Should I do this?
The penultimate morning in Calgary--in the midst of another vomiting session at the airport--his father told him once more, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."
The story had to be written, and it was.
Two years later, the script was a bit different. I was headed back, well, home. Paris wasn't this
abstract idea of fear and anxiety, it was a place where I was perhaps the most comfortable in the world in.
Home. To Paris. A city I lived in. For 225 days.
The anticipation was of a kid on Christmas Eve…to walk those streets again, see those buildings and breathe that smoggy, smoke-filled air. To take the Transilien from St Lazare back to Conflans Sainte Honorine, the town in the northwest banlieus that I actually lived in. To see the gates of Lycée Jules Ferry, where I once was an English Language Assistant.
Going back home had always been on my mind, in a fairy-tale sort of way. I'd post a Facebook status about it every now and then, but it was more of a pipe dream than a reality. As I passed a summer in Edmonton and hopped off back to Montreal, I began checking flight prices weekly…then almost daily. I'd mention the idea to my parents and a friend or two.
And then the summer unfolded, another summer in Edmonton, and for a variety of career-related reasons, it just made sense (mainly me not wanting to spend more than 10 per cent of my savings on a trip).
The flight was booked. For 10 days, I would be back in Paris. Nearly two years after I left. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it had been on my mind so much that it may as well have been two decades.
I've said it to a lot of people, but one of the reasons I loved Paris so much was the friend group I had…I've never been more close with friends then I was with that family.
So what better way to honour those guys then to go to the Great Canadian Pub on my first night back?
I arrived at de Gaulle on the morning of September 4 and hopped on the RER bound for central Paris. My Air BnB was in the city's 19th arrondisement. At Gare du Nord I boarded the metro 5, and got off at Ourcq. A 30-second walk later, I was at home.
173 avenue Jean Jaurès.
That night I made plans with my previous WAN-IFRA manager to meet at the Royal Beaubourg, a café across the street from my old office in le Maurais. We had a few drinks with some colleagues before my manager's god-daughter and I went to the Great Canadian for a pint. Jet-lagged and drunk, I got home around 1 am.
The next handful of days consisted of much the same adventures I had as a 21-year old. Strolls along the Seine, café crêmes every morning, cigarettes, small talk with strangers that turned into something more…
Did I mention how great it felt to be back home?
One of the highlights was seeing Camille, a part of that original gang of Parisiens circa 2013. Being from Manchester, she actually stuck around after we had all departed. Seeing her brought back a flood of great stories. We met twice; once we walked the streets and made our way through the metros to Trocadèro. The second time we met was on a Saturday night, the last night I was in the city. Naturally, we went to the Great Canadian and took the familiar walk from Quai des Grands Augustins to Chatalet.
Another great story was the rush of traveling. One night, I decided to head towards Jardins des Luxembourg when I happened on a bar--opened in 1791 no less--called Au Petit Suisse. After making small talk with the gentleman next to me--a man named Lauri in his early 30's from Estonia--we took a 25-minute walk to Le Select, a bar near Montparnasse that was frequented by Hemmingway in its heyday (or should I say, Hemmingwayday).
One afternoon I ventured to République to see a demonstration planned to support migrants and pressure Hollande's socialist government to allow more refugees. There, again, was lots of great conversation and living in the moment.
Towards the latter stages of our Parisien adventure, the family and I found a hole-in-the-wall bar called Convival. It was on rue Budapest beside St. Lazare. The bar, which no longer exists now, was owned by a great guy named Christian. We all got to know him, and loved hanging with him. I got in touch with him and we met up at a phenomenal jazz club in the Latin Quarter. We drank, danced, smoked, drank, and danced some more. The club was called Caveau de la Huchette and opened in 1946. Thanks to Christian, we got in without line and cover. We danced till well into the morning, before Christian and I bid à bientôt. He sped off in his motorbike, and I took the last train home (a familiar narrative from two years earlier). All of that didn't compare to Conflans Sainte Honorine and Lycée Jules Ferry though.
I had remained in touch with a couple of teachers and some students and had plans to meet up with them. And it all came flooding back…teaching in salle 242, the nerves of lecturing to a group of 12 high schoolers, the relationships with students, seeing them in the small town. I hopped off the transilien and was actually home. Seeing the bartender at Le Bouqet who called me his petit cousin canadien, avenue Marechal Foche, and of course Lycée Jules Ferry.
7 rue Buoysell. To this day I love telling people I taught at a high school in suburban Paris, and lived in the school.I went back to Conflans Sainte Honorine three times…it was well worth the 45-minute train ride. I saw most of the teachers I taught with, the courtyard, and the town's beautiful docks.
