'Unimpressed': Forget Paris
'I’m going to tell all those people who have never visited Paris and are dying to go there that ... Paris sucks.'
Saba Khalid is unimpressed with the City of lights and lovers
What’s the absolute worst thing that can happen to a girl in Paris?
Actually, no, let me be more specific: what’s the worst thing that can happen while you are atop the second floor of la Tour Eiffel looking down at the peacefully flowing Seine carrying thousands of honeymooning couples in cruise ships while they’re served the best cheese and champagne on silver platters?
Let me rephrase: what’s the worst possible thing that can happen as you look down at the glorious greens of Champ de Mars where 140 adorable United Buddy Bears stand in two neat rows representing every country recognised by the United Nations, including a pimped out Sufi bear from Pakistan?
No, let me be clearer: what’s the worst possible thing that can happen as you look down at centuries-old architectural glory and grimy yet beautiful Napoleon III style mansions and castles, and hundreds of quaint French cafes frequented by the greatest minds including Hemingway?
Okay, I’ll ask one last time. What’s the worst possible thing that can happen to you when you’re in the city of your dreams, in the prime of your youth, feeling like a mix of Amelie and Carrie Bradshaw as strong winter winds whip your newly-purchased red beret which can hardly contain your freshly blow-dried hair and you desperately try to avert your eyes from the gorgeous stranger who won’t stop looking at you?
“’You fall down the Eiffel!”’
Wow, sadistic bunch aren’t you!
Okay, here’s what actually happened. But in order to actually understand what happened you have to delete the fantastical scenes of Paris I created in the beginning.
After standing for three hours in the soggy -2-degree centigrade weather in a line that just wouldn’t stop swirling and get to the ticket booth, I finally went up to the Eiffel Tower. No, I climbed the 250-plus steps, huffing and puffing, scolding my heart to at least wait until I got to the top and saw the view before giving way to a full-blown heart attack.
Once on top, the views really were breathtaking. But not so beautiful were the loud American tourists who would exclaim ‚ “OH MY GOD!” every two seconds. It’s like they had a competition who could pull off the most “OH MY GOD!”s in one minute.
Even less appealing was the dried out 10-Euro pizza slice sold in possibly the smallest café handled by one man only. With all the money the tourism authorities make every day, they couldn’t hire one guy to microwave the pizza and another one to ring up the cash register? The only thing worse than the pizza up there were the toilets which I assume hadn’t been cleaned since Gustav Eiffel designed this thing.
But my least favourite thing up top were the winds – because it was those freaking winds which destroyed my weekend in Paris. There I was, trying my best to enjoy the moment: I had found my little corner, away from the annoyingly lovey-dovey touristy couples, and had fished out my camera, Barry, as I called it. Through the barbed wire, I had taken out one very cold, shrivelled hand to get the best shot of the Arc de Triomphe.
Now this gate has monumental historical value. It leads to the much-photographed, much-replicated, much-talked about fashion street Champs Elysees (“shon-de-lee zay”, don’t pronounce it “Champs Elysees” – that never goes down well with the French). Every day a flame is rekindled at the Arc de Triomphe in memory of the soldiers who died in World War I, in particular for that one unknown soldier who lies buried underneath the Arc.
Also inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe are the names of all the 128 battles carried out by Napoleon and the French Republic as well as the likeness of some freaky gargoyle-like creatures which represents something that I fail to remember. So you can see how important it was for me to photograph this.
But as luck and clumsiness would have it, that cold, shrivelled hand never got a chance to take that picture. As soon as my trembling hands put a little pressure on the button, the wind decided to blow a bit harder and swept the camera from my hands, hurtling it to the ground. Okay, I’m dramatising a little bit – I was on a deck so it only fell near the stairs right next to the cafe selling disgusting pizza and the smelly loos. But it fell, and in those moments, falling down myself from the top of the Eiffel Tower would’ve been less painful.
I say this because if it had been me falling instead of Barry, I’d probably have been too busy to hear the loud, snickering American tourist and her: “OH MY GOD, did you see that girl’s camera fall. So funny!” In her defence, she assumed that I couldn’t speak English. But seriously, as a photographer - okay scratch that - as a really good picture editor (with the help of freely downloadable software from the internet), this was the worst thing that could happen to me.
