophy and outlook is vast and ever widening. Witness such occurrences as last year’s EU referendum – the people away from the larger urban conurbations voted emphatically for leave, those within them just as emphatically for remain.
Twenty years ago one espied the odd armed gendarme as one wandered along the boulevards of Paris. Now armed police, and even soldiers, are to be seen everywhere. Just recently, two policemen were attacked by a machete wielding fanatic on the Champs Elysee itself, not far from this very spot. Reading the BBC news today, a similar incident occurred in Brussels last night where fortunately the terrorist was promptly dispatched, though not before injuring two policemen, and a further incident was reported to have occurred just outside Buckingham Palace.
And so it goes on. Small incidents, followed by larger incidents, random sacrifices made to a random god. It speaks ill of man’s credulity that so many can still believe in the vacuous nonsense that inspired these attacks in the 21st century. For this rather liberal flaneur though, what is really unforgivable is the wish supporters of this particular superstition have to forcibly impose such a palpably illogical, unscientific and, in all honesty, ignorant view of the world on others.

The philosopher Karl Popper once pointed out the paradox of tolerance. If you extend that tolerance too far you end up tolerating the intolerant, thereby killing tolerance itself. We seem, through a mixture of pesonal, moral and political cowardice, to have gone a long way down that particular road now, each concession to the intolerant leading to the demand for yet more concessions.

Fortunately, there are still parts of Paris that retain much the same charm as ever. Strolling around Montmartre one still comes across the artists, the writers, the bon viveurs and the simply joyous, although admittedly the hordes of tourists are beginning to erode the authenticity of the place, but such is modern life. For now, at least, Montmartre’s charm still attracts enough of the creatives, the eccentrics and the downright weird to make life interesting.
It is now nearly ten p.m., and a pleasant young man has informed me that Starbucks will be closing in ten minutes. I quickly finish off my coffee and swallow the last of the customary glass of water that I like to accompany it with. I wonder if this will be my last evening in Paris. I have spent quite a few here in the past but...that was a Paris that has slithered slowly into history now. The city of the Enlightenment, of the birth of liberal democracy, of the Revolution, of Bonaparte, of Jean Paul Sartre, of Simone de Beauvoir, of Jean Jacques Rousseau, of the dadaists, of the surrealists, of Ernest Hemingway, Gertude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald, of Josephine Baker, Anias Nin and HenryMiller, home of the flaneur, of the intellectually daring and the avant garde, the city that encapsulated the notion of joie de vivre, is all but abandoned to another culture now, a culture that cares little for joy and even less for life.

Au revoir Paris, it was good to know you...

What the tortoise taught us...

This evening finds a very relaxed nomadic flaneur sitting on the balcony of the Sugar Cane guest house overlooking the River Kwai in Kanchanaburi, Thailand. The structure is somewhat disconcertingly simple but seems to be solid enough. Various gaps in the floorboards, up to about four inches, allow an uninterrupted view down to the river below. The floorboards themselves seem to be simply nailed into place. The superstructure is of bamboo bound together with a hemp rope of some sort. It all holds together somehow though I am not completely certain how.

The view to the South is quite breathtakingly romantic. In the foreground are large rafts onto which ramshackle rooms have been built, cheap accommodation for the itinerant backpackers. Beyond that the river flows Southwards on its journey down to the Gulf of Thailand. On the banks are pagoda style temples and, beyond them, a range of forest-clad mountains. Every now and again the sound of a fish leaping to catch a low flying insect breaks the stillness. If you are lucky, you may occasionally see a water monitor slithering down the banks before disappearing beneath the waves. If you are unlucky, you may have a much closer encounter with one. They are extreme carnivores who will eat just about anything that crosses their path.

The pace of life is slow here. Sometimes, in the mid day heat, so slow that it almost comes to a stop. Even on the main road leading up to the River Kwai Bridge midday brings a time of quietness, many of the traders will take a very long lunch break, some you will even see resting in hammocks slung in the shade of a palm tree or a convenient lean-to. The Thais, at least away from the madness of Bangkok, seem to have mastered the art of enjoying their lives slowly.

