Paris is a city in motion. Cars, motorcycles, scooters, bicycles, the Metro and people. People everywhere, constantly moving. It was easy, shooting motion pictures. Not so easy to capture stills. And the stories–in every face–I want to know them all. I have my own stories, but I want to know theirs. They won’t tell–easily. All I can do is stare–at their faces–and wonder. I will just have to imagine their stories.
One day in Paris is not enough, but that’s all I had. The city is beautiful and overwhelming. French architecture stands as a witness to the genius minds of grand tradition meant to last through the ages. However, it was the people of Paris that fascinated me, fun, friendly, aggressive and rude. I could see stories in their eyes, in their faces. I took pictures of the places, but, the people in the places were just as interesting–perhaps more so. They all have stories. I tried to capture them, in the moment, as many as I could, as fast as I could. The places will last, the people in motion, their stories changing, these photographs holding them for just a moment.
The good news–Tom and I were going to Paris for a documentary film shoot. The bad news–we only had one day in the city for B-roll. Fortunately, our contacts in Paris agreed to provide a driver who would take us wherever we wanted to go.
Great! We’ll meet him at the airport.
We arrived in Paris early in the morning. Our flight from England had been bumpy and a steady rain was falling in the city. In spite of the early hour, Charles De Gaulle airport was crowded. I’d been to Paris before and knew what to expect. Pushy people. Cranky travelers. Still true.
We retrieved our gear and made our way toward the exit, passing the line of people holding signs. I didn’t see my name. We came to the end of the row. No sign. No driver. Finding a spot for our carts, I made a call.
“Pierre, where are you?”
“I am here.”
“So are we.”
“This is good.”
I don’t speak French. Pierre spoke English, but I had the impression that complex concepts were not part of his capabilities.
“How do we find you?”
“Do not worry. I will find you.”
Really? How? The call ended before I could ask. Tom looked at me skeptically. He had listened in on the conversation. He decided to swim against the current and take another pass at the sign holders.
“I didn’t know you speak Spanish.”
“Bonjour mes frères.”
True to his promise, Pierre stood before us, holding a sign with our names on it. His smile was encouraging.
“Bonjour,” we said. “How did you find us?”
“This way,” Pierre said, ignoring our question and stepping into the stream of transient people.
“How did he find us?” Tom asked me. I shrugged, following Pierre’s example and pushing my cart into the stream.
As we made our way through the airport, I noticed that Pierre was older than he sounded on the phone. He had a shuffle-step limp and didn’t seem to see particularly well. When the crowds thinned out and I could walk beside him, Pierre assured me he could drive us anywhere we wanted.
“Perfecto,” I said, not really sure which language, if any, that was.
Our carts piled high with equipment, Tom and I forded the river of humanity-in-transit as Pierre lead us to parking level minus-2F. We followed him, slowly, through the underground depths to row eleven, space twenty-six. Pierre stopped abruptly and stared at the car in space twenty-six. Tom and I stared at Pierre, staring at the car in space twenty-six.
“Pierre, I don’t think this car is going to work,” I said, as the truly Parisian mini-smart car waited proudly before us.
“No,” Pierre said. “This car will not work.”
Tom and I looked at each other, not sure if this realization was just dawning on him or if Pierre had known this when he rented the car.
“Pierre, can we exchange it?”
“No,” he said with his strong French accent.
“No?” we repeated.
“No!” he repeated.
“Pierre, this car won’t do.”
“This is not my car.”
“Not your car?”
“No.” Pierre said.
Tom and I looked at each other again, relieved.
“Okay. Where’s your car?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” We had picked up the habit of repeating everything Pierre said. It was comforting but not really clarifying.
“No.” Pierre continued to stare at the smart car. “This is where I parked.”
Pierre began to shuffle down the row of cars. “Sometimes I have memory problems,” I think I heard him say—not sure—he was facing away from me—maybe I just imagined he said it.
“What kind of car is it?” I asked.
“Use the clicker,” Tom suggested.
Pierre didn’t answer. He just got further away.
“I’ll help him,” Tom said, abandoning his cart and racing down the opposite row of cars.
In moments, Pierre and Tom had disappeared from view and I was left alone with two carts of equipment. The air in the parking garage was stale, carbon monoxide mixed with French tobacco. The temperature seemed to be rising. The ceiling seemed to be getting lower. The lights were growing dim… I sat down on my baggáge to wait.
Charles de Gaulle airport is big. Really big. So is the parking structure. Pierre and Tom appeared and disappeared at regular intervals, emerging and submerging into and out of the bulkhead dividing rows. This was comforting and disconcerting, for awhile. Then they were gone. For a long time.
When he eventually did return, Pierre assured me he had parked in one of the rows.
“Good to know,” I said, trying not to be cynical. “Which one?”
“It should be here,” Pierre said.
I could only agree, both of us shrugging as if the car had moved by itself.
Tom finally returned, breathing hard. He had jogged the entire length of the section.
“Volkswagen,” Tom said. Pierre had remembered somewhere down one of the rows.
“Any luck?” I said.
“No,” Tom said matching Pierre’s accent.
After one hour of searching for the car, using the clicker, we began to think maybe someone had stolen it. However, Pierre assured us that was not the case. He gave me the impression that Paris was without thievery of any kind.
“Have faith,” he said.
What else could we do? There was only so much daylight available. So, we kept looking—faith and prayer tinged with a hint of desperation.
“Voíla. Right were I left it,” Pierre said, smiling sincerely.
“Voíla,” I said. My French accent was not as good as Tom’s.
As we got in the car, Pierre asked, “Would you drive? I don’t know how to drive a stick shift.”
Tom and I looked at each other, uncertain now how Pierre had actually parked the car. “Sure,” I said, “Let’s go see Paris.”
“I will show you,” Pierre said.
The day we planned to visit the Louvre, it was closed. All we could do was wander the exterior halls of the palace.
On a documentary film shoot in Rome, we only had six hours to film B-Roll footage. Definitely not enough time. Weeks would not cover the amazing sites of Rome.
Louis XVI lost his home and his head over such beautiful extravagance.
Da Vinci Code? I couldn’t find the clues. The Louvre was closed when we went to visit. It stopped raining just long enough to get this HDR shot.
A rain storm brews over Downham, England, which, by the way, bears a remarkable resemblance to the Shire of Middle Earth.
I was the stranger, lost in time. Her eyes asked questions I could not understand. Our paths crossed–our lives tangent. She let me take her photograph. I did not consider it thievery, although the trade was in my favor. I will not forget her face.
Not far from Cusco, Peru, the Inca Fortress of Saksaywaman remains to bear witness of a fallen people.