Paris On Air

by Oliver Gee

  I could also look down on my own bedroom window, which was an odd sensation in itself, and I could finally grasp just how close we were to having that uninterrupted Eiffel Tower view. The chimney blocking it was huge!

  I also understood how much taller our apartment block was than the other ones around it. The buildings across much of Paris, especially in the centre, were typically built to a uniform shape and size thanks to the grand redesign of the city by Baron Haussmann in the 19th century. They’re all six or seven floors and more or less equal in height. But we were higher, who knows why. I wasn’t thinking about that at the time. I was thinking about the city. The sheer scale of it. And how fortunate I felt to be living in the middle.

  Stephane took a great picture of me up there, standing among the chimney tops, with both arms outstretched to my sides. Behind me, Paris, with the spire and towers of Notre Dame visible below my right wrist. (The same spire that was to tragically burn to ashes just two years later.) Stephane’s picture captured our little adventure perfectly. My whole body was full of energy, fear, and excitement. I was lucky to be alive, that was for sure. But I also realized that if I wanted to stay alive, I should get off the roof.

  I climbed down and thanked Stephane for the invite. The experience was exhilarating, but I never went up there again. Paris is probably best enjoyed from the pavement, to be honest. But every now and again it’s nice to see it from the top.

  4.6 Leaving Montorgueil

  Two people can live in a shoebox apartment for two years, and not a day more. That’s the limit. This dawned on Lina and me one morning as if it were the most natural thought in the world. We figured that it would be mad to spend another day in that tiny chambre de bonne, so we went looking for something bigger. And like so many Paris apartment stories I’ve heard, we found our perfect place by pure chance.

  We’d been invited to a party in the 11th arrondissement by a French drag queen we’d met somewhere along the way. The theme for the night: “Dress up in drag. Well, at least make an effort.” The host added that no one should make too much of an effort because she wanted to look the best, of course. And perhaps surprisingly for a drag party, it wasn’t the costumes that grabbed our attention. It was the apartment. It was breathtaking. It had an enormous living room with original fishbone parquet floors, ceiling-high windows, and double glass doors to the bedroom. At four floors up, it was just above the tree line and it had a charming view over the intersection of a quiet Parisian street and rue Charonne. After sufficient compliments to the host about her dress, makeup, and wig, we asked about the apartment.

  “How on earth did you find this place, it’s amazing,” I said.

  “Oh this old place? You like it? Well I love it too, darling, but I’m upsizing next month. If you want, I could get you ahead of the queue. We can put in a good word with the real estate agent. She’s an old friend of my family. And don’t tell anyone I told you, but you can get this place for a steal.”

  Lady Luck was showing her gorgeous face once more and I was ready to chase her. We said we were in. The drag queen winked one massive eyelash at me, said it would be done, then strode elegantly to the front door to greet some new arrivals. Lina and I couldn’t believe our good fortune.

  We met with the real estate agent, Madame Raymond, a few weeks later. She told us she couldn’t speak a word of English, but that it didn’t matter - there wouldn’t be any need for lengthy discussion because this was an open and shut deal. The drag queen had put in a good word for us. All we had to do was confirm that we were happy with the place.

  Madame Raymond took us into the apartment and flung open the front door. And if we’d thought it was brilliant during the evening, we weren’t prepared for the sheer impressiveness of it in full daylight. Our eyes were met with an almost blinding natural light that swept the room. Being above the trees, with ceiling-high windows, and an unusually low building across the road, there was nothing to stop the light from flooding into the room and reflecting off the wooden floors.

  It was so powerful, so beautiful, that I almost had to look away. And it seemed even bigger than we remembered, because the drag queen had moved out and taken the furniture. And of course, the room wasn’t filled with big wigs and feather boas anymore either. We inspected the rest of the apartment, almost shivering with excitement that a place like this could be so affordable. We started talking about how our lives would change once more with the move, how we could finally have guests not only for dinner - but also for the weekend. Hell, we could even get furniture.

