Gut instinct

Kim Brass 3If you’re currently in Paris in this hazy last gasp of July, I’d bet the last slice of Raclette that you’re relaxing languidly in a rattan chair on a terrace somewhere, watching the people go by (and for the uninitiated, at this time of year, they’re not actually Parisians – they’ve all buggered off down south for the holidays, which is probably why you got a chair on the terrace in the first place). If you’re not currently semi-horizontal in France’s capital lazing with a glass in your hand, then I’d raise you my dessert that that’s where you’d actually rather be.

Kim Brass 6And mon dieu haven’t you got a job on your hands trying to decide which particular one to spend your hard-earned euros in? In rattan chair terms, Paris has provided wannabe loungers with an embarrassment of riches (a termed coined by a Frenchman don’t you know), and as many an inhabitant and visitor knows, trying to pin-down the specific markers of establishment quality is as difficult as avoiding a sun-splashed terrace in the first place. Hell, they can’t even seem to decide amongst themselves what names to go under, meaning the capital’s many awnings are stamped with the seemingly interchangeable terms restaurant, café, brasserie and bistro(t). 

Assuming each establishment offers relatively the same thing is as foolhardy as assuming that you’d experience the same level of warm welcome in Paris as you would in Provence (erm, nope). There’s a fine art to this thing, and you’re lucky things that I’m here to give you a hand in negotiating it all.

A restaurant is much the same as you’d expect from most countries in the rest of the world; the most formal of the bunch, with menus depending on the food type and chosen price range of the place. If you’re sucking up to/trying to score with/grovelling your heart out to someone, a restaurant is where you’d head to. If you know what’s good for you.

Kim Brass 4Don’t confuse a café with the greasy spoon type you get in the UK. Easily identified most of the time as there’s often a tabac (peddler of cigs and lottery tickets) attached, here is where you stop for a quick coke-and-toilet stop or a swift espresso before work (and FYI order just a ‘coffee’ and that’s what you’ll get as standard). Beware – prices are cheaper standing at the bar and take a leap higher if you choose to sit (often higher still if that’s on the terrace), and if you’re after more solid refreshment, the most you can hope for is a menu of lighter meals and snacks like omelettes and croque monsieurs.

Kim Brass 2A classic French brasserie used to be a place that brewed its own beer on site, but is now known for its professional service, printed menus, tablecloths and waiters in penguin-esque outfits. Here you’ll find a static menu of classics like steak tartare, confit de canard and andouillette (only for the brave, you have been warned). They tend to serve food all day, and here’s one thing that will BLOW YOUR MIND – some of them are called Le Such-and-Such Café so you’ll have to make sure you pay attention. Stand at the bar waiting for an espresso like a lemon in a brasserie, and you’ll be waiting a very. LONG. TIME. And just to confuse you, there’s a fledging beer scene in France which means that you might also stumble on a micro-brasserie, which doesn’t mean short waiters and tiny portions, but a (hopefully) great selection of Paris-brewed craft beer.

Kim Brass 5Finally, if you still haven’t found what you’re looking for, then try a bistro(t), a smaller type of restaurant, often with just one owner or family in charge that specialises in moderately-priced French home cooking like traditional cassoulet or blanquette de veau. Bistros were originally thought to originate from basement kitchens in Parisian apartment blocks, but these days they serve to be some of the quaintest eateries in the city. And if you’re still furrowing your brow in dissatisfaction, then the only places left to go are salons du thé for tea, coffee and cake, or bars for hardcore liquor to toast the highs and the lows of your holiday/afternoon/life.

And if you’re still not content after all of that, then I, nor Paris, can help you…

The green green grass of home

Kim MontS 3Normally, I’m the sort of gal that doesn’t need an invitation to have a lollop around in a large green space, being a country girl at heart, with fine English sap running through my veins. But a friend with small human in need of celebrating his three whole years on this earth steered me last weekend to a patch which hadn’t previously seen a great deal of lolloping on my part, and picnic blanket and thermos of wine in hand, I headed south on RER B to the resplendent Parc Montsouris.

