In the first month of 1983, I journeyed to Paris to take up residence with my love, F, and our mate, B, in an apartment with two rooms situated on Rue de Tolbiac, in the 13th district. My French language skills were dismal, job opportunities eluded me, so I ventured into my own operation – peddling flowers at metro stations during peak hours. This venture was not strictly legal, but it generated sufficient funds to sustain me, and allowed ample time for my main hobby at the time, socialising. Before long, B and F quit their places of employment and came to join my enterprise.
Our routine involved catching the early morning bus to the wholesale markets in Rungis to buy flowers, which we’d transport back to our abode. There was a shower in the kitchen and we kept the flowers hydrated in pots and pails of H20. We’d then spend our day engaged in reading materials, contemplating, sourcing, meals preparation, indulging in food, and eventually cleaning up, which would take up the majority of our day (as we were in our youth). By four o’clock we’d either individually head to lesser-known metro stations such as Jussieu or Place Monge, or collectively head to the larger station, Bir-Hakeim, to vend our flowers. “Dix Francs la botte les fleurs!” we’d call out. We dedicated earnings to restock for the following day, allocated a little more for rent and so forth, and spent whatever remained.
We struck up a relationship with two fellows who hawked fruits and veggies on the metros; a Syrian named Khaldun and Sam who hailed from Morocco. Occasionally, undercover police would swoop in and seize our merchandise. “Papiers!” they’d demand, flashing their law enforcement badges and extending their palms. The sight of our solid green Irish passports invariably yielded excitement. “Ah! Ireland! Fishing! Salmon! Rugby!” They’d exclaim and then let us be on our way. But it was a different story for poor Khaldun and Sam, who often ended up at the police station, held till daybreak.
We acquainted ourselves with several street performers who played music in the subway, all of which had received classical training. F, B, and I held qualifications in the scientific field, while Sam had earned an engineering degree. Khaldun’s academic pursuits remain unknown to me. Regardless, we were all in the same circumstances, passing our time in each other’s company. Among them was a tall, blonde musician named Jonathan, an approachable figure in his overalls, playing a saxophone. A native of America, his appearance was more suggestive of the Norwegian countryside.
At one social gathering, in the spirit of utmost transparency, he informed me of his intentions towards my girlfriend, though his endeavours remained unfulfilled. Despite my regular commute through the subway, I never became well-acquainted with the pickpockets. I remember one man, particularly dignified and attractive, who wore a dark wool coat over his shoulders to cloak his thievery activities.
His victims were usually ascending the escalator, oblivious as he deftly stole their wallets or purses, often from the elderly. Witnessing such acts would tug at your heartstrings. On one occasion, I warned a woman who was buying flowers of the pickpocketing threat. Her startled reaction and subsequent dash did not lead to any physical harm on my part, though the glare from the pickpocket was warning enough.
That year, we hit the road, thumbing rides all the way to Greece. We sojourned in Crete for a few weeks before rutting back to Paris and our unofficial flower-selling business. However, peddling flowers as the seasons changed turned into a challenging endeavour, causing our sales and profit to dwindle. We returned home without a penny to our name, however, we were far richer in experiences.
Some of the priceless memories I brought home include my first experience with crudités en vinaigrette with F at a bistro near Opéra soon after my arrival; the sight of 25cl pitchers of deep red wine during lunchtime in cafes; quality cheese made from raw milk; and the everyman’s charm of the green metal seating in Jardin du Luxembourg.
I remember heading to Aux Pied du Cochon in Les Halles for pre-dawn servings of onion soup after nights spent gallivanting around town. I should also mention those relaxing moments I spent with F and B on our compact balcony overlooking the row of plane trees that adorned Rue de Tobiac. A sight in the early fall struck me quite unexpectedly, a sight of a full-sized wild boar suspended from its rear legs outside a butcher’s store near Gare du Nord. I can still picture a diminutive dog stopping to sniff the animal, nonchalantly raising a leg before merrily continuing its journey.