In the Spring of 2020, in order to stem the spread of COVID-19, borders between the EU and Canada were closed, but after the numbers of infections were dramatically reduced, European authorities decided that it was safe to allow Canadians into their countries. I go to Europe every year, to Italy to visit family, and, during the last three years, to Paris, and did not want to disrupt this routine. And so when the virus’s spread seemed to be under control, I decided to purchase my ticket.
Admittedly, the decision to travel during a pandemic was initially nerve-racking, particularly the thought of being in a plane—a small enclosed space, where physical distancing is not really possible unless flying business class. Arriving at Pearson international airport only accentuated the anxiety. I have been travelling out of this airport since I was a kid—since the late eighties—and every time, regardless of the period of the year, it is bustling with travellers going to all corners of the globe. Now, it was mostly deserted and its shops were closed. Counters were devoid of airport personnel, and there was an eerie quiet, occasionally disrupted by humming of an electronic floor cleaner; it would be an understatement to say that this was a sharp contrast to the loud cacophony of chattering voices, PA announcements, and rolling luggage wheels one usually hears at the airport.
Everyone wore masks, and although their faces were covered, their eyes expressed the pervasive anxiety of the bizarre atmosphere induced by the pandemic, whereby physical safety prevails over other considerations, including personal liberty; where others are viewed as potential carriers of the deadly virus and hence are regarded with a mix of disgust and suspicion. As we boarded, our temperature was taken, prompting me to consider, for the first time in years, whether I had a fever (I did not). On the plane, I was greeted with a pleasant surprise, namely, that it was half empty. Some passengers had entire rows to themselves, and in the back of the plane many rows were entirely empty. Had I wanted to, I could have laid down on one of them, and had, à la first class, a bed-length amount of space. I stayed where I was, and watched French movies during most of the flight. I was also pleased to notice that everyone scrupulously followed the sanitary rules, including always wearing a mask except during meals, and frequently disinfecting hands. This was an important reminder, I later reflected, of a basic fact that is easily forgotten when the mind is flooded with anxiety: the virus has a physical, material existence with predictable ways of transmission and protection. It follows that provided everyone follows the recommendations, its spread can be curtailed, including in small enclosed places like an airplane. The widespread terror of flying, which I myself felt, is therefore not really justified.
During my previous sojourns in Paris, I lodged in the neighborhood of Cite Universitaire, because the purpose of my stay was research. This time, I stayed in a private home that I found via the website Home Exchange, which allows frequent travellers to swap houses. Spending the entire month of August in the apartment was a novel experience for many different reasons. One was the neighborhood itself, Montmartre, which is on the other side of the city from the one I am very familiar with, and which differs immensely from it. Some streets are almost fully inhabited by recent arrivals from North Africa, and during the hot summer evenings, they would be congregated outside, socializing with each other while speaking boisterously. This created a festive atmosphere that was very different from the more subdued Cite Universitaire, which is mostly inhabited by upper-middle class students from other Western countries (mostly European).
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| Gare du Nord at sunset. Just around the corner from where I was staying |
In Toronto, I live in a one-bedroom condo on the 26th floor; when I open the windows, or sit on the balcony, I hear nothing except the city traffic and the sound of construction machines operating nearby. In Montmartre, I lived on the 4th floor, and hence was much closer—and therefore more connected—to life on the street: sidewalks, passengers, shops and cars.
When going to bed, I could hear the conversations between drunk patrons in the bar below. In the mornings I would spend many hours in the kitchen, and since I nor my neighbours had air conditioning, our windows were always open, allowing me to hear the sounds emanating from their apartments. From one there was classical music always playing, seemingly from a scratchy record, but more likely from an old CD player. From another the clinking and clacking of pots and pans. Over here, the banal daily conversations between a mother and her daughter; over there, the soft and slow vibration of light snoring. I imagined, meanwhile, that they could hear my noises: typing on my laptop, or speaking loudly with my mom on Messenger, or turning the pages of one of my favourite French magazines, Le Monde Diplomatique. This was a radical contrast from my Toronto apartment, where, due to the thick walls which separate the units, and because windows are always closed for climate control, I never hear a peep from my neighbours, nor they from me.
