Paris has become a City of Cowboys

Wednesday 25 March 2020

It’s a beautiful morning in Paris: the sun is up, the sky is blue, and everyone is trapped inside.

With most car journeys and economic production on hold, the air outside has become purer than ever. And yet, with the number of cases still on the rise, no one is in any position to enjoy it.

Though France might be some twelve hours behind New Zealand, it’s a whole week ahead on the lockdown clock. In that time Paris has come to resemble a spaghetti western, where lone cowboys wander around deserted spaces.

Walking the streets of the city on mute is an eerie experience. The sight of tall buildings in all directions constantly reminds you that you’re in a metropolis, which makes the lack of noise all the more unsettling.

Besides the wind rattling against some trees, outside is mostly silent. It’s like a lost scene from a Tarkovsky film, where the sounds of ambience enjoy a wider sonic reach than nature had gifted them. I could hear my footsteps on the footpath like hands tapping bongo drums.

I walked to a town square; it was bare. Without any humans to chase them away, a squadron of pigeons had founded a new colony. The rattle of an escalator played in my ears, but no one emerged from the underground.