Someone called me names last week.
Not in the way that requires an apology or a strongly worded reply. One name. Carefully chosen. Delivered with the quiet confidence of someone who has read more books than most people own.
The name was flâneur.
She is the kind of person who uses words like flâneur without checking if anyone is following. Well travelled, widely read, opinions that arrive fully formed and correctly spelled. When she says something, you nod first and look it up later.
She had just read two posts on this site. The one about paying attention. And the one where I photographed a feedback terminal in an airport washroom and asked who exactly goes to a washroom, takes out their phone, and clicks a picture of a smiley face survey.
I thanked her, because that seemed like the right thing to do. Then I went home and looked the word up.
A flâneur, it turns out, is someone who saunters through a city, watching the world pass by. The word is French, which is already suspicious. The French have a word for everything, and the word is always more dignified than the thing deserves.
What they were describing, in plain English, was a man sitting on a bench looking at pigeons.
I have done this and will not pretend otherwise. I have sat on benches in Madurai, Mumbai, Melbourne, and a few places starting with other letters. And watched people cross roads, carry things, argue with autorickshaw drivers, and eat standing up. I have watched all of this with the focused attention of someone who is not quite sure what he is looking for but is confident it will appear.
This, apparently, is a philosophy.
The flâneur, has an artist’s eyes. He sees shape, colour and size. He freezes reality to step back and see the beauty in the bustle.
I read that sentence three times. The third time, I was fairly sure I had been doing something profound without knowing it. The first time, I thought it sounded like someone who had missed their bus and made the most of it.
Both can be true.
There is something to it, though. The bench is not wasted time. The watching is not idleness. If you sit still long enough in any city, the city starts performing for you. People forget you are there. A man on a motorcycle will argue with a traffic light. A woman will feed a crow with the precise movements of someone conducting a ceremony. A child will find a puddle that has no business being where it is and step into it with complete commitment.
None of this appears if you are walking with a purpose.
Perhaps being a flâneur is just having no plan and dressing it up in French.
I am fine with this.
