Writer’s Paris – a guided journey for the creative soul, Eric Maisel defines the
[French-invented] flâneur as “an observer who wanders the streets of a great city on a mission to
notice with childlike enjoyment the smallest events and the obscurest sights”. I think this
is a difficult art form for most Americans. Often taught to be ethnocentric, and even if
interested in non-American places, taught to rush through as many sights as quickly as
possible, we find it nearly impossible to give value to such ‘trivial’ experiences as
watching a small child playing in a Parisian sandbox, or enjoying the endlessly circling
flight of pigeons around an Italian church’s bell tower, or marveling at the changing hues
as the sun sets over the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. So, get into shape for walking, but
when you arrive force yourself to slow down and really look at the things that are
surrounding you. So what if you return to the States without photos of everything your
friends think you should have seen? Isn’t it enough that you can say to yourself “I saw
life in Paris, or Florence, or Rome, or Yorkshire”? Just such an encounter with life,
catalyzed by a flâneur stroll, happened to me on a recent trip to Switzerland.
As I walked slowly back from turning in my ski equipment at the rental shop
towards my chalet in the Swiss village of Axalp, I was captivated by the grandeur of the
mountains. The snow-covered peaks reminded me of the many mountaineering stories I
had encountered as an adolescent and still loved. I had dreamed of climbing some of
these peaks – the Eiger and the Matterhorn to name just two. I had never managed to
generate enough passion and courage to do this, yet my stroll was allowing me to revisit
those dreams.
But the mountains were not the whole, or even the main part of this flâneur experience.
I paused to watch and photograph the children being taught to ski on the gentle slope
where I, a few hours earlier, had been trying to remain vertical on my skis. I walked
a few more steps and paused to gaze across a velvety snow-covered valley
to a hillside that was crisscrossed with the geometric patterns left by hundreds of skiers.
Both the unbroken and ski-etched surfaces possessed grandeur. The one from the
smoothness that made you want to lay gently into its embrace, and the other from the
appearance of a giant finger having traced lines into the white expanse.
Less than 100 meters further on, I again stopped to stare at and photograph the scene, this time the
chalets that looked as if they had been picked up and pushed down until they were half
submerged in soft, white cake frosting.
After a 45-minute stroll that could have taken only 5 without my repeated stops, I arrived at our chalet. I hesitated at the door and turned to look behind me. For the first time, I noticed the tree that stood just across the road and not more than 50 feet away. The colors and shapes possessed by the trunk and branches
of this large hardwood made a beautiful contrast to the white blanket surrounding its base and laying along some of its thick horizontal branches. Again I gazed for several minutes, and snapped numerous photographic records of what I was seeing. The world would not have ended if I had hurried back from the rental shop to our chalet. But, I would have been [unknowingly] poorer if I had not chosen to apply the discipline of the flâneur.
Being a flâneur, however, does not always mean that you experience life separate
from human contact. In fact, I believe that some of the best opportunities come when you
throw yourself into the breach so to speak. For example, I love European coffee bars.
The language is always foreign to me and the coffees are almost always wonderful. But
the main reason I am so fond of these places is because of the nearly universal reaction I
elicit from the servers behind the bar. They always demonstrate body language and
verbiage that indicates their belief that I have ordered the wrong product. Like one
morning, when I moved to the front of the line at the Zurich airport espresso counter and
said “Espresso dopio, please” the young woman looked at me with raised eyebrows and
said in her best English with a Swiss German accent, “Do you want strong coffee?” I
laughed and replied, “Yes, I would like very strong coffee.” They are even more
perplexed when I leave the long thin sugar packets unopened and the milk untouched – I
like very strong, black coffee.
I also love flâneur-esque interactions involving European ticket agents. They are
almost always helpful, but also almost always slightly harried – as I would be if I had to
answer, in a multitude of languages, the same questions of “When did you say this train
leaves?”, “What platform do I need?” and “How do I get to that platform?” So, when I
brandished the printout of the train information sent to me by my host who lives with his
family in Brienz, Switzerland – a printout clearly containing platform and time for my
train – while asking the above questions the woman behind the glass responded with “Sir,
it is written on the sheet that you are holding.” Ticket agents 1 : stupid American 0.
As I boarded this train I reflected on the fact that my wife Frances and I have had
some of our very richest flâneur experiences while riding in trains, buses and taxis in
foreign countries. I think some of the enjoyment comes from the novelty of mass transit
for two Americans who use their cars to go everywhere. But the main reason this mode
of travel has generated so much fun for us is the very presence of the masses, and the
opportunity to listen and watch them do life. A prime example was the train trip from
Zurich to Brienz via Lucerne that followed my interaction with the weary ticket agent.
Even if I had not looked outside at the snow covered landscape, it would have been
obvious from the water proof pants worn by many of my fellow travelers, along with the
bags filled with skis and snowboards, that I was traveling in winter time.
When I did happen to glance up from my book to give a soft whistle of amazement at one of the
many houses with a cap of 4-5 feet of snow perched on its roof, the young woman across
from me laughed and said “A lot of snow!” A conversation evolved during which we
exchanged information about where we were from, to whom we were married and how
many children we were responsible for. Finally we got around to why I was in
Switzerland. When I explained that I was here to lecture, serve on a PhD committee and
to visit with friends, she gave the usual and accurate assessment that I was extremely
fortunate to have a job that paid me to travel and see the world. However, when I then
told her that the next day, in the Swiss Alps, would mark the very first time I would ski
she looked even more alarmed than the woman who served me at the espresso bar. Her
query of “Do you have good insurance?” was eerily similar to my wife Frances’ “Well, I
guess it is ok for you to go skiing, since we have enough life insurance.” It’s sometimes
hard to be a flâneur when all around you are those predicting your sudden and imminent
demise.
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