miscellaneous

Paris Diary

The city of lights and love has a thing for the subterranean, with over 300 Kms in tunnels underneath

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Paris Diary
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Tunnel Vision

The city of lights and love has a thing for the subterranean. The maze of tunnels underneath the city is said to stretch over 300 kilometres, not accounting for the 200 kilometres of the Paris Metro. Several sections of these crypts were used by the French Resistance during the Occupation. The ‘Catacombe’, the section open to visitors, was used to stack the mortal remains, mostly bones and skulls, of over six million residents of Paris. But it would be steep, wet and chilly, I was warned. There would be as many as 130 steps while descending and 83 more steps to negotiate while climbing out. People looked dubiously at my midriff and wondered if the trouble would be worth it. But the long queue of relaxed tourists, among them a group of giggling teenagers, a family of five from England and a couple whose lips never left each other, helped make up my mind. If they could do it, so could this Indian from the land of Bhagat Singh and Subhash Bose. Even when it started raining and pouring, not just drizzling, leaving the queue was not an option because nobody moved. I also self-consciously realised that I was the only Indian, possibly the only Asian, in the queue at that point. I was almost relieved when at 4 pm, the official time when it is closed to visitors, I was fifth in the queue from the mouth. Ah, I could now leave with my honour intact, I exulted. But in view of the long wait, it was announced, the first 20 people would be allowed down. And before I knew it, I was clutching my ticket and descending a narrow, spiralling staircase. Half way down, I realised I was alone and could not hear other voices. A run down the stairs, and I found myself among a small group of people in a well-lit tunnel with panels explaining the catacomb’s history. Then the tunnel became darker, narrower. There were slopes and the ground was wet and slippery. Just when it threatened to become a pain, the tunnel gave way to a wider platform, used as a mini concert hall in the last century, and a gateway to the section that held the treasure of bones. The skulls were arranged neatly between stacks of bones on both sides, some of them in ornate, cylindrical columns. Trust the French to turn bones into works of art, I told myself as I hurried out, past young couples who were intent on photographing themselves with the memento mori as background. Climbing out was harder, but my limbs refused to stop till I tumbled out, breathless, a couple of kilometres away from where we started.

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Parlez Vous Franglais

The French have fought long and hard to stop the steady incursion of English words into their cherished native tongue. But even the indomitable Gauls were stumped by the expression ‘French kiss’ and barely managed to come up with a French syn­onym last month. But while an increasing number of French children study English at sch­ool, the older generation continues to struggle. Nicolas Sarkozy was forced to take English les­sons after being elected president. And the present incumbent is ribbed for signing off his letter complimenting Obama for his re-election with a confident ‘friendly, Francois Hollande’. While words like ‘weekend’, ‘drinks’ and ‘aftershave’ have found grudging acceptance, some words sound like English but are not. Youngsters seem to use the word ‘footing’ for jogging, while even adults can suggest an ‘outing for fooding’, by which they mean exploring good food. It is, however, the French pronunciation of English words that gives rise to sniggers. Jokes abound of French girlfriends embarrassing their escorts in England by asking waiters for a ‘fuck’ and of Frenchmen shocking English-speaking women by solemnly saying, ‘No, you cunt’, when they ask if they may wear a particular dress on a formal occasion.

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Mon Ami Sartre

When our generation was in college in the ’70s, Jean Paul Sartre was still fashionable. And so was his companion Simone de Beauvoir. Their one-liners, ‘One is not born a woman, one becomes one’ (Beauvoir) and ‘If you are lonely when you are alone, then you are in bad company’ (Sartre), were deemed incredibly smart. So, I made my way to the Montparnasse cemetery to pay my tributes. They are both buried in the same grave, their names on the tombstone separated by smudges left by kisses. There were handwritten notes in several languages. One of them simply said, Merci (French for thank you). And there were of course the iconic used metro tickets strewn on the grave, along with flowers. While the same cemetery also has the graves of Maupassant, Samuel Beckett and Man Ray, Sartre and Beauvoir remain the undisputed stars.

A Moreish Noir

Had what looked like soft, purple sausage but was stuffed with congealed blood of pigs, spiced for taste. Don’t miss Boudin Noir when you are in Paris next.

Uttam Sengupta is deputy editor, Outlook; E-mail your diarist: sengupta AT outlookindia.com

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