  It all seemed too good to be true, just like my first place, which was starting to feel smaller and smaller by the minute.

  “So, Madame Raymond, show me the dotted line,” I said in English.

  She didn’t understand and I didn’t know how to say the same thing in French, so I just said that it was perfect and that we would very much like to take it.

  “Fantastique,” she responded. “I’m sure you will love it here. Now, all we need is your dossier and the apartment is yours.”

  Ah, the dossier. I’d heard about the dossier before and hoped I’d never come face to face with someone who wanted one. My current landlady had never mentioned it. I’d never had to take the time to make one. Essentially, the dossier is a set of documents that proves you have a stable job with enough of a regular income to cover the rent. You have to prove that those living in the home earn three times the rent each month. Now, I wasn’t earning that much money, but if you added my salary to Lina’s - who had just started an independent shoe company - then we could scrape through. We went home and made our first dossier, crossing our fingers that we hadn’t missed any details and that Madame Raymond wasn’t showing the apartment to others. We sent it off before the end of the day on Friday, after translating a bunch of Lina’s Swedish work documents into French for the benefit of the future landlord. The real estate agent said she would get back to us on Monday.

  We spent the weekend planning the big move. For the first time, we found ourselves inspecting furniture in the flea markets - something we didn’t have the luxury (or the space) for in the chambre de bonne apartment. We discussed how life was set to change. I almost sent a letter to my landlady saying that I was on the way out.

  Luckily I didn’t.

  Because on Monday morning I got the bad news from Madame Raymond.

  “You two seem so lovely, but I’m afraid we just can’t let you have the apartment without a full dossier. You both need French jobs with French incomes. It’s simply impossible. I’m sorry.”

  Heartbreak.

  Well, the goddess of fortune is a fickle one, and I should have realized that going in. We had the money for the apartment, but not the paperwork. And we couldn’t get the paperwork. The dream apartment went out the window and we were left with two options: 1) Get Lina a French job so we could have a French dossier. 2) Find an apartment through someone who doesn’t care about dossiers.

  It was only then, two years into my Parisian life, that I realized how lucky I’d been to find the chambre de bonne apartment we were living in. I have no idea why that landlady didn’t want my papers. But now it seemed that we’d have to wait if we were going to move from our lovely little shoebox. It was a definite kick in the shins, French administration trying to have the last laugh; but as I’ve said before, the only way to beat French admin is to make sure you’re laughing first.

  Even if it’s a bitter, dejected, and somewhat angry laugh.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Earful Tower and a new French president.

  5.1 The radio

  Two years had passed since I moved to Paris and I was in a slump. The news that I had come to cover was getting me down. There was just so much horror, so much terror. Since I’d been in the Paris office there’d been the Charlie Hebdo terror attack, the November attacks at the Bataclan, the Bastille Day attack in Nice, plus a spate of other terror-relat
ed shootings and stabbings, not to mention the horrific Germanwings plane crash in the French Alps. News, by its very nature, is often bad - and I was realizing that it wasn’t giving me the Paris experience I’d been hoping for. But it wasn’t just that. Working in a small team in a startup meant a lot of work and not a lot of exploring Paris. Being at the desk from 9-6, Monday to Friday, meant I never really had my finger on the pulse of the city for anything besides its news. I didn’t know how busy a Paris cafe was at 2 pm on a Wednesday. I didn’t know when the garbage men typically came down my street. I didn’t know whether the Metro was busy outside of peak hour on a weekday.

  It was around this point that we had a young intern at the news site, James, who was flat broke and looking for opportunities. He’d been with us a while and was eager to find a full time gig. One day, while scrolling around online, I saw a job as a junior producer on a radio station called World Radio Paris. I sent him the link, he applied for the job - and got it. Not long down the line, he got back in touch with me.