Literally translating as a very unappealing and frankly incorrect ‘mouse mountain’ thanks to years of linguistic tinkering with its original moniker of ‘Moulin de Moque-Souris’ (meaning the equally perplexing ‘mouse-mocking windmill’), this 15.5 hectare park is nestled in the 14th arrondissement and forms part of the quartet of vast green urban spaces across the capital created by the power duo of Napoleon III and Baron Haussmann (capable of creating much smaller bits of green too), eventually completed in 1878.

Kim MontS2Much smaller than the bookend woods Boulogne and Vincennes, it echoes the hilly contours of sister park Buttes-Chaumont in the 19th, though unlike the others was designed specifically in the English landscape garden style. So far, so elegant and refined. It’s construction story though was a million miles away from its classic, cultivated exterior, being built on the site of a former quarry and a network of abandoned tunnels and mines which came to reveal a gruesome cache of some of the six million Parisians that were buried under the city in the 18th century. Around 800 skeletons were removed to their final resting place in famous catacombs of Paris.

Kim MontS 5Thankfully no hints of its macabre past remain today and you’ll find an undulating park perfect for picnics and frisbee or a good old-fashioned stroll. There’s also a duck pond towards the middle and a café and kiosk for something cold and refreshing should you be stupid enough to forget your thermos of chilled white wine. Kiddles will get all squeaky and excited when they spy the ponies offering rides round the winding paths, and joggers decided long ago that this is in the top five training spots that the capital can muster.

Kim MontS 4As for us, we took advantage of the wide open spaces and spread our picnic blankets under the shade of a giant tree, surrounded by fellow alfresco diners, snoozing citizens and lounging couples. We might not have seen any mice, but the bubbles (of the soapy-water-blow-into-the-air kind) and birthday cake(s) were far more interesting than any mouse-mocking that could have taken place. As English experiences in Paris go, all that was missing was a delicious cup of afternoon tea.

Reach Park Montsouris by taking RER B or tram 3a to stop Cité Universitaire.

Wall and Peace

Kim Rosa 1The Paris attacks. Widespread global terrorism and violence. Brexit. Has the world always been this conflicted and divided? Logged into my computer with constant tales of doom and gloom popping up via every available electronic avenue means a black cloud of political despair soon settled under the ceiling of the Granny Flat. Hitting the laptop’s off button and heading out for a head-clearing walk was the only solution.

This time my feet took me directly east, swapping the mildly gritty confines of my neighbourhood for the meanest streets of intra muros Paris in its poorest arrondissement, the 19th. Hardly the place to search out the soul-soothing beauty and goodness in the world you might think, but then Paris is a mistress that always surprises, and on this overcast Friday, she pulled out a colourful display from her sleeve in a place you’d hardly expect to find it.

Kim Rosa 2High above the tangle of train lines passing under Rue Riquet and round the corner along Rue d’Aubervilliers runs a 500m long artwork inspired by the famous American civil rights activist Rosa Parks, whose refusal to give up her bus seat in the coloured section to a white passenger in 1955 made her a key figure in the fight against racial segregation. It was created at the end of last year to honour her legacy in line with the opening of a brand new train station named in her honour, serving RER E and relatively new tram line T3b.

Kim Rosa 3One of the most compelling examples of street art to be found in the capital, it is the work of 5 street artists (4 of them women): Kashink (Paris), Katjastroph (Nantes), Bastardilla (Bogota), Tatyana Fazlalizadeh (New York) and Zepha (Toulouse). Using a range of techniques and styles, their collective work is centred around ideas of togetherness, equality and unity with a strong anti-discriminatory message.

Kim Rosa 4In such times of scarily prevalent social turmoil, walking along and absorbing all of the positive sentiments were just what my politics-weary brain needed to reset itself. At a time when the world really does appear to be falling apart, it was magnificent to be reminded that there are always those admirable voices fighting for peace and justice, however difficult the climate might be. I toddled home to a restorative cup of tea with a renewed buoyant feeling that maybe armageddon was a little bit further away than the constant media gloom would have me believe. I might not be able to change the world as Rosa Parks did, but a little positivity sure does go a long way.