Conflans felt natural. Myself and another teacher had dinner at the house of another teacher one night, trading stories and catching up. The two teachers had really helped me get adjusted when I arrived in France back on September 23, 2013. One had picked me up from the airport, while the other welcomed me to his home with a great traditional French meal. It was the perfect first day for a petrified 21-year old Salim. To have dinner with them again--to have returned to Conflans on my own volition--felt so, so right.
I even got to teach two English courses, which I really appreciated. It can't be said enough how enjoyable it was.
One of the teachers and I met for drinks at Le Bouqet the following day. I then went to the apartment of my friend JP, who lived beside the lycée. I had to see him, for he'd been extremely generous and helpful during my year in France. He invited me up, and we had a few beers before I headed back to Paris.The final time I went back to Conflans was yet another surreal experience; to see some former students. As a teacher, I had some students who I just had a great rapport with. Not everyone was enthusiastic about speaking English, but most at least faked like they cared. There were a handful that made extra efforts though, and our relationship morphed into a friendship. I'd see them around town, they'd introduce me to their parents, we'd address each other as tu.
The second-last day I was in France, I ventured back to Conflans and actually had dinner at the house of one of those students. And guess what……HIS PARENTS HAD ACTUALLY BEEN TO EDMONTON!
My heart tripled in size after that revelation. That evening reminded me of how fortunate I am to have undertaken the great adventure.
Teaching English at Lycée Jules Ferry was the most intrinsically rewarding thing I've ever done. And I miss it.
I loved chatting with students when I was their English Language Assistant, and that we were having dinner together two years later. Wow. Just plain crazy.
When I got to Paris initially, I had no friends in the city. Two years later, I had 12 million amis.
Home felt great. Two years later, I've still spent more days in Paris than I have in Edmonton. It was and will forever be a place I'm in a completely different level of comfort in.
I was reminded of lots while I was there…the nervousness, the disgusting smell of some metro stations, the frustration of navigating chatalet, the feeling of quickly gulping a beer to make the last train…the magic of the city too.
The second time I ever took the RATP (Paris metro), I got lost in a town called Bréval, a good two hours from Conflans. It was approaching 11pm and I was fully prepared to sleep outside (I was less than 10 days removed from Edmonton at this point) before two extremely nice men named Michel and Jean helped me navigate the trains home.
A similar situation occurred this time around. In Conflans one night, the STM had stopped running at around 10pm, meaning I had a similar decision to make…take an expensive cab to Paris and grab a metro, or potentially wander around Conflans until the first train at 5:30am (an idea I wasn't overly opposed to. The town wasn't nearly as unsafe as Paris, and it was still relatively warm outside). I was talking to a stranger who was also in the same predicament (though going the other direction, towards Poissy). He needed a train as badly as I did. It was almost midnight and we were both frustrated.
The man, probably around 50 years of age and someone I'd never met before, offered me his couch. I couldn't believe it and thanked him profusely. He apologized, saying it may not be enough, but at least it was something.
Wow.The bus came, and I said au revoir to him. Kindness. A universal language apparently, in a region often classified as being the opposite.
I got back to Paris at around 1am, following a LONG bus ride and trek on the RER. I then took a 10 Euro cab ride back home to avenue Jean Jaurés. Safe and sound.
Some things really don't change.
Others do. Walking around Conflans and seeing the old Creamhouse that I used to frequent (and often run into students). New management meant it was completely different on the inside. The owner was an extremely nice man who had actually just moved to Canada.
In Paris, there were similar observations…bars that had long decayed, streets that looked unoccupied compared to their bygone bustle. Some things remained…throngs of tourists, the magic of Eiffy, the solitude of the Canal St. Martin, République and her quiet gaze.
In that sense, I'm real pleased with the trip. I made it a point of going to old spots…the Great Canadian, Le Bouqet, the patisserie at Place Bernard Lazare (the best palmières in Paris). There were also a ton of new places…dinner with my students in Conflans, another great meal with two teaching colleagues, and venturing to Au Petit Suisse and Le Select with my Estonian mate.And of course, Caveau de la Huchette with Christian.
The sense being back was that I was exactly where I needed to be. The trip felt like a dream I was content being in. When I got back home, my mom and I talked, where she boldly predicted that I'd end up in Paris on a more permanent basis.
It wasn't the first such thought ante'd up by someone close to me.
That Saturday night, 12 hours before I was to hop on a flight back to Trudeau and the Montréal life, I was smoking a cigarette with Camille at the Great Canadian. I had a beer in my hand and was slowly looking around, surveying the buildings and breathing in the nostalgia and the moment.
Just don't get on the plane, she said.
À la prochaine.
