Robert D's Paris

And so, which just so you know has become my favourite saying, as it has of others, and which I believe could even be attributed to the broad and continuing appeal of Kurt Vonnegut for its pause-making similarities, I find myself in Paris.
I arrived by boat and train, less than three days ago, after the usual mishaps which have dogged me ever since I stepped outside my provincial town.
What befell me this time around? I shall tell you, in a succinct manner for this is not the objective of this narration.
First, the berth assigned to me on the boat was not sound for I was plagued by a trickle of water which the boat's engineer tried to tell me in heavily accented English was 'no-fing to vorri yours 'ead 'bout' and that it came from inside not out. This, however, did little to alleviate my worries, and, in fact, only increased them. Then, after this worrisome but largely uneventful voyage, I was not met by my friend's friend whom had offered a guided tour and one night's bed and board, admittedly to my friend whose place I filled, but still, I had expected him to show, and so, when he didn't, I had to board a shuttle to the harbour-town, and there, track down reasonable accommodation, where I passed a fitful night: two tom-cats yowled, I presume, at each other or the full moon that split my room into zebra-like stripes.
The next day, however, passed off as planned: the train to Paris came on time, and so, here I am. In this Picture Post world.
In a piece of the globe I've primarily viewed through the lens of other, less risk-averse people, who are now, for the most part, decreased, though their art has by no means neared its last breath. Their classic black and white images of Paris existed when I wasn't even a blob of cells, and then, when I was more material than blob, I came to them a quarter of a century late. I actually wailed when I realised these pictures and I had existed side by side for twenty-five years and that fate had not intervened sooner. Now, a further quarter and seventeen years on, is that Paris still there?
That, is what I've been hoping, rather naively, since I arrived in this great city to discover. I'm almost scared at what I might find, for I don't want my Paris bubble to burst, nor for the back-catalogue of images I retain to be ripped to shreds, and yet it would be a waste of my friend's money if I stay holed up in this hotel for another day, trying out my dismal O-level French on the staff who answer me with an insufferably quick tongue. I have no idea what they're saying and can only reply with the following: Non, Oui, C'est combien?, Merci; or if I'm really struggling with whatever lamentation they're telling me, their mouth a stream of foreign words, a sympathetic or indignant C'est la vie! All, however, seem to suffice and they either grin broadly at me or go away with their frowns smoothed.
But today, after what has become my habitual croissant with apricot jam, I steeled myself to leave my current abode armed with a map and a compass, because, as you might have guessed, I'm..., well, I don't easily throw caution to the wind, not even if the direction it's blowing in is favourable, unless I'm pushed by a pig-headed friend or some 'strike while the iron's hot' force. In this case, it was the latter, and quite frankly, after staring at walls, as well as wooden doors and patterned floors, I was bored. The slow elevator was even failing to excite me.
Paris called! And I was determined to trace, at a walking pace, Robert D's pictorial twentieth century representation. The D stands for Doisneau, but my pronunciation is poor and, has at times, been a laughing matter, and so, to save my blushes and stammers I shortened it. Robert D. makes him sound like a friend, a very good friend, and he has been to me, unwittingly, but still. And so, of course, the first place I headed to was the big open space of the Champ de Mars, where the world's first hydrogen-filled balloon was launched by Jacques Charles and the Robert Brothers. A little fact I gleaned in my teens from a history doc, that would in time lead to Robert D. and this famous backdrop, which is where I now stand watching a very French-looking man take the air with a leashed white rabbit.

