Newspaper Article - Paris

An early (and unknowing) contact with New Journalism - attempting to portray Paris by putting 'myself' into the report. Wanted to make this an extended piece, but I ended up working to quite a strict word limit because of the paper's small travel section. Published with a collection of photographs I took whilst there, but I haven't figured out how to limit the size or watermark them on here. I hate copyright thieves.

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Two days after one of my Erasmus friends told me something like “Oui Alex, you should come and take pictures this summer, Pah-ree is tres beautiful”, and I’m on a flight. I’m in full on photographer mode, heading to the home of street photography, to streets trodden by the cutting edge of photojournalism – Henri Cartier-Bresson, Robert Doisneau, Martine Franck. 20 rolls of film rattle optimistically in the side pocket of my overpacked rucksack. 18 would remain disappointed and be returned to my film fridge at the end of the trip. I had been naïve in thinking my photographers eye would last a week without being sucked into the atmosphere of the city of lights.

This wasn’t to be a week of photography at all, but rather a week of high culture, low culture and everything in between. Parties every night, galleries every day. Coffee until 5pm, and wine until 6am. And conversations throughout all this – sat in the cafes around the Louvre, in dark corners in underground bars, and in the gardens of the Sacre Coeur after jumping the fence at 3 in the morning.

I stayed at the Peace and Love hostel in the Stalingrad area of town, and 2 hours after arriving, rather than my initial plan of heading toward the Bastille to take some pictures, I’m drunk and singing on a table with an Irish guy who would leave the next day with a hangover to remember. “You know, taff!” He shouts at me, “Paris is the city of, of, love and stuff. Waaaaaay!”

An incredible fusion of culture and the party lifestyle is a feature of many of the great European capitals – London, Berlin, among others. However, there is something special about it in Paris. It suits backpackers perfectly, with a great range of hostels (my recommendation is to find one with a bar, great for meeting people). Being a solo backpacker, I had the advantage of having no plans in particular, and so could go where I like, when I liked, and do what I liked. Brief encounters with people who I’d never see again added colour to a city which lends itself perfectly to a trip that ends up being somewhere between scenes from Before Sunrise and Lost in Translation.

Sitting in the hostel bar for 20 minutes each day, I’d end up in a random conversation with a mixture of locals and fellow travellers, before sauntering over to the Louvre, Pere le Chaise, or the Arc de Triomphe. It’s easy to see why Parisisan cafes and parks became the backdrop for innumerable conversations between Sartre and his fellow philosophers, and which form the background of the photographs I admired so much while at home. The atmosphere is all consuming, as the gentle music of cafes and the large windows invite you to look out onto the street, give up on that copy of Nausea, and just watch the world go by.

Ultimately, Paris is a city that has to be felt, rather than seen. Ok, so it has some of the greatest art galleries in the world, some of the most iconic landmarks, and the grave of Jim Morrison. It’s impossible to avoid the clichés of the romantic city, they’re in the air along the Seine, and in the breezes that batter the top of the Eiffel tower. But after spending a night under the Eiffel tower, I kissed a girl I’d never see again goodbye on the train platform, and had no problem with that. It’s a feeling to be embraced and let go, with the acceptance that it will sit comfortably in your memory for a long time to follow.

- Published in the Warwick Boar, 2007