In Edmund White’s “The Flaneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris”, the author identifies the defining characteristic of Parisians: they like to loiter! “The flâneur is by definition endowed with enormous leisure, someone who can take off a morning or afternoon for undirected ambling. since a specific goal or a close rationing of time is antithetical to the true spirit of the flâneur”( White 2). White names “flaneurs” to be the continuers of a long legacy of French metropolitans to wander leisurely through the city. For centuries, flaneurs have mapped out Paris, learning as they walk through all of Her winding alleyways and observe her colorful inhabitants.
In our expeditions as a unit, I have taken in much of Paris, but I also recognize that this is not what White talks of when he references the lifestyle of the flaneur. A flaneur wanders, takes their time, and perhaps does not even have an end destination. Although I have greatly enjoyed soaking in Paris, and many different sides of Paris, with our outings, I know that I still have to learn how to loiter if I would like to access the most truthful Parisian experience.
Unfortunately since joining this trip, I have gotten pink eye (??? why), a sore throat, and finally a savage headache/cold combo! What horrid luck! Due to my illness(es), I had to take a sick day- in other words, I found fabulous flaneur freetime. With no goal in sight, except for a Farmacy*, I began my loitering. After leaving my accommodation, I bravely and resolutely decided to turn right with nothing but a dream. Immediately I began to people watch; I noticed a pair of tourists turn into a small neighborhood clothing store, an older man smoking a cigarette with his knees crossed surveying the street with a dutiful gaze, a van full of French militarymen (many of whom stared at me right back with a slightly different intention I can imagine) tumble by, and many more characters. I had left making the careful and conscious decision to abandon my beloved headphones in favor of hearing the chatter and hubbub of the streets. I listened to the melodic conversations of passing locals- from lovingly bickering parents to excitedly chattering girls who repeated “Barbie '' amongst a flurry of other words. I heard the small cars scooter by with putt’s and brrr’s, fellow flaneur feet scuff the pavement, and the cafes bustle on every street.
Although I could barely swallow, my eyes were tearing up, and my nose was runny, I was thoroughly content. To me, it was obvious I was not a local, so I was surprised when a middle-aged woman paused me on the street to inquire about something. She confidently purred “excusamoi” with the intention of asking a question but upon seeing my deer-in-headlights expression as I coughed out an American “oh! I-”, she cut me off with an eyeroll and a French scoff before brushing past me. Yes, I was mildly insulted, but I also was mildly pleased. Like a flaneur, I was a part of the community, of the crowd!
Baudelaire describes the flaneur with their relationship to the community; “The crowd is his domain, as the air is that of the bird or the sea of the fish. His passion and creed is to wed the crowd. For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate observer, it's an immense pleasure to take up residence in multiplicity, in whatever is seething, moving, evanescent and infinite: you're not at home, but you feel at home everywhere; you see everyone, you're at the centre of everything yet you remain hidden from everybody —these are just a few of the minor pleasures of those independent, passionate, impartial minds whom language can only awkwardly define” (1). These lines particularly resonated with me, as this concept is both so familiar and uncomfortable to me. It is widely known that humans need community and connection to live meaningful lives, but as an introvert, I know that I would like a balance of being seen and being alone. But perhaps alone means something metaphorical as well; can you drain your “social battery” if you become part of the crowd and lose your identity in favor of the flaneur lifestyle. If you are a part of the domain itself, are you present or more isolated than ever?
Anonymity gives us both great confidence in belonging and deep sadness in isolation. White comes to a similar sentiment with the following lines: “Imagine dying and being grateful you'd gone to heaven, until one day (or one century) it dawned on you that your main mood was melancholy, although you were constantly convinced that happiness lay just around the next corner. That's something like living in Paris for years, even decades. It's a mild hell so comfortable that it resembles heaven” (5). I can see how LA and Paris are akin in this ideology. Sometimes it feels as though a city can swallow you whole whilst deceiving you into thinking you are actually finding yourself. Like living in any city, I have no doubt that Parisians experience both great happiness from their home and also great confusion as the character of the city interacts with their identity. As a transplant, I cannot judge the flaneur lifestyle until I can fully understand it- which I sense would take weeks, months, or even years!
After a brief pitstop at a computer lounge and coffee counter, I marched onward to behold a beautiful Farmacy*. When I felt the relief flood my body, I knew it would be a while before I could truly embrace the art of the loiterer. I was happier to find my destination than to enjoy my sickly scamper through the city streets. The lights atop the shop made my eyes water- but was it the cold or was it… tears? Like a kid in a candy shop I surveyed my destination with wonder; such beautiful packaging and such intriguing verbiage that, again, I could not understand a lick of. Leaving hugging my Strepsils lozenges and my Sudafed with the gentleness and euphoria similar to that of cradling a newborn child, I thought to myself, “ I have lots to learn from the flaneurs”.
The only picture I took on my adventure!
*let the record show to continue the alliteration, I made the conscious decision to make this an F and not a PH