Oliver Gee - Paris On Air

PRAISE FOR OLIVER GEE

Oliver Gee has the talent of finding love and humour in Pariss smallest details. He definitely is one of our greatest Parisian voices. - Caroline de Maigret , model and author of How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are.

The Earful Tower is one of the few Paris podcasts I always listen to. Oliver Gee is very engaging, and presents a different side of Paris, from his personal perspective, with panache, and wit. - David Lebovitz , author of My Paris Kitchen and Drinking French.

Hes the Crocodile Dundee of Paris. - John Baxter , author of The Most Beautiful Walk in The World and A Year in Paris.

What I value about Oliver and his Earful Tower is his openness to all things Parisian - from the historically obscure to the au courant cafs - and the curiosity that drives him to find fascinating Parisian details. A fresh, entertaining voice and the best on the Paris scene. - Cara Black , author of the Aime Leduc mystery novels.

Olivers enthusiasm is contagious, his energy apparently inexhaustible. He even has a wonderful sense of humor. I will flatter myself here by wondering why Oliver Gee and his love of Paris remind me of myself and my own passion those many years ago, when I arrived as a young man in The City of Light. Vive la Rpublique, vive lamour! - David Downie , author of Paris, Paris: Journey into the City of Light and Paris to the Pyrenees.

Introduction

The ring weighed heavy in my pocket as we stepped into the cold Paris night. And it wasnt heavy because it was big - it definitely wasnt big. It was more heavy in the sense that I felt a crushing pressure from my imminent proposal.

We were leaving a Left Bank party and were set to walk to Hemingways bar in the Ritz. My plan was to stop on a bridge somewhere along the Seine River, to ask her to marry me, then to continue to the hotel bar. I double checked the directions discreetly. A twenty-minute walk, fairly straightforward; but as we stepped out into the crisp evening air on rue de lOdeon, a light rain began to fall.

Lets grab a cab, she said.

A cab? No, we have to walk , I thought. I cant propose to her in a taxi. Can I?

Ah, we dont need a taxi, Paris is beautiful when it rains, I responded.

I cant even walk, my shoes are too small, she pleaded. Cant we get a cab?

Should I throw it all in? Postpone the proposal? No. The timing is perfect.

Dont be silly, well never find a cab, I lied. And the Ritz is just a short walk anyway, I lied again.

We set off in the rain, or I suppose you could call it a light drizzle. Almost a mist, really. And we made it down through the Christmas lights on the Left Bank to the Seine. But I could hardly breathe. The One Ring was weighing me down.

Wheres the Pont Neuf bridge? Thats a romantic one, I thought.

The Pont Neuf? Thats way behind us, its the wrong way, she answered.

Oh God, Im thinking out loud. The ring is controlling me. I need to regain control. Find a bridge. Get to the middle. Ask her to marry me.

The nearest bridge was the famed Pont des Arts, but even late on a Sunday night, there were still pedestrians crossing it. Through the drizzle I swear I could see a man down on one knee. No good! Too much of a clich.

Whats that next one up the road? It looks nice. It looks old. It looks romantic. Must get to bridge. Must destroy the ring

We got to the old stone crossing, the Pont du Carrousel, which led to the Louvre museum on the Right Bank. The bridge was empty, not a person or a car in sight. It was perfect.

I had to ask her right then. That, or I had to cast the ring into the Seine and be rid of it forever. I turned and looked at her. Hair wet from the drizzling rain. Eyes glowing golden from the reflected light of the Paris lampposts. Feet swollen from the undersized shoes. Yes, the moment was right.

My precious, I began. Weird, Id never called her that before . Weve been in Paris for three years now, but it still feels like those first nights: clueless, hopeless, and penniless. Those were the best nights of my life. And I want to spend the rest of my nights - and the rest of my days - with you. Will you marry me?

Id stopped breathing about two minutes earlier. I swayed. Time stopped. Then I heard her say yes, four times to be sure, and I breathed again. I slipped the ring on her finger: the weight was lifted and she kissed me in the Paris rain. We moved on towards the Ritz Hotel, with the lights of Place Vendme leading the way. This promised to be the start of something beautiful.

Now, if Id have known that on our honeymoon six months later Id be lying by the road in the French countryside, in agony from a mysterious disease, Id have thrown the damned ring in the river and jumped in after it.

But Im getting ahead of myself

CHAPTER ONE

A dream apartment in Paris, a new life as a journalist, and a Swedish woman.

1.1 The arrival

Now that you know how the story ends, its only fair that you know how it begins. And its a lot less romantic, I can tell you. In fact, if youre only here for the happy stories, you should skip this section. You should also skip chapter 1.5, 2.7, and maybe even 8.2 if you dont like the sound of Lyme Disease.

Anyway, it wasnt love that brought me to Paris, it was hate. Evil, even. It was the terrorist attack on the Charlie Hebdo newspaper in January 2015. On the day of the attack, I was winding up my time as a journalist in Sweden, writing a fluff piece about a viral cartoon. I was putting the finishing touches on the story when one of the senior editors announced that Charlie Hebdo had been attacked, apparently by terrorists.

I heard him say it from the other side of the room and I wondered what a Charlie Hebdo was. I searched online for Charlie Ebdo - without the H, based on his pronunciation - and found it was Frances main satirical magazine. Its unrelenting shots at religion had left it with enemies abroad. The editor came over to my desk and asked how soon I could be ready to go to Paris.

For Charlie Hebdo? I asked, feigning that I was already on top of the story. I can go right away.

Take the next plane, he responded. You can come back for your luggage later.

It wasnt meant to happen like that, but thats the nature of the news. You cant plan around it, and Id soon learn this was especially true in France. The way it was meant to happen was that Id head to Paris on a one-way ticket a month or so later. During this final month in Sweden I had planned to cram the entirety of France, its news, and its language into my head so Id arrive ready to tackle the country as a reporter. After all, like I said in my job interview, I was certain my university-level French would come back like lightning. And how hard could it be to get up to speed with French news?

As it turned out, it took far longer than a month or two to understand the French, their language, and their culture. And I had no time for it anyway. France, and especially Paris, was getting its first taste of a series of horrific attacks, and the world wanted to know what was happening. I rammed some clothes into a suitcase and took the next flight out of Stockholm.

Even though what followed was technically my arrival in Paris, it never felt like it. I had my head buried in the news and didnt stop to smell the pastry. And it was made worse by the fact that I was desperately unprepared to cover the Charlie Hebdo attack as a journalist. I had zero context about how it would affect life for Parisians because I wasnt a Parisian. I was no different from the hundreds of other foreign correspondents sent to cover the story. People call it parachute journalism, where reporters are dropped into a location then pulled out again before anyone knows what has truly happened. I felt like I was a parachute journalist too, even though I was set to stay in Paris long after the parachute was packed away.