Hate-Fucking Your Favourite Cities

def’n, Hate Fucking: ‘The act of displacing anger through love-making unbeknownst to the other person.’


The moral of the article is, Paris is the worst place on earth.

“I’m aware that regularly stepping in dog crap and having to avoid fawning honeymooners is chic and sophisticated and all that other stuff that people write about Paris on novelty dish towels,” writes Yerim Sar, in a re-posted 2014 article for VICE. “But there are things I’d rather do than worry about not being cosmopolitan enough, like making sure I can afford some kind of sustenance after handing my landlord Bermuda’s national debt in rent, every single month…

“Paris is the worst place ever.”

This is not true, of course. Just as Paris can’t possible be the ‘best place’ ever, or on earth. It’s an objective opinion, whichever one you choose, even if you choose neither. But it is true that what makes Paris – or any city like it, maybe Rome or London or Bangkok and certainly New York – so good is also what can make it so terrible.

Read: Paris, Just Keep Living – by Kolby Solinsky, November 18, 2015

If you love the wide boulevards, the antiquey cheese and bread shops, the culture, and the art-errific history, you can also imagine why someone would hate most of those things. Maybe not hate out of the gate, but eventually learn to loathe them. Is it cynical? Of course. But cynicism is inevitable.

Having to dress up and look your best is exhausting. Especially when you’re not as naturally beautiful as others. Pretending to be rich is degrading and, again, exhausting. Especially if you don’t desire to be rich – but maybe you’re doing it for social survival. And the idea of having to survive socially is something we all hate and reject, but it’s soemthing we crave anyway.

Like when you tell yourself or somebody, “You shouldn’t care what other people think about you.” But you only say it out loud, to that other people will hear it. Trying not to care takes so much effort – actually not caring is a quality a very limited few actually possess.

And while it’s always been cool to be uncool, there’s probably no such thing in Paris – a city that, until I die, will stand for something so extravagant, so luxurious, so bohemian, so elite, so untouchable, so magical, something so simultaneously infuriatingly desirable and ultimately uncatchable.

“I got a lot of hassle after telling my friends that I wanted to move out of my parents’ place in central Paris,” begins Sar. “None of them, even the most rational, could fathom why I wanted to rent a cheap, spacious apartment in the suburbs over an expensive, poky shit hole in the middle of the city.”

And that’s it, isn’t it? Paris isn’t just annoying and awful to him because it’s too cosmopolitan or too expensive or too prickish. It’s also annoying to him because it’s home – because no matter how exciting your home is, you’ve been there before and you’ve been there so many times.

Doesn’t matter where you grow up. I live in Vancouver, a place constantly fawned over – it seems – by others in Canada, because they see mountains and ocean and beautiful glass skyscrapers and a pulsing orb of young, hip energy. Like I think everyone in Paris enjoys long, rich coffee at noon every day, melting cheese and perfectly plucked for dinner, I guess people think I’m carrying my surfboard out to the water every day in Vancouver.

But I’m not. Because I’m lazy and I have to work. Like everyone else everywhere else.

Home is always some place you’d love to leave… even if it’s so hard to climb out of bed. Even if it’s Paris.

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