  “Ollie, mate, if you’re interested in hosting a radio show, I’ve got a volunteer spot for you,” he said. “Have a think about it, and if it’s something for you, come along to meet the other volunteers at the studio. Come and discover the truth.”

  The truth, huh? Bit strange, I thought. I did indeed consider it, but my instinct was telling me that it wasn’t for me. I’d always been interested in radio, but this was sounding like more work; more news, more grim reporting. Many, if not most reporters out there were far more invested in journalism than I was, far more talented at it, and far more serious, living and breathing the news and discussing it outside of office hours. Not me. I enjoyed the news, but I didn’t devour it in the way other journalists did. This made me hesitant to take on more reporting at the radio.

  I should stress that my time at the news site was hugely memorable and important for me. While the editor may have been disappointed in my taste for raw bacon and the fact that I never got a French girlfriend, he was instrumental in teaching me so much of what I know about reporting. But not just that: he’s the one who taught me what’s important in France, which stories matter, what the readers care for (and why they care). He gave me the context I so sorely lacked when I had moved to France two years earlier. And he was an expert at looking through a French newspaper and knowing exactly which stories an international audience would want to read.

  Despite my initial hesitation about the radio, I couldn’t shake the idea of at least dipping my toe into that world. Just nothing newsy. Nothing too much like work. A kind of talk show, perhaps. A series of interviews with interesting people, talking about Paris. Why not? I texted the idea to James and he invited me to meet the other volunteers the next week. I listened in to the station in the following days and was impressed by the work the others had put in. There were music reviewers, interviews with artists, and people sharing their life stories about Paris. When I went to the meeting, everyone in the room explained their programmes and ideas to the group. They were all volunteers, fun-loving people. Making radio shows for the listeners out of the goodness of their hearts. They were a ragtag bunch, carefree, living for the joy of “on air” conversation.

  When it was time to explain my idea, I told them how I wanted to escape the clutches of the news and do a talk show, and they all politely listened. The only thing they stressed was that if I wanted to join them, then it had to be for a full season. No dipping a toe in, I had to dive in headfirst. I nodded to show my understanding.

  After the meeting, James took me aside. He could sense that I was hesitant to sign up as a volunteer, hesitant to commit to something for so long. We sat on two large leather armchairs and there was an unmistakable darkness that crept over the room as he made his pitch. He looked me in the eye.

  “You’re a slave, Oliver, working in a job that is prison for your mind,” he said.

  Bit harsh. But fair.

  He explained that I needed to explore community radio, or, The Truth, as he called it.

  “Unfortunately, no one can be told what community radio is. You have to see it for yourself. This is your last chance. After this there is no turning back.”

  Why did this sound so familiar? Where had I heard this? Was he quoting something?

  He continued, leaning forward so that his leather trench coat creaked against the armchair.

  “You say no - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You sign up as a volunteer - you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember: all I’m offering is The Truth. Nothing more.”

  That’s what this was. It was The Matrix, definitely The Matrix.

  James, who had a penchant for theatrics, was having a Morpheus moment with me, offering me the proverbial blue or red pill to help stress the importance of the decision. Theatrics aside, James was right to take the matter seriously, as it was a choice that would eventually change my life. But I didn’t know it at the time.

  I told him I’d give him my answer in a week.

  5.2 The Earful Tower

  One night after a basketball game in the old marketplace sports hall, I went for a beer with two American musicians. Their names were Sam and Aurelien, and they had a band called Slim and the Beast. I told them my idea for a radio show. I told them that I had an open offer, but that I was still hesitating. And they didn’t tolerate that.

  “So you’re saying you could do a radio show; you’ve got an idea; and you’ve got nothing to lose? What’s stopping you?” asked Sam.

  I listed a few concerns and Aurelien looked baffled.

  “Who cares? Just do it.”

  “What if I can’t find guests? What if every week I end up struggling to come up with ideas? Where would I even start?” I asked.

