Edit and Design class magazine project

the

WIECK WEEKLY magazine DECEMBER 5, 2013

the annual

PARIS

TRAVEL

brooklyn

DISCOVER EUROPE, ASIA AND NORTH AMERICA

WHERE TO STAY, WHAT TO DO

NOTES ON NYC’S NEW ART SCENE

LONDON LONDON DESCRIPTION GOES HERE HERE

issue

LIFE IN Paris An inside look at living in the heart of the city of lights: where to shop, eat, live and play Andrew Brenner Photos by John Doe

We drew a deep breath before entering the tunnel. The garbage strewn around the entrance was about as inviting as the prospect of walking nearly a mile under one of Paris’s most famous parks not knowing what, or whom, to expect. We were in the heart of the city, but completely removed from it.

But with four of us, there was safety in numbers, and so we set out into the darkness to explore one of the city’s more hidden treasures: the Petite Ceinture. Forget the Catacombes or the Égouts; impressive as Paris’s underground bone repository (the former) and sewers (the latter) are, the abandoned rail line encircling the city offers urban hikers a new perspective.

A section of the line in the 16th Arrondissement was opened to the public as a nature trail in 2008, and another, in the 15th Arrondissement, was opened this summer; there is also a short path in the 12th. The Jardin de la Rue du Colonel Manhès is a verdant, narrow park in the 17th Arrondissement that runs parallel to the railway.

As nice as those are, we wanted to see more of the Petite Ceinture, and that meant exploring sections that have not been repurposed, and that are not necessarily easy to hike. It is officially forbidden to walk the tracks, with high fencing lining the entire beltway (ceinture means “belt” in French), but for the most part the authorities look the other way. As Richard Prost, who has lived in areas neighboring the tracks for most his life and has made a documentary on the subject, put it: “If you’re a polite hiker, the cops will simply ask you to leave.” On a pleasant weekend, dozens of intrepid Parisians can be found walking the rails.

Knowing where you can get in and out of the Petite Ceinture is critical. In most places, the railway is sunken — the tracks are below street level, which can feel like being in the bottom of a valley. Along the way there are tunnels, trestles and elevated sections. We figured a good place to start was the Jardins du Ruisseau (Porte de Clignancourt Métro stop), near the Marché aux Puces on the northern edge of Paris. The community garden in the 18th Arrondissement has taken up residence along the north bank of the tracks and includes a chicken coop, beehives and about three dozen plots bursting with a variety of vegetables and flowers. It is a great

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place to unwind on a warm afternoon but, as it turns out, a bad place to try to get onto the tracks. So we continued until we found a breach in the fence and started on our way.

Much of the 18th Arrondissement seemed a concrete wasteland of industrial infrastructure as we walked alone, out of breath not so much from exertion but out of apprehension over what lay ahead, and because we knew an easy exit would be all but impossible. The 33 kilometers (20 miles) of tracks surrounded Paris when they were built in the mid-19th century, connecting passengers and freight with the city’s major train stations. The Paris Métro gradually replaced the Petite Ceinture, and in 1934 commuter service virtually ended. Freight trains continued to use the network until 1993.

Our urban hiking was tough going: The weeds were one reason; having to walk on the wooden ties or the loose rock between them was another.

At a spot with chest-high overgrowth, we crossed paths with our first taggeurs, or graffiti artists, of the day. We uttered a quick bonjour before scuttling off.

A massive heap of concrete beckoned. We were walking through what is listed on maps as a warehouse, parking garage and a subway repair facility.

As we approached the Canal de l’Ourcq and the Parc de la Villette, it didn’t help our anxiety levels to recall that, until 1974, this was the site of the slaughterhouses of Paris — but it did beat the “Mad Max” zone we had just bushwhacked through. Confronted by a construction site and an active suburban train line, we were forced to climb down from the tracks to cross the canal by a regular pedestrian bridge. While searching for a way back up, we discovered a community of artists working in studios wedged between the arches that support this elevated section of track.

Flowers, plants and bright artistic creations decorate the entrances to their vaulted workplaces. “We’ve carved ourselves into the Petite Ceinture,” Sylviane Borie said with a laugh. She is part of a loose collective of sculptors, rap musicians and painters who have “created links with the community and camaraderie amongst artists,” she continued, “but our voice isn’t being heard.” Like the Petite Ceinture, the collective is in legal no man’s land and is facing eviction.

Peeling back a sheet-metal partition that was blocking access to another construction site, we ascended a long ramp that led up to a fence separating the site from the tracks. We found an opening in the fence, and after hoisting ourselves over it, we were back on the tracks. We soon realized we were above the Paris that we had seen a thousand times from ground level. From our elevated perspective we could see the Parisians on the way to their Sunday market, waiting for the bus, and children playing.

We walked under an office building that straddled the tracks as if it had grown up around them.

Like undergrowth that gradually consumes a fence, the city had nearly overrun the Petite Ceinture. As Paris slowly rose up around us, we approached a comparatively open area where people were clearly living. Looking up from our trench we spotted the western edge of the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, Sylviane Borie an old quarry with a 100-foot bluff.

Among the signs of inhabitation: A beat-up stroller, a tree strewn with thin strips of paper containing various “wishes” and an impromptu “Home Sweet Home” sign quickly confirmed our hunch as we were greeted by residents of this section of the Petite Ceinture. With a hello and a look at their makeshift home, which resembled a tool shed carved into the steep embankment, we continued on. But after a glance down the line, our hearts dropped. The unwelcoming entrance to a railway tunnel was littered with broken bottles and other discarded waste. We had come prepared with headlamps and solid hiking boots, which made things easier. Although there was not much water to contend with in the tunnel, the footing was slippery, the temperatures chilly and the air damp.

We’ve carved ourselves into the Petite Ceinture, created links with the community and camaraderie amongst artists.”

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