Click here for more information. Guided tours of the artwork available.

Back to the good old days

IMG_3253What a time to be nestled in the heart of Europe, eh? What with unceasing showers, Euro tournament troubles, terrorist threats and the potential break-up of the EU looming on the horizon, it’s a time for the nerves to be well and truly jangled. Contemplating the present and future state of Europe is enough to give me grey hairs, particularly in light of the referendum vote which who knows, might result in me being turfed out of my French home. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but for sure, looking around and ahead at this present moment is only a job for the very brave.

Lucky for me, my head was turned firmly towards France’s distant past the other day as I was out and about in the Marais meeting an old friend for a coffee. Walking around in the (currently annoyingly rare) blissful sunshine, we passed by an old architectural friend, one of the stops I used to make in my days as a bike tour guide. If the glory days of the past were what I was searching for, then I found some of the oldest kind the city could muster, one of a small handful of the city’s medieval relics.

IMG_3250Compared to the sleek, uniform lines of Baron Haussmann’s building style that typifies the capital, nestled in and around the centre are a small handful of Parisian buildings that make the Baron’s work seem positively space-age. With their wonky forms and beamed façades, they point back to a version of Paris way before revolutions shaped the city, hundreds of years before nearly all of today’s must-see sights appeared, presumably a time long before rulers and spirit levels were invented.

IMG_3248The majestic double-fronted specimens I encountered are to be found at 11 & 13 Rue François Morin, with a handy plaque explaining their littered and lengthy history. Not quite the oldest Paris can muster (you’ll find the oldest at 51 Rue Montmorency, Nicolas Flamel’s old gaff, or a similar medieval example at 3 Rue Volta), but clearly stuff of legend no less, the buildings’ construction date is that far back, sources can’t quite agree on when exactly they sprung up. Most estimates point to the beginning of the 16th century, though many repairs have been made since then. If I ever make it to 500 years, I’ll expect to have the same.

IMG_3252It’s difficult to imagine a Paris before Haussmann got his hands on it and created the long, wide boulevards we all know and love, but this was a city going through a renaissance, aesthetically more in line with Tudor London than the modern city style we’ve come to be so familiar with. Forget the Louis’ contributions, this is a slice of Paris before the wheels well and truly fell off. If you’re expecting to be welcomed through the door into a medieval museum bringing its origins to life though, then you might just be a little disappointed. The famed Parisian sense of passion is older than the building still, and quite fittingly, now houses an ‘adult’ nightclub, for those brave enough to indulge. If only walls could talk, eh?

Enough with the stuff already!

Kim Grenier 6Stuff, eh? We might all assume that our daily lives are ruled by crooked politicians and the chaffing chains of bureaucracy, but we’d all be wrong. What actually seems to have the stranglehold over most of our lives these days is stuff. Yep, all of those things that we dedicate our lives to getting and having, before the buzz wears off and the getting and having reveal themselves as soul-sucking monsters with infinite appetites. That cycle of emotions that comes with every possession we encounter which takes us fleetingly through joy, quickly into indifference, finally sinking into guilt as our consumer desires eventually begin to drown us in clutter. Forget bent governments, that Ikea catalogue is really the boss of you.

Kim Grenier 5In Paris, many of us manage to escape this ‘power of things’ given that we live in matchboxes (we can only dream of living in shoeboxes), forcing us to adopt a one-in-one-out policy when it comes to possessions. That joyous feeling of having a shiny brand-new thing quickly turns into frustration when you get it home and realise you have absolutely nowhere to put it, besides out the window. But as the generous provider of things, Dame Paris makes sure that we can both inhale and exhale goods as we need them in order to maintain our domestic equilibrium, and at the very same time instil within us the waste-not want-not community spirit that is so very virtuous, but somehow so typically un-Parisian. Behold, the Vide Grenier.