Picture credit: Champ de Mars, Paris, 1943, Robert Doisneau

The Representatives

After my discharge from a foreign hospital, I was directed to the nearest bus stop, in my slightly crumpled suit leaning on my wooden walking stick, carrying my battered holdall and umbrella, where the Head Nurse had said I could resume my journey on an intercity bus. What she neglected to tell me was whom I might come across, but then, perhaps my myopic eyes were still growing used to such spectacles of humanity.
I come from a very provincial town, where people don't move around – out or in – so that the families that are there date back centuries, which as you might imagine, limited my experience of humankind, and which is how, in some ways, I came to be here: at this bus stop.
Actually, I tell a lie, as that's more of the why and not the how. How is an entirely different and lengthier story, one which involves an illness and an inheritance, both unrelated to me, then a cancelled flight and a twelve hour delay, which is to say I missed all the pre-booked arrangements that the person whose place I'm in had originally and carefully made.
Why it fell to me, in the autumn of my life, is yet another, though far shorter, tale: it was proposition put by him to me. All expenses paid, on the proviso I would send him postcards; he's a collector.
Who is this he and what is he to me? An old, old friend, much older than me for if I'm in autumn, then he's in winter. Both of us are old-timers at any rate, but up until recent problems with his ticker he had far more energy and zest. He put me, quite rightly, to shame, and so, actually, I'm rather a poor stand-in for this planned adventure. Yet, here I am: having unscheduled ventures into the unknown.
Which is all well and good for an courageous type but not for someone who'd rather dream and sit at home; the fact that I agreed is a human kindness and a miracle. Like a prospector, he struck gold on that particular day. And I don't default on promises made, never, especially not when, as with this friend, it was his dearest wish to see me go. He even advised me on what and what not to pack, though I drew the line at him accompanying me in the taxi to the airport, which was certainly fortuitous considering the mind-numbing hours I spent at Heathrow.
Nothing has been as I expected or imagined, which I think of as two very different things, although you, I know, may not agree; nor has it been restful, so far, not even with the five-star hotels and minor hospital stay. The former, which my friend had scrupulously researched, I felt out of place in, and the latter, well, it all happened so quickly. And anyhow, just as I begin to adjust, it's time to leave. To move onto the next stop, though I am now a few days behind, which is why to make up this time I'm about to step aboard a rickety bus that's just turned up in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes.
One observation I have made, which waiting for this bus again confirmed, is that queues are universal, though the etiquette in joining one or being part of one may vary. This one, it was clear to me immediately, was like those in England, by order of arrival, and so I took the last spot on the end of the bench, nearest the phone booth and furthest from the timetable, placing my holdall and umbrella securely between my planted feet until such a moment when I needed to rise. All buses, I had been told, that went from this stop were intercity, and so I let my anxieties disperse in the sun for a while.
Until, as I previously said, the bus turned up in a plume of dust, and then gave a long, low sigh as it opened its door to admit us, where, inside, to my surprise, each class of society, as I've never in my life seen together, was represented: a female student, a businessman, a small boy, a mother, a manual worker with his tools, and a housewife with a shopping basket in which nested a live chicken; these, I found myself riding alongside, lost, as ever, in thought yet with still-seeing eyes.
My passage of time as distorted as the weaving of this bus, as if the universe is split in two: one where time runs according to clocks and calendars, and one where time overlaps and bounces me forward and back at random.

Picture credit: The Bus, 1929, Frida Kahlo

The State Raffle

The heavy arched door opened and they all began filing in: the old, the young, shuffling tiredly and bowed with their sticks or wheeling infants in pushchairs, all of whom had waited patiently like their poorer or war-worn ancestors might have done queuing for meat rations or bread.
I've never before witnessed such a scene, (and I never hope to again), for it was a depressing sight. One that lingers in your consciousness long after it has passed; even after I knew what they had huddled in the bitter cold for and that it wasn't what I'd imagined.
It wasn't as I thought a matter of survival, although perhaps it was to them. Perhaps it meant more than I realised now or then.
The crowd weren't, as I would have expected if my hunch had been right, exhibiting any signs of being saved, only relief that the wait was over. There was no excited chatter as birds might give when they're disturbed from their roost, just a silent adjustment of hats, scarves and coats which they each did with a deadpan expression, their faces grey and drawn.
A going-through of motions, grown hardened to, not that it helped to keep out the cold or lessen, what I took to be, a humbling act, performed automatically which left me in no doubt that this gathering happened regularly: people representing all socio-economic groups camped outside the same place, the same stone government building, at the same time, around midday until half-past two when the huge cave-like door creaks open and admits them, shuffling snakelike, in.
Although I can't confirm if it was always the same day, a Wednesday, or in what frequency it occurred, it was clear from the scene before me that it was, if not looked forward to, waited for with numb expectation, almost like a last salvation which was by no means guaranteed for each and every one, so that even the air seemed stale, like it had been inhaled and exhaled too many times by these hopeless people.
The body of this snake writhed as if a large mammal had been swallowed, distorting itself into four distinct lines which shuffled forwards and up the entrance steps like a centipede or caterpillar of the Jurassic age. The only audible sounds sniffs and coughs, an odd cry or low groan, and the scrape of shoes, sticks and wheels on paved street.
Curious, I joined the tail. Here, some young men, late to these proceedings, were being more uproarious: jostling each other and kicking the ground, their heads mostly down and their hands entrenched in their trouser pockets. They weren't like the rest, up ahead, subdued. And I wondered why...were they new to whatever awfulness this was? Or being young, were they not disenfranchised enough to either meekly submit or rebel? These were my musings. I would have liked to engage with them, but not being young nor familiar with their particular type of shiftiness or the general pervading atmosphere, it seemed wiser to resist that urge.
Instead, I leant on my wooden walking stick, doing my best to be unobtrusive and yet keep up with the shifting crowd; a few latecomers had joined us, two more young men and an old woman in a headscarf, so the only real feature, I think, which stood out about me was the dull thump of my stick. The young never take much notice of an old person, although officials do and might; that was my sickening dread, yet I'd seen nobody, for any obvious reason, singled out. Actually, I'd seen nobody who'd entered leave. What were they doing in there? Was it some sort of meeting, one that had moved from outside to in, where items of importance were discussed? Was there another, unseen, exit?
Well, I had to black out didn't I?, then and there; it's a condition I'm prone to when my circulation plummets, and when I came round, properly round, I was on laundered sheets in a community hospital. There was a white-coated state official by my bedside, who I mistook for a doctor, who presented with me a cerise raffle ticket on behalf and with the compliments of the council. The first prize he informed me, with a winsome smile, a day in a state-provided chauffeured limousine.

Picture credit: The State Lottery Office, 1882, Vincent Van Gogh