  “We’ll be your first guests, we’ll bring the guitars,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, we’re not even gonna discuss it anymore. When you come to basketball next week, come with a time and a date for episode one,” Aurelien added.

  One thing I admire about Americans is that they believe anything is possible. I’ve heard that American children grow up hearing that they can be president one day - and it instills confidence in them, for better or worse. These two Americans believed in me, and I needed that boost. So just like that, the idea was in place and I had my first guests. I confirmed my commitment with James, booked my first studio time and starting writing questions for the band. There was just one piece missing, I realized as my telephone beeped.

  “Ollie, we need a name for your show.” It was James, of course. And I had nothing for him.

  I went for a walk along the Bassin de la Villette during my lunch break at the news site. The bassin is a big stretch of water that picks up where the Canal Saint-Martin stops off. And as I walked, I thought about my new show. How to sum up a radio show that’s meant to be fun, entertaining, light - and, crucially, about Paris? I went through the main words associated with the city, as everyone who’s ever written a book, a blog, or made a social media account about Paris has done before me. Baguette. Croissant. Cafe au lait. Vin rouge. Nope, nothing.

  What about place names? Paris. Arc de Triomphe. Sacre-Coeur. Nothing still. I wandered up on a green iron bridge that crossed the water and saw, way off in the distance, the top floor of the Eiffel Tower. Funny, I thought, I’d been working right here for two years and I didn’t know we had this view just outside. The Eiffel Tower was in my mind, on the tip of my tongue and I kept thinking about my show. How could I sum it up? Something to listen to, something to hear, something for your ears… Hang on, hang on... Something for your ears… something about the Eiffel Tower. Bullseye! “The Earful Tower.” I felt a rush of excitement and I texted James immediately.

  “The show will be called The Earful Tower,” I wrote.

  And so my next chapter began. The Earful Tower was born.

  The ear
ly days of The Earful Tower were carefree and fun. The radio station had no accurate statistics for how many people listened - if anyone at all. I’d asked James to be my sidekick for the show, and as a thanks, I’d bring a bottle of red wine or two into the studio. And we’d fly by the seat of our pants every time.

  The first-ever episode, as agreed with Sam and Aurelien, was with their band. They brought their guitars and harmonicas into the studio and I was so nervous that I’d planned out the half-hour interview to the minute. Even though I knew the guests (and perhaps because we had a glass or two of wine before we started), I felt like I had no idea what I was about to do. I had a list of questions, and James had time cards to let us know how long we’d been talking. And I was nervous. But as soon as we got going that night, the strangest thing happened. I felt a kind of calmness as we pressed “record”. A serenity. Everything else faded away and I was truly present in the moment. Sure, I had the questions beside me, but I didn’t need them. And sure, James would hold up a time card every five minutes, but I didn’t really need that either. Whether that first episode was any good or not - you can be the judge. It’s still out there, right at the bottom of the list. But something about it just felt right, and I was already craving more.

  I reached out to a bunch of people I’d interviewed in the past for the news site. I’m amazed, looking back, that any of them agreed to be on my show. I can only imagine that it was a mix of my persistence, that they knew who I was from my journalist days, and that they were intrigued by radio.

  But some of those early guests were big names in the Paris expat scene. There was acclaimed pastry chef and writer David Lebovitz, author Stephen Clarke, who I’d long admired before I ever moved to France, and there was the former head of the New York Times Paris bureau, Elaine Sciolino. I actually recorded with Elaine in the Shakespeare and Company bookshop after she’d given a talk, which was a wonderful treat in itself. But another fortuitous thing happened that night - I met another author, Australian John Baxter. He had been giving a talk with Elaine and I approached him afterwards. We chatted, ever so briefly, and ever so forgettably for him, I’m sure. I’d never have predicted that a year down the track we’d have become friends. And I certainly wouldn’t have guessed that it’d be after his birthday party that I’d propose to Lina on a Parisian bridge. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.