Kim Grenier 1Something also very un-Parisian is the concept of the car boot, a vehicular feature rendered utterly useless thanks to Parisian parking rules dictating that cars need to be caressing each others’ rear ends like excited terriers to be considered properly parked. Forget trying to sell your old vinyl collection from the back of your car, even if you had room, you wouldn’t be able to open the damn thing. Thankfully Parisians have decided not to deny themselves access to the bric-a-brac spirit and every so often spill on to the pavements of the city’s quartiers to either peddle or browse the contents of theirs, and others’ homes (sorry, ‘matchboxes’) in an officially organised event known as a Vide Grenier, or literally ’emptying of the attic’.

Kim Grenier 4

They’re not the most obviously advertised or frequently held events, but they do happen all around the city, and generally only a couple of streets-worth of vendors means you won’t have to pick up a second pair of shoes on your way round. All manner of second-hand delights await, from shoes and clothes, old records, knick-knacks and furniture, to even the odd teapot or two. To find out if one’s happening in your neighbourhood (permanent or temporary), check out the local council’s website or keep your eyes peeled for posters on telegraph poles or in shop windows nearby.

You have the revered flea markets to peruse of course, if bargain hunting is really your thing, but everyone knows the price hikes in the name of the ‘vintage’ tag that really go on. Besides, from the inside of an authentic Parisian apartment into your hand in exchange for a couple of paltry euros? And right on your doorstep? Ikea may have hotdogs, but it’s fighting a losing battle.

And Sceaux it is…

Kim Sceaux 5Despite a healthy sprinkling of rain at all-too regular intervals, I’m having a ball in Paris this May. I’ve just turned freelance, meaning me and Granny Flat are bonding to the max, I can drink as much tea as I goddamn like (though intake is becoming quite extreme) and taking a break from keyboard tapping means working out the muscles making a loaf of bread. Bliss.

Even the rain is a welcome friend, allowing me to turn my attention to the computer screen without that nagging feeling that I’m missing out on the glorious sunshine outside (life goal #35: live somewhere with a balcony). But all work and no play means I get a bit antsy and as any efficient freelancer knows, outdoor excursions are a must if one is to stay relatively sane (we are writers after all with sanity always at arm’s length). A walk around my ‘hood high up in the 18th demands far too much effort negotiating the dog-mess slalom on the streets, and besides, it’s just not green or breezy enough around these parts to adequately recharge the creative juices.

Kim Sceaux 2Paris can offer some gorgeous pockets of green, even on the smallest scale. But variety is the spice of life don’t you know, and I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t search out some new places for both me and you to galavant about in. And so, with a couple of friends and their giant dog Brian in tow (always in need of a scamper), we headed out on the RER B to have a refreshing stroll in Parc de Sceaux.

Kim Sceaux 3Not a park in your traditional sense, this sprawling patch of green lies south of Paris, just before Antony (of Orly airport fame), wrapping itself around the sides of the château which gives it its name. If you’re taking the train, RER B direct from Paris is quick enough, and you can get off at either Sceaux, Parc de Sceaux or La Croix de Berny, depending which part of the grounds you fancy attacking first.

Kim Sceaux 4Directly in front of the château (a rebuild dating from 1856-62) lies a classic French landscape masterpiece, the formal tableau of manicured lawns and a network of straight avenues typical of famous garden tamer, André Le Nôtre. Not just any old green-fingered enthusiast in possession of a hoe, he was the man responsible for most of Paris’ most beautiful gardens, including those at Versailles, Fontainebleau, Vaux-le-Vicomte, Chantilly and Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Let’s hope he had one of those ride-on lawnmower things, or at least a good pair of scissors.

Kim Sceaux 1If you like your nature a little less polished, then the park can offer you all number of green environments. You can wander down tree-lined avenues to your hearts’ content in the dappled leaf shade, spotting as you go the number of statues and traditional pavilions that will greet you along the way. There are also handy enclaves off the beaten path for keen picnickers in search of a quiet alfresco dining spot, and even Brian and his canine peers are catered for with designated dog areas where they can run about and sniff each other, lead-free.