Also, as a completely superficial somebody who puts travel photographs on Facebook primarily as a way to make other people feel bad about their travel-less lives, this was terrible. How would I prove to my friends that I climbed the Eiffel Tower and had a (ahem) ‘fantastic’ time?
I ran to Barry and embraced it, crying like a baby; I knew it would be too damaged to be fixed. As I turned it in my hands, it made this last, sad whingeing sound of someone about to give up on life. Then, even before the zooming thing in the front had time to go back inside, the display went completely blank. I poked my fingers and tried to close the shutter at least, my way of closing Barry’s eyes, but was unsuccessful.
I swear if it weren’t for the huge crowds and the grim-looking French security guards down below, I would’ve screamed out “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” like a madwoman from the top of the Eiffel Tower. People down below would have assumed that something really tragic had happened to me – like my husband dying or something.
Although this was definitely worse than a stupid husband dying.
Nursing my camera and my little leftover pride, I tried to tell myself, This trip to Paris with its amazing views was for me and my eyes only, not for all my Facebook acquaintances. I would relish my memories for days to come.
I closed my eyes to summon the magical moments I’d spent in Paris. But I couldn’t even remember what I had had for lunch yesterday and what it looked like. How in blue blazes would I remember these beautiful scenes fit for a postcard? It will all fade into a blur, I realised, a tragic blur. And it did.
The rest of my trip was a haze in which pretty much everything unfortunate that could happen to me did happen. My vintage boots broke (don’t ever buy second-hand boots), my iPod was stolen from the hotel (no matter how broke you are, pay attention to the number of stars on every hotel name) and the airport security decided to confiscate ALL my toiletries (pay attention when they ask “Are you carrying any liquids?”). As if I was going to concoct a bomb with my Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner!
So I’m going to go out on a limb here and tell all those people who have never visited Paris and are dying to go there that ... Paris sucks. It sucks because it’s crowded with tourists, the metros are disgusting, smelly and again crowded, the food is insanely overpriced and the cheese will surely make you gassy if you’re lactose-intolerant like me, and the French dress up and look good primarily to make us tourists from around the world feel ugly.
And it really sucks when you don’t have Barry with you!
Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, November 25th, 2012.
What’s the absolute worst thing that can happen to a girl in Paris?
Actually, no, let me be more specific: what’s the worst thing that can happen while you are atop the second floor of la Tour Eiffel looking down at the peacefully flowing Seine carrying thousands of honeymooning couples in cruise ships while they’re served the best cheese and champagne on silver platters?
Let me rephrase: what’s the worst possible thing that can happen as you look down at the glorious greens of Champ de Mars where 140 adorable United Buddy Bears stand in two neat rows representing every country recognised by the United Nations, including a pimped out Sufi bear from Pakistan?
No, let me be clearer: what’s the worst possible thing that can happen as you look down at centuries-old architectural glory and grimy yet beautiful Napoleon III style mansions and castles, and hundreds of quaint French cafes frequented by the greatest minds including Hemingway?
Okay, I’ll ask one last time. What’s the worst possible thing that can happen to you when you’re in the city of your dreams, in the prime of your youth, feeling like a mix of Amelie and Carrie Bradshaw as strong winter winds whip your newly-purchased red beret which can hardly contain your freshly blow-dried hair and you desperately try to avert your eyes from the gorgeous stranger who won’t stop looking at you?
“’You fall down the Eiffel!”’
Wow, sadistic bunch aren’t you!
Okay, here’s what actually happened. But in order to actually understand what happened you have to delete the fantastical scenes of Paris I created in the beginning.
After standing for three hours in the soggy -2-degree centigrade weather in a line that just wouldn’t stop swirling and get to the ticket booth, I finally went up to the Eiffel Tower. No, I climbed the 250-plus steps, huffing and puffing, scolding my heart to at least wait until I got to the top and saw the view before giving way to a full-blown heart attack.
Once on top, the views really were breathtaking. But not so beautiful were the loud American tourists who would exclaim ‚ “OH MY GOD!” every two seconds. It’s like they had a competition who could pull off the most “OH MY GOD!”s in one minute.
