The Ghosts of Paris

I was once asked if I were a superhero, what special trait or power would I want to have? At first I said of course that I wanted to know how to fly because then I could get to Paris quickly and cheaply (today a flight from Guernsey, which is 50 minutes by air from Paris, costs the same as a flight from Tel Aviv and takes more or less the same time, since there are no direct flights). The problem is that Superman was several decades ahead of me and took this superpower. So after quite a bit of thought I have an answer for the superpower I need: I want to make the walls talk and the ghosts of Paris tell their stories.

I see dead French people

If there is a place in the world where ghosts have a right to exist, it is Paris. There is no denying that there is something magical about this city, and with the magic comes the ghosts. Where does the magic come from? No one can explain it, perhaps thanks to 2000 years of magicians and sorcerers who left their mark on the City of Lights? Take for example the pillar that remains next to Church of Saint Eustache and the wheat exchange, which belonged to Rogeri the astrologer of Catherine de Medici who dealt with witchcraft. Or alternatively, the witch hunts in the 17th century when The poison affair A memory of her can still be found inLatin Quarter.

And this magic is found in every corner, especially in the practical, everyday things and the most seemingly non-magical ones. Take London's TUBE for example and compare it to the Parisian metro. The former is completely useful, you enter one station and exit, thanks to technology, at another station. In Paris, there is a magical feeling from the first moment you descend the stairs (especially if you are at a station with a Guimard gate or an imitation of it that makes you return as if you entered a gate that will transport you to another dimension).

This continues with the special acoustics that cause the sounds of the metro player to reach you from anywhere without you knowing where he is (by the way, in order to get a license to play in the metro, you have to pass an exam that proves that your level is high enough. In order to maintain the magic, you have to meet the standards).

And finally, that sweet smell, apparently created by the friction of the cars' rubber wheels with the track, reminiscent of the smell of incense in a black, enchanted mass whose sole function is to magically transport you from one place to another (advanced Francophiles who know the metro lines by heart can tell you exactly where to find this smell, since not all cars have rubber wheels). So with all these effects, is it any wonder that riding the metro feels like you've gone underground and magically found yourself in a completely different place?

So, after I’ve proven to you that Paris is a magical place, let’s get back to the ghosts. No, these aren’t scary ghosts that, like in the game “Pac Man,” will chase you while you run around the streets of Paris eating croissants (and then when you find a particularly delicious brioche, you can chase them yourself).

These are people who have lived in the City of Lights for the past hundreds of years (and even more), and the fact that they have passed on to a world where all is well does not prevent them from returning for some vacation to their Parisian home and the streets where they walked (the love for Paris apparently does not pass even when you die).

These spirits are everywhere and if we concentrate and listen, we might be able to see them walking in the Marais or drinking coffee in theLa Procope". And each of them has stories to tell, some spicy, some comical and some tragic. So the next time you travel, for example, in La God Ignore for a moment the ugly mall they built for you and try to listen to the ghosts of the fishmongers who have been there for nearly 1000 years.

Take a stroll through the Latin Quarter and you might meet Hemingway (It worked in “Midnight in Paris,” so it could work for you too.) And best of all: take a walk. In the Marais  And try to enter the little palaces when someone opens the gate for a moment. There you will find the spirits of marquises and duchesses, and the stories they will tell you will make your face turn red and your hair turn white like a sable. 18th century wigAnd of course, if that wasn't enough for you, walk through the alleys and streets and you'll discover that it's not uncommon for Rosen and the Marquise to go out alone, hand in hand, in the Marais...

And speaking of everything you've read so far, here's a Parisian story, brought to you by my dear friend Joel Tamenlis, who can illustrate this. A little girl stands on a dark night on one side of the old cemetery in Montparnasse, and to get to her house located on the other side of the cemetery she must cross it in its entirety.

The girl is rightly afraid to cross alone in complete darkness. Suddenly, a very old, wrinkled man arrives with a walking stick. She turns to him and asks him if he is willing to accompany her to the other side of the cemetery. The old man agrees, gives her his hand, and they begin to cross together. As they walk, the girl tells the old man that she is very glad that he arrived just in time, because she is very afraid to walk alone among the old graves. So the old man tells her: I certainly understand you, I was also afraid to walk here alone when I was alive…

In search of my own ghosts

A friend who studied biology once told me that a human cell lives on average for about seven years. Of course, not all cells are born and die at the same time, but it is certainly possible to say that every seven years we die and are reborn, until the day we die, definitively. There are places in Paris where I see a child with shaggy hair, curious and happy, running around.

I see him leaving the hotel on Rue Richelieu and popping into the (long-defunct) video game store near the Palais Royal. I meet him playing pinball or video games in a Parisian cafe near the St. Roche church while his parents rest after many hours walking the streets. city ​​of Lights.

And finally sometimes I meet him inMonceau Park Eating a hot waffle or riding the carousel (both still exist today). This child is my ghost, because this child no longer exists and in his place is a person who will be 40 years old soon. So when I arrive in Paris, after I have finished walking around and conjuring up the ghosts of Victor Hugo, Louis XIV and other famous Parisians, I return at every opportunity to the same streets and parks that I visited so many years ago, who knows, maybe I'll meet myself there again?