Those sans chien, or without the get-up-and-go to put in the hard kilometres can take advantage of the on-site café to monitor collective walking techniques over a leisurely glass of something chilled. Me, I’ll be doing all of the above, as well as spinning arms wide Sound of Music style, revelling in my new-found creative freedom. Do come and say hello…

For more info, click here.

May the force be with you

It should have become apparent by now dear readers, that I’m a person fascinated by paradox. And as luck would have it, I happen to live in a city that keeps on throwing them out for me like bread to a begging duck. Of all of the paradoxes Paris can offer, this Sunday 1st May sees the one of the largest of all when two festivals collide on the same day, fusing beauty and fury, friendship and dissatisfaction. Crikey, what a cocktail.

Kim Mai1 2aAs is the case in many countries throughout the world, the first day of the month of May is officially known over here as la Fête de Travail or Labour Day. Originating in the US, the day became a commemoration of the Haymarket affair in Chicago in 1886, in which four demonstrators were killed when striking workers clashed with police, but encompasses a wider celebration of labourers, the working classes and international workers rights.

So the obvious way to pay respects to the universal working spirit would be, well, to work your behind off earnestly and conscientiously for at least one day of our lives. But to save us all pulling too many muscles, most countries designate May 1st as a public holiday meaning we all get to put our feet up instead. Sadly for the French this year it falls on a Sunday without the offer of a Monday off work in lieu.

Rather than letting the day pass in a relaxing haze, the French use this day to do what they do best – no, not indulging in a four-hour lunch, much more energetic than that, they like to protest. Whatever you’ve got a bee in your bonnet about it doesn’t matter; on this day you have the right to shout loud and proud ‘down with that sort of thing’ about whatever subject you choose. ‘Spot the protest’ can be a wonderful game as you watch the yelling crowds weave through the streets, trying to guess exactly what it is they’re complaining about. Many a time I’ve been completely stumped.

Kim Mai1 1If organised objection isn’t your thing, then happily on the other side of the paradoxical May 1st coin, things are far quieter, prettier, and friendlier. The day also goes by the name la Fête du Muguet after the tiny white lily-of-the-valley that is traditionally given to close friends and family as a sign of love and affection. King Charles IX was the first to do so in 1561 and the tradition has lasted throughout the years, apparently most popular in the Île-de-France region around Paris.

Just one more paradox to leave you with, and undoubtedly the most confusing. May is widely considered the spring-iest of months and so as the calendar leaves April behind and runs forward to meet it, the day marks a celebration of the return of good weather. A lovely thought for sure, but this year this beautiful weather sentiment falls in the same week when Paris saw mid-spring snow. Brow-furrowing, head-shaking stuff. Let’s hope the new month gives us a bit of a climatic break or I might just be forced to rustle up a placard real quick and get out there to protest against those pesky weather Gods…

Petal, I’m back!

Kim flower 4Hello? It’s me! No, I haven’t entirely disappeared off the face of the earth and left Paris with my tail between my legs; I’m very much here and still plugging away at uncovering the city’s secrets. Apologies for the lengthy pause; the Motherland got hold of me and wouldn’t let me go and when you’re happily stuck in rural England without the technology to get the blog updated (doh!), there’s nothing for it but to dig your Mum a veg patch. So that’s what I did.

Happily in my absence Paris has had her gardening gloves on too, and she’s positively blooming in colour as the spring sunshine blankets the streets. Seeing beautiful flowers at every turn made me pine for a visit to one of my favourite places in the very centre of the city, where nature’s own art reigns as king – the Marché aux Fleurs on the Ile de la Cité.