Even less appealing was the dried out 10-Euro pizza slice sold in possibly the smallest café handled by one man only. With all the money the tourism authorities make every day, they couldn’t hire one guy to microwave the pizza and another one to ring up the cash register? The only thing worse than the pizza up there were the toilets which I assume hadn’t been cleaned since Gustav Eiffel designed this thing.
But my least favourite thing up top were the winds – because it was those freaking winds which destroyed my weekend in Paris. There I was, trying my best to enjoy the moment: I had found my little corner, away from the annoyingly lovey-dovey touristy couples, and had fished out my camera, Barry, as I called it. Through the barbed wire, I had taken out one very cold, shrivelled hand to get the best shot of the Arc de Triomphe.
Now this gate has monumental historical value. It leads to the much-photographed, much-replicated, much-talked about fashion street Champs Elysees (“shon-de-lee zay”, don’t pronounce it “Champs Elysees” – that never goes down well with the French). Every day a flame is rekindled at the Arc de Triomphe in memory of the soldiers who died in World War I, in particular for that one unknown soldier who lies buried underneath the Arc.
Also inscribed on the Arc de Triomphe are the names of all the 128 battles carried out by Napoleon and the French Republic as well as the likeness of some freaky gargoyle-like creatures which represents something that I fail to remember. So you can see how important it was for me to photograph this.
But as luck and clumsiness would have it, that cold, shrivelled hand never got a chance to take that picture. As soon as my trembling hands put a little pressure on the button, the wind decided to blow a bit harder and swept the camera from my hands, hurtling it to the ground. Okay, I’m dramatising a little bit – I was on a deck so it only fell near the stairs right next to the cafe selling disgusting pizza and the smelly loos. But it fell, and in those moments, falling down myself from the top of the Eiffel Tower would’ve been less painful.
I say this because if it had been me falling instead of Barry, I’d probably have been too busy to hear the loud, snickering American tourist and her: “OH MY GOD, did you see that girl’s camera fall. So funny!” In her defence, she assumed that I couldn’t speak English. But seriously, as a photographer - okay scratch that - as a really good picture editor (with the help of freely downloadable software from the internet), this was the worst thing that could happen to me.
Also, as a completely superficial somebody who puts travel photographs on Facebook primarily as a way to make other people feel bad about their travel-less lives, this was terrible. How would I prove to my friends that I climbed the Eiffel Tower and had a (ahem) ‘fantastic’ time?
I ran to Barry and embraced it, crying like a baby; I knew it would be too damaged to be fixed. As I turned it in my hands, it made this last, sad whingeing sound of someone about to give up on life. Then, even before the zooming thing in the front had time to go back inside, the display went completely blank. I poked my fingers and tried to close the shutter at least, my way of closing Barry’s eyes, but was unsuccessful.
I swear if it weren’t for the huge crowds and the grim-looking French security guards down below, I would’ve screamed out “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” like a madwoman from the top of the Eiffel Tower. People down below would have assumed that something really tragic had happened to me – like my husband dying or something.
Although this was definitely worse than a stupid husband dying.
Nursing my camera and my little leftover pride, I tried to tell myself, This trip to Paris with its amazing views was for me and my eyes only, not for all my Facebook acquaintances. I would relish my memories for days to come.
I closed my eyes to summon the magical moments I’d spent in Paris. But I couldn’t even remember what I had had for lunch yesterday and what it looked like. How in blue blazes would I remember these beautiful scenes fit for a postcard? It will all fade into a blur, I realised, a tragic blur. And it did.
The rest of my trip was a haze in which pretty much everything unfortunate that could happen to me did happen. My vintage boots broke (don’t ever buy second-hand boots), my iPod was stolen from the hotel (no matter how broke you are, pay attention to the number of stars on every hotel name) and the airport security decided to confiscate ALL my toiletries (pay attention when they ask “Are you carrying any liquids?”). As if I was going to concoct a bomb with my Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner!
So I’m going to go out on a limb here and tell all those people who have never visited Paris and are dying to go there that ... Paris sucks. It sucks because it’s crowded with tourists, the metros are disgusting, smelly and again crowded, the food is insanely overpriced and the cheese will surely make you gassy if you’re lactose-intolerant like me, and the French dress up and look good primarily to make us tourists from around the world feel ugly.
And it really sucks when you don’t have Barry with you!
Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, November 25th, 2012.