It was July 2013 and my boyfriend Pierre and I had been together for two years. We decided to go on a trip to France. This was part of the celebrations for his birthday.
The reasons we decided on France were the obvious ones, that it’s beautiful, it’ an important city in modern history, and really “everyone” wants to go to France. Pierre had been to Paris before. In fact, after he learned that I loved Madonna he couldn’t stop telling me that he saw Madonna in Paris and then the next day he missed his flight home.
I had never been to Paris before our trip, but my desire for Paris felt like it has always existed. Although Paris is not as ubiquitous as New York City (my other love) in terms of popular culture, particularly in South Africa the city still managed to get me interested in it.
There are three major things that have fostered my desire for French culture. My first foray into Paris and French culture was through African American literature and music. The writings of James Baldwin and the life and music of Nina Simone and Eartha Kitt convinced me that this was a formidable city and worthy of my attention. The more I read, fictional and biographical, tales of African Americans in Paris, and in other parts of France, the more I desired the country and the culture.
Secondly, I see myself as queer studies major. My postgraduate studies have all been centred on queerness and its multiple dimensions. This has exposed me to French philosophers like Simone de Beauvoir, Michel Foucault and Deleuze and Guattari, which in turn has made me curious about the French and their way of thinking.
Thirdly, I love fashion. Before I even knew what Haute Couture was, I was running around the streets of Kwazakhele begging, to no avail, seamstresses to make me one-of-a-kind pieces to wear. In my youth, I was obsessed with women’s fashion, and I found men’s wear boring. Throughout my teens, I used to wear my mother’s clothes and shoes. I would try and make them as masculine as possible for them to pass enough as men’s clothes. This was easier done with jackets than with shoes.
It was also during this period that I was obsessed with fashion magazines and popular culture. One of the moments that stand out is the Mariah Carey Heartbreaker moment of jeans with the ripped waistline. I did that to one of my denim, my mother was not happy about the destruction of clothes to achieve “fashion” looks. I digress.
So by the time I went to Paris, my head was filled with all kinds of ideas of places to go from African American literature and music, with ideas of French philosophy, and French fashion. This doesn’t in any way mean that I know everything about these two “fields”, on the contrary, I have so much more reading to do. What I am trying to illustrate here is how my desire for all things French started and developed.
I remember the subway ride from Charles de Gaulle Airport to the subway stop in Le Marais where we were renting an Airbnb apartment. There was a French woman seating next to us. She started making small talk and asked us where we were going and where we were from. We engaged her, and I suppose for her we were interesting travellers. Now I realise she must have seen thousands upon thousands of travellers in and out of the city throughout her life. I imagined that she must have been a Parisian by birth.
When we arrived at our subway stop, we got off and walked up the stairs and we were at the centre of Paris. It was absolutely breathtaking. The city was busy, there were people everywhere, and the café’s had chairs on the sidewalks. It was hot. Pierre and I were dragging our suitcases following the lead of the GPS, and we weren’t having any luck with the address. We asked around, and people didn’t know the address. I asked Pierre to look at the address again, and it turns out the address was wrong, and then he typed the correct address in. Google Maps is everything when you are traveling abroad. It takes you exactly where you need to go, giving you plenty of options and how long each option would take.
While on our way to the correct address, I see a black Mercedes with tinted windows. The back window rolls down as the car passes by and seating in the back seat is none other than Marc Jacobs. I almost missed a step, and I called Pierre to witness what I was seeing. By the time he looked Marc Jacobs and the car he was in had already passed by. I was a little miffed that Pierre had got the address wrong, but all of that melted away when I spotted Marc Jacobs. I took that as a sign that Paris was my city. In a silly way, that moment signalled that I was in a joy ride in the City of Lights.
