Constriction and Walking in Paris

          One of my earliest memories is walking on the beach in Morehead City as a baby with my parents before my sister was born. I remember holding their hands as I climbed to the tops of sand dunes, watching the horses graze mere meters from where I stood. I also remember wading through the shallow waters of the creeks in the greenway with my friends, stepping over untrustworthy pockets of sand and pulling my shorts up so they wouldn’t get soaked. I remember scaling Grandfather Mountain and getting so close to the edge of an overhanging rock that my heart leapt into my throat. 

Walking in Paris was vastly different from these experiences. They felt different from walks in nature, in places familiar to me; walks in nature always feel a little surreal and I become almost drowsy with awe. Paris is real—constructively so. The Parisian neighborhoods, while beautiful, are predictable. Everything feels so planned, permanent, and structurally unchanged. The movement of pedestrians animates it, creating a flow so rhythmic that to disrupt it would be almost lamentable. I chuckle to myself as I think about Decerteau and how insistent he was on refusing to do anything the city asked him to do. As I walk I wonder if everyone can tell that I’m American. I flatter myself with hopeful daydreams that they can’t.

In this way, my walk begins to feel less like wandering and more like participation in a system I am only slightly conscious of. I do not fully understand these people and I have no idea where I’m going, but I blend in and try to copy the movement patterns of French citizens. I can hide my wide, curious eyes behind the big frames of my sunglasses. Internally, I feel a surge of independence and pride. I’m twenty-one, in Paris, on my own dime, and I’m taking a walk on my own. I purse my lips to suppress a smile. I think about what these streets must have been like more than a century ago, when women walking along the streets were considered criminals and imprisoned. With how liberated and alive I feel walking in this big city, it is no surprise to me that men would criminalize it. Does this same impulse toward control linger, quietly constricting my freedom of movement even now? Is it distinctly French? Or, is it simply a feature of any city that depends on order?

Unlike the trails of my childhood, where the path was often unstable and responsive to my body, the streets of Paris anticipate and direct my movement. I follow crosswalks, pause at signals, and am almost trampled as I stare dumbfounded at the Arc de Triumph. Walking through the metro lent its own slew of troubles; a French woman cursed me for accidentally rolling my suitcase into her ankles. What began as an experiment in free will, became a very self-conscious and regulated activity. The city is designed to be walked, but it commands my movement at every turn. One step out of line here feels almost shameful. I admire and appreciate Decerteau and all the flaneur types a lot more now—how much conviction they must have had! 

I arrive back at Jasmine’s apartment, alone, invigorated, and humbled. I don’t know the door code and she won’t be back from class for another fifteen minutes. I sit on the stoop and watch. As my attention turns to the city crowd which I am no longer a part of, I’m relieved of self-consciousness. Sitting still, I slip out of the demand; I observe without having to keep up with the rhythm of the street. People eat croissants and smoke cigarettes at the cafe across the street. Most everyone wears sunglasses. I understand the flaneur and the appeal of watching urban life moving through the city with attention rather than purpose. I love the lack of concern for conformity that being a flaneur implies. Maybe I will achieve this mindset one day, but for now I find that I must conform. Paris asks you to rise to the occasion; it expects something of you. I found myself thrilled by the challenge of rising to it.