Kim flower 1Well I say ‘king’, but if we’re being proper, the full name is Marché aux Fleurs Reine Elizabeth II, as in June 2014 on a visit to commerate the 70th anniversary of D-day, our Queen Liz’s name was added to the full title as a gift from the French state. Since our dear monarch turns 90 this month, it seemed more than appropriate to pay her plaque a visit (and try and find some parsley for the windowsill too).

Kim flower 2Long though her reign may be, the market has been around much longer, having existed in some form or another since at least 1808. Its distinctive green pavilions were an addition in the early 20th century meaning that rain shouldn’t ruin the hunt for the perfect pot plant. Wander through the leaf-filled aisles spilling out into the open air, and you’ll forget you’re slap-bang in the middle of Paris, nestled in the heart of its biggest central island. Whereas plants grow from seed into magnificent blooms, even the grandest of cities has to start from a tiny geographical grain, and it was right here way back in 52 BC that the first settlers were believed to have set up camp.

Kim flower 6Whatever your horticultural needs, you’ll find them answered with a huge array of pot plants, flowers (though less of the cut kind), herbs, trees and shrubs, with even tiny cactuses for the less green-fingered. Head over the threshold of the individual shops and your present-finding stresses will be calmed with a not-tourist-tacky range of ornaments, knick knacks and plant-themed merchandise that serve nicely as gifts for those gardeners in your life.

Kim flower 5Head over on a Sunday and the feathered ferns turn into real-life plumes when the bird market pecks the plants into submission. Not quite as exotic as it sounds, it’s more of a magnet for strange small-time bird traders to make a bob or two on a couple of off-loaded zebra finches, but worth a look if you’re in the vicinity nonetheless. Because who knows, maybe a sorry looking budgie is the perfect birthday gift for the Queen who has everything?

End of germ celebration…

They found me, they finally found me. Germs that is. After a relatively illness-free winter, sinusitis showed up as March greeted the calendar to set up camp for two weeks, and the creative muse ran away screaming.  So my apologies for the late post, but I’m sure you can appreciate how little fun I’ve been having during my absence. But thankfully now the clouds of germs are clearing, and I’ll be ready to slip back into my adventure shoes next week to bring you a spangly new post next friday. But in the meantime, here is my ode to those white coated-folk who have supplied me with the medical weapons that I so desperately needed (first published a couple of years ago). French pharmacists, we salute you.

It’s all in the details… Pharmacy signs

IMG_1568The massive erection that dominates Paris (the Eiffel Tower… what were you thinking?), the uncomprehensibly large sprawl of the Louvre, the glittering mass of the Grand Palais… Paris may not be famed for its skyline, but there’s plenty of architectural heavyweights jostling for space nevertheless.

But as impressive as the big daddies of the cityscape are, I prefer furrowing around the city looking at all the small stuff that everyone else misses. The real nuts and bolts of a city, those tiny details that aren’t deemed attractive or exciting enough to celebrate. You can take your sparkling Eiffel Tower rudely cutting into the night sky; if we’re talking about a real light show you need to look no further than the guy that illuminates the city via a sophisticated network of blinking green lights dotted around every corner.

The pharmacy sign guy. That awesome guy. Forget Gustave Eiffel. Let me tell you his story.

One hazy day 50 years ago, the pharmacists of Paris were lounging round in their tablet shaped house, (let’s say they were in the red end, the white end is of course the sleeping quarters), sipping cups of coffee, and moaning collectively about how trade was flagging. One bright spark piped up and pointed the finger at the choice of signage; the old crayon-drawn ‘farmacee’ sign was starting to look a bit tatty. They scribbled down a few ideas for a new sign but to no avail, being pseudo-scientists of course, and therefore incapable of anything remotely artistic.

“We are useless (excluding our talents for making love, cooking and counting tablets and putting them into boxes, and pretty much everything else except sign making)” said one to the rest. “Oui,” said another, followed by a further handful of ‘oui’s’ from the others that put the little pig and his journey home quite to shame. So they all went off secretly to have clandestine affairs and reconvened a couple of hours later and decided that they’d employ a person to do it for them and would pay him a handsome wage. In asprin.

