Bathing in the Multitude

“The street leads the flaneur into a vanished age... In the asphalt over which he passes, his footsteps awaken an astonishing echo.The gaslight, that streams down onto the pavements, throws an ambiguously suggestive
light onto this false bottom…A rapture comes over him who spends a long time marching aimlessly through the streets. With every step, the walking urge grows more powerful;  ever quicker come the seductions of shops, of bistros, of smiling women, ever more irresistible the magnetism of the next street corner, a distant mass of foliage, a street name…”

Okay.

Maybe I wanted Baudelaire to write my post on the art of flanerie for me. I can't pontificate about the beautiful art of wandering with that kind of poetry ("his footsteps awaken an astonishing echo"!? puh-lease), and though I've been successfully getting lost my whole life, I don't know if I've ever done it on purpose.

Plus, I think I started out the wrong anyway. A flaneur sets out to "walk his turtle" and "bathe in the multitude" with no other goal in mind but to let the endless charms of Paris enthrall and astound him.

And I set out to get lost, yes, but also hopefully to wander straight into the most amazing pâtisserie and to be enthralled by the poetic jubilance of my very first macaron.

That was naughty.

But it was the beginning of a truly enriching flâneuse experience.

You see, I'm experiencing Paris in stages. On the very top level there's the sheer tourist awe of delicious treats and beautiful (thin. I'll never understand) people and iconic history and glamour and excitement of a place and culture I've romanticized my whole life.

I had literally been waiting for that macaron my whole life.

But once I started wandering (aimlessly, thoughtlessly), I finally stopped filtering out everything that didn't fit with my carefully crafted image of me in Paris (this image really is quite lovely, though, if you'd like to know. It mainly involves reading, writing poems, and being worshipped by beautiful, articulate men).

But I'm learning (slowly, like my baby french) as I walk slowly, and peeling back layers, like the torn posters in the metro.

There's so much more depth to this city and this experience. And when I let myself look at it-- really look, bathe, wander-- and let the beauty wash over me right along with the filth, I feel like I'm doing something truly significant, somehow.

But as to what that is, exactly, you'll have to ask Baudelaire.