Flâneur (or flâneuse in feminine form) is a French noun which refers to someone who is a "stroller", "lounger", "saunterer", or "loafer". Flânerie is the act of strolling, with its nuanced associations. A near-synonym of the word is boulevardier.
I think this dictionary definition doesn't quite do this tradition justice though: it's not as simple as strolling. Glorified perambulating. Flânerie is a walk with purposefully no precise destination. It's about absorbing the sights, sounds and scenes which one encounters on foot, it is about the spontaneity of choosing an unknown route, of picking at random one street corner over another. It is an intentional act, to be unintentional. And this paradoxical two-legged activity is in my opinion, best enjoyed nowhere else but in Paris, the capital city for aimless wandering. Boulevards and alleyways, quartiers and quays, this is surely an ideal place in which to get lost in.
In his aptly titled book The Flâneur, Edward White confirms: "Paris is a world meant to be seen by the walker alone, for only the pace of strolling can take in all the rich (if muted) detail".
And so goes my spell of Parisian life, which lasts a little over twenty four hours, a small bracket of time between my visits to the Massif Central and Brittany. It is sometime in the end of July. The air is heavy and humid, the rain clouds frequently emptying their rage upon the polluting metropolis. I decide to meander, to wander with no precise purpose, and in a gently oblivious daze, head out into the streets of the 11th arrondissement, the calm, residential quarter where my cousin has so kindly lent me the keys to his apartment.
The morning atmosphere here is sleepy, there are no tourists, and not many Parisians either, most escaping en Province at this time of year. It is a Sunday too, so most places are shut. My meanderings take me to the nearest café, through two cafés au lait, via an eavesdrop on the fascinating conversation of my terrace neighbours. They are talking about vaccines, more precisely, the anti-vaccine movement. Like anything the French get their hands on, these chats quickly become all-consuming, passionate and heated, the best kind to discreetly listen in on from the next table.
My legs then take me south, to the Bastille weekly market, where I stock up on an abundance of fresh, brightly coloured legumes. Here is an epicenter for good produce and lots of shouting, hosting eclectic vendors from Arab and Lebanese delis to African wax fabric dealers, organic farmers to traditional cheese mongers. I then spend time cooking with my market provisions, a ritual rarely enjoyed and sorely missed when constantly on the road. This is followed by a stroll to the 10th, through the African quarters, before an amble into a church, packed with hundreds of energetic fellow worshippers from around the world. In faithful keeping to this theme, I then promptly make my way to the nearest boulangerie and indulge in a heavenly Religieuse, a double-stacked, cream-filled, chocolate choux bun of sacred proportions.
No tourist attractions today, no plan, which I can vouch is harder than it sounds after the fast pace of vagabonding. A restful wander of a day, a meditation on existence's simple pleasures, an attempt to master this ancient Parisian art of flânerie.
Above: some colours and moments of Paris.
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