Judefa

Jaime Silva lives in Lisbon, Portugal, but crosses Europe every August, photographing buildings and cities

… like St Petersburg

Berlin

and Dresden

“Vanvos” (Giammario someone; no name supplied) is at this address and is or was in Florence, Italy, which he has photographed extensively. Then there are other well-known cities — those I’ve featured were taken in Paris, London and Paris.

PARIS

I formed a poor impression of it long ago, mostly the result of pictures looked at, books read and the sheer fear of trying to make myself understood on their terms, in their language. That is so entrenched that it can still surface at times, temporarily obliterating my real experience of the city in 2001, which was quite special.

~ ~ ~

My high school knowledge of French wasn’t too bad but on first visit, while doing the Kombivan thing in 1975, I was too nervous to blurt it except in the villages where they think you’re sweet for trying.

My recall of the language was better than that of my three companions but I was also the most inhibited among us, so I would whisper the words to one of them and they’d say it. It got us pain, buerre, lait etc so we didn’t go hungry, but we did feel Paris was a little out of our league.

Had I known then what a couple of glasses of red could do, I wouldn’t have hesitated — in the words of David Brent, el vino did flow, and so did the words no worries at all when I met a friendly African at a cafe one night.

But generally …

the cliches, the overkill; Paris to me had been overpromoted by so many artists and photographers last century that I was a little sick of it before I even went there, with its black and white lovers, noirish settings, dainty Chanel and Audrey Hepburn types and the tacky Moulin Rouge.

And was it acceptable to even be alone there and not entwined with a lover or else degrading yourself with booze and low-lifes?

Paris is No 16 on my list of 15 favourite towns and cities because my own idea of it was so overshadowed by all this and the accordion music plus a loathing of Edith Piaf.

~ ~ ~

In 1984 I saw the seedy side, much like what a lot of migrant artists from the east might have experienced, and still would.

The hotel recommended by well-meaning family friends turned out to be dark, dank and depressing, with loud brown patterned wallpaper that threatened to close in on us at night.

It was out in the sticks too, so negotiating the confoundedly convoluted Metro was hard work, and we’d exhausted ourselves travelling Eurail for two months, often sleeping on trains. In fact my partner at this point practically puked at the sight of a train or railway station; he was sick of my demented timetable for “seeing everything”.

Had we stayed in Paris at the start of the trip, on the Left Bank, in a room with shutters and a small balcony, Paris might well be No 1 but as it was I had liked Salzburg, Bern, Munich, Lindauer, Innsbruck and almost everywhere in Italy better.