Notes from a Vagabond in Paris

Location:
France, Paris

Paris cheap, adventure

By Sara Whitford

While I was eating ice cream in the Saint Paul Quarter, I noted the first signs of spring but no sign of civil unrest. It was true that 14 year olds were getting tear-gassed only a few neighborhoods away in Place de la Republique, but overall Paris was very peaceful.

Parisians say “putain merde”(roughly translated as dirty whore) about everything: the traffic in roundabouts, the weather, metro delays, etc. At this moment, the season’s weather was proving to be a dirty whore. I was forced into cafes about every 10 minutes to avoid the rain as my money slowly eked away. Still, being poor is not a hindrance to travel in Paris – au contraire, it is a necessity to experience a side of the city that has a history of taking in starving artists and turning them into cultural icons.

Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell were dirt poor and living in Paris in the 1920s and ‘30s, their experiences inspiring great works such as a Moveable Feast and Down and Out in Paris and London. Hemingway lived in a shoddy apartment with no running water, and when Orwell wasn’t running from landlords he slept along the Seine or in homeless shelters.

I opted to stay at Shakespeare and Company, a bookstore across from Notre Dame where Hemingway famously borrowed books when he was a struggling writer. Poor, traveling writers can often stay upstairs for free in exchange for working at the store.

I slept on a foam mattress with sheets that probably hadn’t been changed since before the war. There were no shower facilities. A black attack cat lurking among the books simultaneously enjoyed cuddling and biting.

The other bookstore residents were young, eccentric vagabonds. One was a lesbian writer from Sweden, writing her first novel. We would wander around smoking rolled cigarettes while in search of the cheapest and best form of food, a falafel. Occasionally we would go to Les Artistas, a nearby lounge that played reggae. We would splurge on fresh mango juice and soak in the scene.

I was writing a screenplay about occupied France during WWII. I had created a romantic image of myself — here I was, a starving ex-pat writer in Paris, just like how the literary greats started out. This fantasy was quickly shattered by the fact that my head was starting to itch from not showering for five days.

The trip was winding down. My money was down to €4, just enough for one last round of coffees at the bar. The city warmly accepted me into its arms and I was happy to be there. I had eaten a raw steak and got over-charged in a taxi. I witnessed from a safe distance a historical youth protest, something I may (sadly) never see in America in my lifetime. It had been my pilgrimage to a city that reserves the right to the most obvious of clichés. Rich or poor, the city will welcome you with open arms, if you let it.