not in Paris

I popped over to Paris today. It is true, but I hate how blasé that sounds. One cannot take going to Paris lightly and mention it matter-of-factly. Paris is always special. For me, it will always be an occasion. So I should probably rephrase:

I hopped on the train this morning and had myself catapulted to the far side of the Channel and then an hour and a bit further. I got off the train I don't know where, just following directions. The directions had me descend into the tunnels and take a metro somewhere. I don't know where and it didn't matter. The place I went to had no geographic meaning. It was just an address, and I didn't look left or right.

A few weeks ago, I had been called for an exam to determine my suitability for a position in the French public service. You marvel on that sentence, on the implications, and make up your mind. I just tell you what happened, which is this: Four hours, the entire afternoon today, were reserved for a written exam on an unspecified subject. I had no idea what to expect.

The details don't matter. We all sat on individual desks in a large room. A matron facing us read out the gospel. Cheating is an offense. Don't de-anonymize your answer sheets. Don't keep anything but pens and the papers you'll receive on your desk. No mobile phones. No calculators. No good luck, or at least she didn't wish us any. At the strike of the clock, bulging yellow envelopes were cut open with government-issue scissors and stapled stacks of paper extracted and distributed, face down. A moment later, we were allowed to turn them over and get going.

I couldn't get going right away. The whole concept was too ridiculous. Here I was, about to hold forth in a language I don't properly speak, let alone write. It was preposterous of me to even participate. I couldn't take myself seriously. But they had asked me to come, so what was I to do? Laughing madly on the inside, I started to pontificate, missing accents left and right and never getting any grammar right on the first try, but the pages started to fill.

After three and a half hours, I was exhausted and brain-fried. I hadn't answered all the questions and wasn't completely satisfied with all the answers to those I had. Some questions I hadn't even understood, an unknown word here or there obscuring the meaning of what was asked. There was no point of continuing.

Behind the center where the examination was held was a canal. I didn't know Paris had canals, but there it was, rising above street level, a barge carrying gravel quietly floating past. There were walkways and bike paths to either side, as there should be. I commenced a stroll in what looked to me like a sensible direction. Some industrial buildings had been refurbished into offices, as happens everywhere; an old office building stood abandoned, covered in graffiti; a brutalist structure glowered defiantly; the extension of the tram 3 had just got a new bridge.

The canal was a ribbon of peace in a hectic city, equal measures of the past long dead and the future not yet there miraculously suspended out of time. Left and right rose the walls of the derelict and the up-and-coming. At every turn another point of interest floated nearer and tempted me to go on. It occurred to me that I had ventured deep into 93, the dodgiest neighborhood of Paris, but during the day that was probably fine.

I could have continued for hours, but with the time of departure of my train back to London coming dangerously close, I had to bail. I found a metro and was at the Gare du Nord a few minutes later and through check-in and security a little after that. As the train pushed out of the station and me into the seat, I realized that I hadn't seen the Eiffel Tower all day. As I said, I hadn't really been to Paris.