The White Nights of Paris: A Farewell

Location:
France, Paris

Paris, celebration, arts

By Toby Bielawski

The White Nights of Paris: A Farewell

On the last night in Paris, I’ve always heard, a kind of frenzy can strike. Everything you didn’t see or do is gnawing at your gut, and everything you did – every shop and church you entered, every painting you stared down, every croissant you ate and espresso you drank – is gnawing ten times harder at your heart. You don’t want to leave. You have only limited hours to experience your final piece of Paris, and it’s like parting from a lover: you’re tempted to stay up all night so as not to lose a moment together. But what to do? I’d been dreading the decision all morning, and I certainly didn’t expect things to be resolved as easily as they were, in a quick conversation during lunch.

“Well, tonight is your last night?” Jennifer asked us. She was the busy doctor-daughter of the relative we were staying with, and had clearly squeezed an hour into her schedule to see us, but playing tour guide was not her gig.

We nodded mournfully. “Yes, we’re leaving in the morning.”

“But it’s lucky for you that tonight is special,” she said in her fluent though accented English, using the “but” in that unexpected way that the French do. “Tonight is a big celebration called ‘Nuit Blanche,’ the white night. They have it one night every year.”

Special celebration? I perked up my ears. Was there some event in Parisian history being observed?

“No, no, but it’s just a celebration of lights,” Jennifer explained. “It is a new thing, only a few years old. They light up the boats, they light up Place de la Concorde….” She was already glancing at her watch. It didn’t matter; our plans were set.

Even though Nuit Blanche translates literally as “White Night,” it also carries the implied meaning of “Sleepless Night.” Paris inaugurated this night of cultural celebration in 2002, and it has been held every October since then, with shops and restaurants staying open all night, and contemporary art displays all over the city.

So we stepped out of our lodgings and began walking along the river, past the Eiffel Tower and on towards where we guessed the action might be. Boats tooled by, with lights that were directed outwards towards the riverbanks, temporarily blinding us as we strolled. With each bridge we passed, the energy was amplified even more, and we had that unmistakable sensation that we were approaching the heart of the scene.

Place de la Concorde was flooded with blue lights, and its obelisk stood like a light saber. For the first time, I saw the traffic forced to stop for pedestrians, as people continued to stream towards the plaza, disregarding the signals. I tried to get a photo, but the eeriness of the blue pinnacle was impossible to capture. Then we reached the plaza in front of Notre Dame, whose edifice was aglow. Before we knew what was happening, we got swept into the thick of the crowd, onto the bridge.

Most of the people packed around us were young, including the gentleman whose shoulder blade was being pressed into my face. Even in their raggedy party clothes, they all looked Parisian: the dark, thin denim hugging the hips of their thin bodies, the square-toed worn leather boots or flimsy, unfamiliar brands of sneakers, boat-necked sweatshirts with cut-off sleeves. As the crowd swayed back and forth, I heard a strange whooshing sound. We peered through a gap in the crowd, as the whooshing sound approached again. All I could see was a row of plastic water bottles lined up on the bridge. Then the crowd began to yell, and we caught a glimpse of a dreadlocked rollerblader racing towards us. His feet deftly slalomed through the water bottles at an unbelievable speed, and when he reached the end of the row, I just saw the wheels of his skates leaving the ground as he launched a jump that set the spectators roaring.

Finally we stood on the Left Bank, panting with relief at having survived the difficult crossing. And -- what do you know? – the draw of the skating competition had brought everyone onto the bridge, and left plenty of tables free in the big café directly across the Quai de Montebello, a popular joint we’d seen a few days before. We eased into seats near the window, watched the crowd on the bridge, and declared the whole experience a French urban Burning Man. We ordered espressos, and then a minute later we asked the waiter to change our order: Café Parisienne, with a blend of amaretto and scotch in it. After all, it was Nuit Blanche -- and besides, every traveler needs to toast the last night in Paris.

Further Information

Other helpful information: I happened upon this event by accident; I'd recommend checking online to make sure what night in October it will be held this year, or in future years.

Must see/do at this place: There are free brochures/maps available that guide you to the different exhibitions & performances.

You should avoid here: Nothing. Everything felt safe and friendly. A bit crowded in some places.