Up we go...
So Montreuil. I'm back, only this time it's for real. One thing's for sure: this is not Paris. Gone are the upscale clothing stores, the shitty falafel, the mimes (no, seriously, they're here) and the 24 euro lunches. Gone are the mobs of tourists and the rail-thin white people spilling out of cafes wearing t-shirts with angry slogans written in English ("Fuck you, beauty" ? Seriously?). Out here in the banlieu these things do not exist. Out here life is quieter, more subdued, more honest. Is it clear that by honest I mean dirty? But I don't mind the dirt: it tells the truth. Paris looks so unnervingly clean that you'd think the entire population had OCD or something, but it's actually because the city dumps huge sums of cash into keeping the streets presentable. Running through the streets at six in the morning reveals a different side of Paris, a side bookended on either side by giant mounds of beer bottles and spent falafel wrappers wafting in the morning breeze like autumn leaves. But then out comes the army: columns of dark green tanks, special squads of men in bright green suits with trash-picking pincers attached to each arm, incandescent orange pressure hoses that blast all the cigarettes and tar off the street and into the sewer. The army is so organized and so powerful that by the time I'm done jogging the streets are usually spotless, ready for another day. Paris, the only city that bathes more than its citizens.
So Montreuil. So far so quiet. Trying to find something to do today I went for a long walk though the surrounding neighborhood, out to the east towards what looked like an interesting cafe. In that cafe a single old man was reading a newspaper, so I kept walking in hopes of finding something a bit more alive. Then I found a graveyard.
Is it just me or is this graveyard getting pretty cramped? It's like an excel spreadsheet of death. Of course, it's not without its distinctively French elements:
Paul Pivot: The man died in 1933 but the moustache will live on forever.
So Montreuil. I'm back, only this time it's for real. One thing's for sure: this is not Paris. Gone are the upscale clothing stores, the shitty falafel, the mimes (no, seriously, they're here) and the 24 euro lunches. Gone are the mobs of tourists and the rail-thin white people spilling out of cafes wearing t-shirts with angry slogans written in English ("Fuck you, beauty" ? Seriously?). Out here in the banlieu these things do not exist. Out here life is quieter, more subdued, more honest. Is it clear that by honest I mean dirty? But I don't mind the dirt: it tells the truth. Paris looks so unnervingly clean that you'd think the entire population had OCD or something, but it's actually because the city dumps huge sums of cash into keeping the streets presentable. Running through the streets at six in the morning reveals a different side of Paris, a side bookended on either side by giant mounds of beer bottles and spent falafel wrappers wafting in the morning breeze like autumn leaves. But then out comes the army: columns of dark green tanks, special squads of men in bright green suits with trash-picking pincers attached to each arm, incandescent orange pressure hoses that blast all the cigarettes and tar off the street and into the sewer. The army is so organized and so powerful that by the time I'm done jogging the streets are usually spotless, ready for another day. Paris, the only city that bathes more than its citizens.
So Montreuil. So far so quiet. Trying to find something to do today I went for a long walk though the surrounding neighborhood, out to the east towards what looked like an interesting cafe. In that cafe a single old man was reading a newspaper, so I kept walking in hopes of finding something a bit more alive. Then I found a graveyard.
Is it just me or is this graveyard getting pretty cramped? It's like an excel spreadsheet of death. Of course, it's not without its distinctively French elements:
Paul Pivot: The man died in 1933 but the moustache will live on forever.
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