"The Everyday Theatrics of Paris"
My fixation with Paris is that, no matter how many times one has been there, every time you sit down at a café or walk down a street, you can be sure to see a magical Parisian moment in action. Drinking coffee at an outdoor terrace it not just about caffeine, it is like sitting in a theatre; the street becomes the stage and the Parisians the actors, letting the travel step into what could be scenes straight out of French film. Comedy or tragedy, Parisian streets are filled with everyday sketches, so colorful they seem unreal and yet so complex that no man could have thought up the script.
Every Paris visitor seems to have a preferred stage on which they voraciously consume the theatrics of Parisian behavior. For some it is the outdoor market, for others it is the maze of clothing at Galleries Lafayette. For my father it is Rue Mouffetard.
An old cobblestone road, Rue Mouffetard is a symbol of Paris market life; it embodies every romantic symbol of small Parisian shopkeepers and shop goers that one could imagine. Stores spill onto the streets and old ladies slowly make their way up and down the narrow road, waiting to fill their worn wicker baskets as aged as they are. Old dogs trail alongside, like props used to highlight the authentic character of the market ladies. Rue Mouffetard is a mélange of stereotypical French charm and real life Paris, making the stage ideal for brilliant theatrics.
I once sat at a café located on a superb people watching corner on Rue Mouffetard. I was there with my parents and our family friends. They had all arrived to visit me in France and I took the opportunity to trek from my then hometown Strasbourg across the French rails descend upon the capital city. Out of all of them, my father was the only one who did not speak French. His first extended trip in France, he was about to be immersed in everything French. Despite his love of French film, he had never been truly surrounded the culture. I knew the magic of real-life Parisian theatrics, my father did not. But he was about to learn.
We sat and drank our café au lait contemplating such things one contemplates when in Paris. IN the midst of contemplation, through the Saturday frenzy that defines Rue Mouffetard on the other side of the street, we saw an old Frenchman. He moved slowly and precisely embodying his stereotypical image found in many French movies; a worn man wearing shabby pants and equally shabby shoes, but with a glint of life in his eyes. His tired dog lay on the street corner, looking at his master as if he was waiting for something spectacular to happen. Under the dog’s gaze the man began to set up what slightly resembled a table, and I knew that the first act of that day’s comedic spectacle had begun.
The table’s appearance was as tired and old as the man’s; a rickety heap of two flimsy sawhorses and a long wooden board. The old man struggled, setting up one side and returning to the other which would subsequently fall over every time he left it. He continued this back and forth for over ten minutes, by his movements it was clear that he would continue in this manner for the rest of the day if necessary; the man was as committed to his table as he was old. My father remarked it was like watching a Jacques Tati movie. People continued to walk by; Parisians not taking note of his behavior, but we the tourists enjoying this viewing of real-life drama. The dog laid his head on his feet, his body language saying that this was not his first time sprawled next to the strangely constructed table.
I continued to consume my café au lait, intrigued by the man and his dog; it was like watching a silent movie where the personality of the characters shines across the screen despite the lack of words. The sounds of Rue Mouffetard dampened as I concentrated on the man’s every movement. I am unsure whether my own intense attention somehow helped him, but he finally succeeded in getting the table to stand by itself. The first act of our Parisian street theatre was over and the second was about to begin.
With the table now relatively stable, the man slowly reached down into a lumpy black bag. He began to methodically take out boxes and place them on the infamous table. Even from my café view on the other side of the street I could see that the colors on the cardboard boxes were faded, speaking to an age close to that of their owner. The dog continued to be unimpressed, even as the man unloaded the boxes. What was in them? We squinted in order to make out the strangely shaped objects, which appeared to be bird cages.
We put down several euros on the table to pay for the bill so that we could get closer to the man and his odd cages. The advantage of real-life comedy or drama is that you do not always have to remain a spectator; jumping into the scene and interacting with the actor is a part of experiencing culture. Instead of sitting on the couch and merely watching the French film, you can jump in and consume the spectacle with all senses. In the case of bird cages, it was clear that I needed to make this move from the audience to the stage, so I crossed the street with my father to have a closer look.
As I neared, I realized that several old Parisian market ladies were gathering; even locals out for their morning shopping were in need of some comedic levity. They stared intently with focused eyes at the cages, their faces showing a mix of wonder and amusement. I managed to wedge my way between two wicker basket toting women and finally saw the reason for the general amusement. I motioned to my father and with a smile on my face pointed to the table; these were not ordinary bird cages, they held singing birds. Plastic singing birds to be precise.
The market ladies continued on their way; more important things were still waiting on the to-do list. With less people surrounding his small table, which was surprisingly still standing, the old Frenchman began to charm my father by explaining the wonders of a singing plastic bird.
“Avec cet oiseau, vous auriez toujours de la compagnie… mais sans avoir besoin de le donner à manger.” My father, not a francophone, was lost at the sentence, but I understood. With this bird you would always have company, but you wouldn’t ever need to feed it. I translated for my father, but as I translated the charming French words, I realized that no translation was necessary. This was theater; to be interpreted as he, the spectator, wanted. An old Frenchman’s Saturday morning ritual was a standard of everyday life, but for my father it was a work of French comedy, taking place right before his eyes. Better than any scripted French film.