Paris: city of love, lights, and… smells?

Ah Paris. The city of romance, where love comes to blossom and dreams come to be fulfilled. Or something like that.

Look to any great work of literature or famous film about Paris and you would be forgiven for believing in this surreal mythos of idyllic romance, full of handsome beatnik poets waiting to whisper sweet Parisian nothings in your ear or lovingly feed you macaroons. It is easy to look at the city through rose-tinted spectacles; but the truth, unfortunately, is a little different.

The buildings are beautiful, of course, and you’ll never be at a loss for things to do- but there are so many things in this fair city that can only be described as merde.

The social infrastructure appears to be more or less non-existent, with a huge proportion of the dozens of beggars you will see every day being severely disabled, and usually very drunk.

There is an abundance of creepy lecherous behaviour from men, which even my first and second year frequenting of Pop! had not prepared me for.

What’s more, there seems to be a general feeling among customer service workers that they are doing you a favour by actually doing the jobs they are paid for, and that you should be very grateful they bothered.

In fact, the crushing reality of this beautiful city has even spurred on a crisis in mental health amongst tourists known as ‘Paris syndrome’, to which the Japanese are particularly susceptible. The Japanese embassy in Paris has even set up a 24-hour hotline for sufferers of this severe form of culture shock. In extreme cases, they will even send a doctor or nurse back on the plane with the troubled tourist to help with the sensitive repatriation process.

They come to the city with visions of cobbled boulevards and whimsical discussions about Foucault, and are left depressed and disorientated by the rudeness, the poverty and the smells. Oh god, the smells. A friend of mine summed up the aroma of France as ‘either poo or pastry’ which I think is fairly apt, and possibly a good microcosmic view of the country as a whole.

I think I have benefited from arriving in Paris with my engrained British cynicism and low expectations in tow: these were easily satisfied when I discovered you can buy a bottle of wine for a euro, and I still love it here. The thought of struggling through a dissertation, rather than cycling down the banks of the Seine and squealing at the Eiffel Tower lighting up in the darkness, does not hold any particular appeal for me just yet.

Of course, I’ve only been here two months, so perhaps my spirit will be worn down as soon as the Warwick withdrawal symptoms get too much. If my love for this stinky, impoverished and sexist city fades, I will be booking the first flight back.

You’ll find me sitting in Charles de Gaulle aéroport, eating my way through the terrible French equivalent of custard creams and surrounded by bemused Japanese tourists.