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This month marks two decades of living in Jakarta for me. So, what’s the big deal? I hear myself ask. Not much, except that in the last twenty years I’ve seen the growth of this place from a city having only a couple of shopping centers (namely Ratu Plaza and Sarinah), a couple of nice hotels (Hotel Indonesia and the Mandarin Oriental) and the odd KFC, to a sprawling metropolis of glitzy malls, fancy hotels and countless international cafes and fast food joints.

The one thing that has not changed much is the number of roads in Jakarta, although the number of cars has grown exponentially, hence the increasing snarl of traffic jams and lengthening travel times.

Indeed, I’m always struck by how quickly this city metamorphoses every time I come back after being away, even for only a couple of weeks, whether in the form of a new building, a new shopping mall or a new condominium.

To be honest, until now, other than the daily route I take from home to office, I’m still unfamiliar with the general layout of this place and how to negotiate its labyrinthine roads. Put me almost anywhere in the middle of the city and tell me to find my way around unaided, and I still would have no idea what number bus or mikrolet to catch or how to direct a dishonest taxi driver to my destination.

Perhaps this is exactly the charm of this city — a pulsing, living and ever-changing cosmos that constantly vacillates between the familiar and the foreign, the mysterious and the mundane. Where even the people change in origins, looks, the types of food they eat and the way they speak. It used to be that when you visited Jakarta you took on a Betawi accent and you called people either “bang” or “non” instead of “mas” or “mbak.” Not nowadays.

Present day city dwellers now have fried chicken, pizzas, spaghetti, sushi, burgers and sausages as their daily staple on top of the regular fried noodles and fried rice. The palates of the young generation are comfortable accommodating different tastes from all over the world with brands that could be found in global supermarkets. While for the more educated ones, their tongues could wag as easily in English as in Bahasa, or a confused mixture of both.

It was a different feeling when I recently revisited Paris, a city where I used to live well over two decades ago. Apart from the number of public bicycles parked on the sidewalks, not much had changed in the landscape since my time. Even the smell, a cross between crushed lettuce and damp carpet hung out to dry, was the same. And once I figured out where the River Seine was, I could more or less get my bearings, even with an old Paris map.

When you have grown familiar with Paris and its narrow streets; the “arrondissement,” or neighborhoods, that circle the Seine like a nautilus and the iconic landmarks that seem to have been there forever, it’s actually easier to feel at home in Paris than on any street in Jakarta.

At least it seems that way to me, perhaps because I measure my attachment to a place by how the cobbled streets feel beneath my well-worn shoes, how the air smells in autumn and the comfort I take in sharing a space with strangers on public transportation.

None of which, alas, could I fully appreciate or experience in my beloved Jakarta, where even in the most public of places, the city always seems to treat us as strangers and we feel like aliens.

In France’s premier city, on the other hand, perhaps even more than in Ernest Hemingway’s memoir of Paris, “A Moveable Feast,” you can develop an exquisitely romantic love affair with the city even if you don’t know a single soul in it. It changes, of course, but in a familiar way, like a dignified person growing old.

The city offers itself to the visitor like a paramour who wants to be enjoyed. It is a place to be discovered and in which to be delightfully lost, whether in the famous places or in the little courtyards off some obscure back alleys. The city’s historic architecture and plethora of cafes and restaurants provide endless solace and lift the spirits of even the most dispirited souls.

While there, I looked for the street where I used to live. It didn’t take me long. A few minutes walk following the same streets that I used to trace on foot and there it was.

And there also, just around the corner was the “boulanger” and the “epicier” that I used to frequent for my daily baguette and cheeses. Different owners now run the shops, most likely, but they are the same places, nevertheless.

I felt as if I had never been away.


Desi Anwar is a senior anchor and writer. She can be contacted at www.desianwar.com and www.dailyavocado.net.