They went on to http://www.pharmacysignwriters.net and found Pierre, a failed artist who needed a challenge, and lots of asprin. “We plan to take over the country one pharmacy at a time so help us God so we need you to come up with a sign that not only says ‘Pharmacy’ but also hypnotises potential customers into entering our doors and buying lots of medication that they don’t need,” the pharmacists said. “D’accord” Pierre said, between cigarettes. “I will make you a sign that is the most beautiful sign you have ever seen, vive la France.” So they built him a little workshop in the syringe shaped garden, and he set to work.

Being a typical artist, Pierre decided to ignore the first objective of the brief, but by God, went crazy with the second. After a couple of days, the pharmacists put down their boxes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle band-aids that they’d been throwing at each other and went to the garden to visit Pierre in his shed to check on progress. Just beyond the prescription pad-embossed patio doors, Pierre had installed his young apprentice cousin, Yves, to distribute darkened goggles to the passing pharmacists.

As they neared the shed, nestled deep down in the needle part of the lawn, a strange green light licked their white lab coats from bottom to top, as Pierre threw open the doors. An earnestly flashing, giant green cross greeted their eyes, and provoked such excitement among the crowd that Yves had to be dispatched back to the tablet house to fetch a few rounds of ibuprofen. Hypnotised by the sheer power of his creation, within a week every pharmacy in France was adorned with a blinking green appendage, attracting saucer-eyed customers to each premises like rust to a dirty, old bicycle.

The pharmacists enjoyed the fruits of their successful scheme for many years, adding gold fringing and sequinned lapels to their lab coats, making sure Pierre had enough boxes of asprin to build a small fort. The artist has tried to recreate the original success by adding spinning characters, rolling text streams and weather data to selected signs in Paris (probably the aspirin rather than raw talent), but nothing beats that hallowed original. It almost makes you wish for a headache, just to be lured in by that emerald green light…

The art of the matter

IMG_3084Guys, breathe a sigh of relief. We’ve pretty much done it. You can raise your head from out of the beige blanket that was winter, and start to look towards the shining spring light of March, just a whisker of days away. Now although this winter was a great deal kinder than most, it still doesn’t stop me from finding myself desperately needing a showering of colour in the dying embers of a dingy February. Thank God it’s the year’s shortest month.

IMG_3079Paris hasn’t been nice enough to supply me with a giant ball pit in which to flap amidst the colours, so I’ve had to search out my own place of rainbows. And readers, thanks to my inexhaustible adventure feet, I’ve uncovered an absolute gem, buried in the heart of the vibrant 20th arrondissement.

Most visitors to Belleville make a beeline for the mountains of steaming Chinese dumplings, weird and wonderful Asian traiteurs or eclectic cafés. But let yourself wander slightly further up the hill from the bustling hub at the Belleville metro (lines 2 and 4) and your wanderlust will be richly and creatively rewarded by the tiny paved Rue Dénoyez.

IMG_3082Beautifully contrasted to the traditionally muted Haussmannian avenues in more well known parts of the city, here your eyes will be delighted by some of the best street art Paris can muster in an ever-changing palette of colours and design. Forget the crazy tangled eyesore (IMO) that is the Pompidou centre, this is modern art at its graffittied best.

Historically the local artists have been afforded free reign to colour the street happy as they so desired, though last year the party-pooping Mairie put the brakes on the creativity and took away their right to artistic freedom in favour of building a new crèche and social housing. A passionate attempt to save the colourful status quo unfortunately couldn’t defeat the rigid administrative powers that make the rules.

IMG_1980Just as the vibrant colours of the spring flowers must eventually fade, so it seems that sadly, so must the bright tones of Bellville’s modern art. Of course there’s plenty around the city still to spy, including hundreds of offerings from Paris’ most famous street artist Invader, but it’s still a crying shame to see one of the most vibrant streets around white-washed in a predictable wave of French bureaucracy. Make sure you steer yourselves in that direction before the creative delights disappear forever.