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| The splendour of Montmartre |
Recurring sounds throughout the day in Montmartre are church bells and police and ambulance sirens. The sound of one and the other would often occur simultaneously, and I could not help but notice the poetry of their proximity. Both sounds, in their own ways, signify vulnerability, the fragility of existence, and comfort or protection offered by other members of society when we are in danger. Both were heard frequently, alone or together, throughout the pandemic, and consequently I could not help thinking that they were connected to the virus. Were emergency crews responding to calls about respiratory distress? And were the churches reminding people about how this invisible pathogen was what stood between them and eternity, and that therefore they needed to make peace with themselves and others?
When I arrived in Paris, the daily infections were rising but still contained. By the end of my stay, there was already what seemed to be a second wave, with around six or seven thousand confirmed infections per day, that is, roughly the amount when the decision to lockdown the country was made. Every week, new restrictions were announced: masks were first obligatory in the metro, then in all closed public spaces, then in all shops, stores, and offices, and then outdoors. This did not seem to stem the rise in infections, and for many, including myself, this induced heightened anxiety. I wore a mask everywhere, frequently disinfected my hands, and avoided crowded spaces, particularly public transit. When visiting friends, we maintained physical distancing. I spent a lot of time in Pompidou library, where I was able to read books on French colonial history, and there, rigid rules were in place: to use the library, an online reservation had to be made, which would allow contact tracing in the event of an outbreak; numbers were limited to allow space for physical distancing; eating or taking a coffee break was prohibited, even in the library’s cafeteria, which was in any event closed; masks had to be worn at all times, in a way that covered both the nose and the mouth, and staff frequently walked around to ensure that recalcitrant clients followed this rule.
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| Studying at Pompidou library during the pandemic |
One notable aspect of the trip was that there were relatively few tourists on the streets. In the past, when walking around Paris, I was struck by how crowded the sidewalks, cafes, and restaurants are with foreigners. Of course, this should not be surprising, since Paris is an international city and a major tourist destination, but still: during previous visits, when strolling on a sidewalk one often heard people speaking only English. During the pandemic, when walking around the city, 95% of the time, I heard French. Tourism has plummeted everywhere, including in Paris, and perhaps for the first time in decades, the city was peopled almost exclusively by Francophones. Admittedly, this was one of the more enjoyable aspects of the trip.
When I purchased my ticket in the middle of July, my return was slated for September 9th, partly because I planned on visiting my family in Italy in late August. Due to the worsening state of the Covid-19 in Europe, I could not travel to Italy and have contact with my relatives there, some of whom are aged and vulnerable. For the same reason, I decided to return to Toronto earlier than planned, on August 28th. I was disappointed but it seemed that another lockdown, if only a partial one, might occur because the tightening of restrictions each week was not working as intended. Being in Paris during a lockdown—when all except grocery stores would be closed—was not appealing, nor did I want to risk my flight being cancelled and being stuck in the country.
When leaving, I was a little sad. I hopped on the RER to take me to the airport before sunrise, and this train only heightened the sombre atmosphere. It was in a state of disrepair, making a vibrating and grinding noise each time it accelerated, and, unlike in the past, station stops were not announced in multiple languages, including French. It was as if the pandemic, and the collapse of tourism, led to a general neglect of public transport—or it could simply mean that I randomly boarded a creaky train that morning.
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| Air France flight from Paris was almost empty |
I suspected that the plane would not be full, but I did not expect to find only a third of seats occupied. Almost all the seats behind me were empty, and those in front were not even half filled. This created more comfort and better service for those flying in economy class, but it also added to the general pessimism, since the industry cannot survive if folks don’t travel. My arrival at Pearson International Airport also was not encouraging: it was empty, with only one border agent checking passports for Canadians, and this time, rather than asking questions about my purchases or the purpose of travel, they reminded me about the obligatory 14-day quarantine and inquired whether anyone could do my grocery shopping. I replied yes, my mom, and took public transit home. After I arrived, I started unpacking my luggage, and when my mom dropped off my groceries on the main floor, I went downstairs to pick them up. When going back into the lobby to return to my condo unit, I was aghast to discover that the elevators were not working. I waited 90 minutes for the repairmen to arrive, to no avail. I was jet-lagged and needed to empty my luggage, and did not want to risk waiting in the lobby the entire evening. I therefore took the stairs—all 26 floors—while carrying about 40 pounds of groceries plus a pot of fresh tomato sauce my mom had prepared for me.
It was not a very auspicious return to Toronto. But it was good to be back.
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