This attitude fits in well with the role of a nomadic flaneur. The original flaneurs were to be found 19th century Paris. They were often to be seen frequenting the shops and arcades that were, in those days, newly-built. Often, the more extreme followers of this lifestyle could be observed very slowly perusing the displayed fineries of these covered arcades whilst walking a tortoise on a lead. Even for your correspondent this may be taking things a tad too far!

As a companion for those given to the slow but seductive pleasures of flaneury, tortoises would seem to have been a very appropriate choice. They are the very epitome of economising effort. They don't speed, they never rush, yet they seem to live very long and very contentedly and, somehow or other, to get the things done that they need to get done. Interestingly, tortoises have a very long life-expectancy; it is not uncommon for them to live over five score years.

Aesop, that great writer of metaphorical tales, was not unaware of the paradox here. Perhaps his most famous fable is that of the hare and the tortoise. The hare, for all his rushing, for all the urgency of his speed, ends up losing the race to the slow and steady tortoise. I remember hearing this story as a child and being quite dismissive of its message. Strange how, the older one becomes the more the story appeals. One increasingly values the qualities of consistency and persistency, unfashionable though they be may, and realises how effective they are in the long term.

Increasingly in our modern world the call is for speed, for the dramatic, for instantaneous gratification. Interestingly, even when that gratification is achieved it is invariably short-lived and less than satisfying. The young in particular find themselves bombarded with imagery and information, advertising and date. So much so that it creates a certain impatience, a certain need for speed in all things. Over recent years this has led to steadily decreasing attention spans and problems such as ADD and ADHD.

Several years ago, in anyone guise, I co-wrote a paper on the challenges for teachers coping with pupils afflicted with these conditions. My fellow author had suffered from ADHD throughout her teenage years and still displayed some of these tendencies on occasions. As I remember, she started with an intense burst of enthusiasm but as the weeks rolled by found it increasingly difficult to maintain the effort. The paper was completed eventually but not without a certain amount of gentle cajoling to keep my well-meaning but sometimes errant colleague on track.

Our modern world has become ever more obsessed with speed, with the need to get things done quickly, with schedules and timetables. Taking the time for lunch is only apparently for wimps (in these matters I consider myself very much a wimp!), hot-desking is all the rage and all seem obsessed with ways to 'save time'. Oddly, there seems to be some kind of paradox at work here: the more time we seemingly save, the more rushed we seem to become.

Fortunately, there are people who think differently, though they are still in a very small minority. Carl Honore is one such person suggesting that there may indeed be another way. In his best-selling book 'In Praise of Slowness' he examines some of the normally unchallenged assumptions of the modern world and its headlong rush to... who knows where? It is something of a reaction against the notion that faster is always better. He is not alone in adopting these attitudes although, for the present, it seems that the cacophonous roar of modern life is drowning out the soft but persistent voice telling us that there is another way. Much like the hare and the tortoise though, it may turn out that the soft but persistent voice wins through in the end, despite all appearances to the contrary.

Back in the Sugar Cane I thoughtfully sip at my watermelon shake; strange how when one takes the time to savour the flavour one realises just how delicious such things are. I have a friend who finishes all meals in seconds flat. I often wonder if it actually matters what is put in front of him. For my part, I prefer both eating and drinking slowly, taking the time to enjoy the flavours and textures that each dish offers.

I listen to the calls of the birds singing to each other in the palms and the tamarinds. I have no idea which bird is which but that does not detract in the slightest from the pleasantness of simply sitting back and enjoying the ambient music they produce. By now a couple a few hours have passed, strange how absorbing this process can be. The light is soft at this time of the evening, bathing everything in a warm orange glow. It is hard for me to imagine a place more beautiful than this so, if you will forgive me, I think the time has come to finish my musings for this week and go back to the simple and slow pleasures that life beside the River Kwai has to offer.