There’s an annual interview junket that brings a handful of Antipodean film critics to Paris, to interview actors and directors about movies that will screen at the French Film Festival and in cinemas in the coming year (and, more often than not, end up on SBS, World Movies and/or SBS On Demand). It’s a pinch-yourself opportunity to get facetime with some of the biggest stars of French cinema, unwind and compare notes with colleagues in your precious free time, and tiptoe between irony and obnoxiousness on social media, with posts about your work week in Paris.
It was a typical night in Paris - until all of a sudden it wasn’t
Arriving early on Friday 13 November, the immediate plan was: settle into my apartment, have a Silkwood shower, then walk off the physical memory of being cooped up for the 24-hour flight, before planning where to go that night. I took the Metro to the Marais, hit-up a couple of my favourite thrift shops, and then walked the length of the Rue de Rivoli til I reached the cheesily fantastic Christmas Market of the Champs Elysees which was launching that day. As night fell I toyed staying out for a drink but my body made the decision for me, and I succumbed to exhaustion.
It was mild autumn weather and everywhere I went the streets were packed. Which is all to say, it was a typical night in Paris - until all of a sudden it wasn’t.
The first I knew of anything being wrong was a text from my husband asking whether I was okay. We spoke and the gravity of what was happening dawned on me. I tried unsuccessfully to work the set top box in my apartment and came back to missed calls, texts and Facebook messages from my best friends, my sister, my boss, and my Air BnB host. I was prompted by Facebook to issue a ‘safe’ alert, and settled in to a long and teary night under my doona, glued to France24’s live stream of the unfolding carnage. Kalashnikovs. Explosions. State of Emergency. Stay indoors.
On Saturday, Facebook’s eerie ‘On This Day’ feature declared it was 12 months to the day since I’d been here for last year’s press junket, and posted pics of the Eiffel Tower at sunrise. The ease of that pre-dawn Metro trip across Paris was out of the question for anyone on this day, on this year, of course, with no clear idea of when someone might enjoy the freedom to do such a thing again. I watched the rest of the world’s reactions. Friends plastered their Facebook profiles with the Tricolor, everyone shared a memory of their own relationship to the City of Light, others rightly pointed to the recent carnage in Beirut, the fact that there are places where people are vulnerable to becoming random victims at any time.
I checked in with a fellow journalist who had also arrived a few days ahead of the junket. Would it be cancelled? How must the filmmakers feel? Would they even want to participate? Is it a bad look to talk about French rom-coms at a time like this? What does a State of Emergency actually mean? Should we just go home?
Throughout the morning, we tenderly shared intel about our respective trips outside our apartments, to “take a look”, get supplies, and see how ordinary Parisians were absorbing the tragedy. The implication being, we’d take our cues from them about how to cope at this profoundly upsetting time.
Shops were open but there were less people around, she reported. “It’s such a strange feeling,” she said.
‘Maybe I should wear sneakers instead, just in case…?'
My turn. I ventured out and reported what I saw: The street hawkers by the Chateau Rouge metro station were still out in force, but there were fewer clients for their counterfeit handbags and dodgy phone cards. Those few who were outside made eye contact with me and we exchanged sympathetic nods and warm smiles. It was weird. People don’t do that in Paris.
It’s continued to be weird, sad, gloomy ever since. Restaurants are deserted, metro carriages half empty. I’ve surprised myself by casually contemplating, on zipping up my heeled boots, ‘Maybe I should wear sneakers instead, just in case…?‘ (and yes, I’ve changed shoes). I’ve been relieved to see the impromptu memorials pop up, and the news crews profile people saying ‘We’re not scared’. I ventured over to Place de la Republique at about 4pm yesterday to find crowds of people laying flowers, lighting candles, singing ‘Imagine’ and cuddling the ‘Free Hugs’ brigade. We’re not supposed to gather publically, of course, but the bulletproof vested, rifle-toting gendarmerie weren’t shunting people on. I reasoned to stay a few moments for quiet reflection and felt affinity with the simple defiance of the slogan, “I HEART PARIS. I HATE BASTARDS”, I spotted in amongst the mementos.
I lit a tea light that a nice lady had thrust into my hand, took some photos and felt a little better for being able to make an admittedly tiny gesture for the victims. But then, an hour later I found a wifi spot and learned that a false alarm, the gendarmerie had raised their weapons, and people had fled the scene in panic. Seems it is too soon for people to stop wearing sneakers, after all.
Three days of mourning have commenced, and an official moment of silence awaits - though in truth, the moment of silence started on Friday night, when ordinary life in Paris was changed so horrifically. I’ll leave the final word to our hosts who, answering their own questions of how to go on, and definitely sensing mine, have declared:
“Our country is deeply shocked. Nevertheless we have the conviction that our best answer is to maintain our culture alive.”
I heart Paris and I hate bastards, too. Vive la France.
