On the bus, tourists heading to Paris for the long weekend discuss Lech Kaczyński’s burial at Wawel and his twin brother’s candidacy for president. There are many extreme emotions. Finally, someone calms the group by shouting: “Enough politics, we’re going to Paris! We’re forgetting about Poland.”
But in Paris during the long weekend, it is impossible to forget about Poland. You only have to enter the metropolis. The first Polish bus encountered on the streets of Paris inspires enthusiasm.
“The second Polish tour!” the tourists shout, waving to their compatriots.
The fifth and sixth buses no longer inspire joy. By the tenth, I hear a disappointed remark:
“My God, there are only Poles here!”
Unfortunately, we are not original by going to Paris for the weekend. Apart from Poles, of course, the whole world visits Paris, but our compatriots stand out the most.
In the evening, near the Eiffel Tower, I pass three Polish tourists. Two men in white tracksuits and Adidas shoes, and a woman in a tracksuit sweatshirt and sports shoes. They are all upset, but the woman looks furious. She says loudly to her companions: “F…ing hell, what a f…ing organization! Today the Louvre was free, f…ing hell, we could have visited it!”
The men nod; one of them swears too. They do not look like art lovers.
On Montmartre, on the steps leading to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, there is an acrobatics show. An agile Black man climbs a lamppost while juggling a ball. Cheers, applause, admiration. Someone calls to a companion in Polish so that he too can see the spectacle:
“Look, look, a black monkey,” shouts an older, elegant gentleman. “How agile!”
I smile at him. I like the spectacle too. He returns my smile.
In the queue for the Eiffel Tower, 0.7 liters of vodka are being poured into a plastic bottle. The staff do not allow glass objects to be brought into the site. The four men first have to share a bottle of mineral water, then they pour the alcohol into it. A Black security guard watches them without emotion. Liquids in plastic containers are allowed. The rest of the group trades with colorful sellers of cheap souvenirs.
“The asphalt guys will make some money,” one tourist says to me.
I point out that he should not say that, because it is humiliating, like calling someone “Polish little drunks.” The man looks around menacingly.
“Who’s saying that about us? Show me, and we’ll deal with them right away!” he adds threateningly.
The woman standing nearby asks whether I am not ashamed of some Polish tourists. No, I am not ashamed. I do not feel responsible for them. Some people simply feel at home wherever they are. The woman is surprised. She does not understand. She is ashamed.
While waiting for the group, I drink coffee in a small bistro near the Opera. A Frenchwoman sits behind me, constantly saying something. I am convinced she is on the phone. Suddenly I hear her address someone by name. There is so much warmth and tenderness in the sentence that it does not sound like a telephone conversation. I turn around, curious to see who has approached her. The woman is alone. Only then do I notice that she is not talking on the phone. She is dressed strangely, has garish, poorly applied makeup, and has rested against her legs a shopping bag from Galeries Lafayette stuffed with odds and ends. Her eyes are fixed on the space on the other side of the table. She clearly sees someone there. And she says to him: “Piotr, and your family? Do you remember Grandma? Love, love is the most important thing. And justice. Piotr, do you remember…”
I think about the tourists, about that Frenchwoman. Paris is a city of mad people. And I am certain she is ashamed of no one. She does not judge. She discovers its beauty completely without emotion. Everyone receives only what they themselves discover, experience and live through. Everyone sees only what they are capable of seeing.
Grażyna Hanaf