The Paris That American Tourists Rarely See
I recently hosted an old friend of mine and her guy friend when they came to Paris for four days. I'll call her Wanda, and call her friend Reynaldo. (They will be amused, I'm sure.) I met them at the airport so that I could help them navigate the train and Metro to their hotel in St. Germaine. I was so excited to see Wanda, as I have been friends with her since 1985, and even though she faithfully reads my blog and sends me email comments on a regular basis, it's not the same as seeing her skinny little ass right in front of my eyes.
We've had our ups and downs as friends, but mostly ups. She's a Republican, and well, if you've ever girded your loins and wandered over to my political blog, you'll know that I'm not exactly a Republican. On the train ride, Reynaldo, who is a Mormon, said, "This election is so difficult, because there's no good choice available." To which Wanda quickly responded with a big grin, "I told him we should NOT talk politics on this trip." And then I said, "I agree with you Reynaldo, but for different reasons. McCain is definitely not a good choice, and Obama is not liberal ENOUGH." He paused and his face registered surprise. Wanda laughed out loud and said, "See? I told you so."
But she and I never came to blows about politics, as she is an experienced and calm debater. She enjoys a feisty conversation. I have gone off like a shot gun in response to her ill-conceived ideas (always stated with authority but unsubstantiated with facts - nah nah Wanda!) about immigration, for instance, but she has maintained her dignity throughout. So, politics has never been a problem between us. Nor has it been the elephant in the living room, a subject to avoid. She has taught me some interesting things about back-room politics and the realities of political campaigns, and I have taught her, well, nothing. Otherwise, she wouldn't still be such a fool to remain a Republican.
In the beginning of our relationship, she was ten years older than me, and my mentor of sorts. And this type of relationship transitioned naturally, after I became more independent in my thinking. It was at that point when I wanted more depth to our friendship, versus just having an adviser. I got tired of having her always in a superior position, and wanted her as a peer instead. It was when I realized that she "didn't need me" as a friend, that I dropped out.
Time went by, and Wanda experienced the shit that happens to all human beings. She found resistance where previously she had experienced none. She started a new career where public slaughter and humiliation was a regular occurrence. She got divorced from a marriage that was easy going for many years, started dating, and then she had her first heart break. I remember how honored I was when she called to tell me about how sad and confused she felt. She became more human, I think. And she needed me as a friend. I preferred, and still prefer, that form of relationship. She's still older than me, and more experienced and successful in many ways, but what I enjoy the most, is our equality as human beings, and the sharing and mutual support that happens because of it.
In the emails we exchanged prior to her trip, I asked about her objectives - what she and her friend wanted to do or see. She surprised me and said that she didn't want to do any of the typical tourist stuff, she just wanted to meet the people and go to the places that I have written about on my blog. I was delighted, as I didn't know if I could stand another trip up the Eiffel tower, or another meal in a restaurant where the menu is in French and English.
And so, I took them to Chateau Rouge, also known as la Goutte D'or, which means "the drop of gold." It's an ethnic enclave, teeming with North Africans in their colorful costumes, as well as Muslim women in Hijab. Not the first place one would take conservative American tourists. But, I've always been a rebel.
We walked up boulevard Barbès from the Barbès-Rochechouart Metro station, and turned right onto Rue des Poissonniers, so that I could take them into the back end of the Chateau Rouge outdoor market on Rue Dejean. (I stole this photo from here. I would like to give credit to somebody, but I couldn't find out who took it or posted it.)
As we turned the corner onto Poissonniers, we noticed a large crowd of men in front of the Mosquée El-Fath. A closer look revealed that the men were praying, with foreheads to the ground, on the sidewalk outside of the Mosque. I had never seen this before, but perhaps it was Ramadan, and there were so many men praying, that they couldn't fit them all in the Mosque and had to use the sidewalk. Wanda and Reynaldo were astounded. The only Muslims that Americans see are on American TeeVee, and they're shouting and running around and burning effigees of George Bush. (Not the Americans, the Muslims)
So, I turned around to see Wanda and her camera clicking away, and thought it might be a good idea to ask her to be subtle about it, as I don't know the custom in these here parts. Unlike the last time we were in a Muslim country together, over 20 years ago when we traveled together to Turkey and she decided to go topless AND bottomless on a day-long boat trip (to the point where the teenage boys on the boat couldn't get up or they would reveal their, erm, boyhood) - she actually obeyed me. And, she got some great shots. I hope she sends them along.
Until then, you can view this French video made by a female Polish film maker who lives in la Goutte D'Or. It's an artistic impression of the area, and a little lengthy, but you can see the Muslim men praying on the sidewalk beginning at time code 2:08:
As we continued along the street, the men stood up and began to roll up the rugs and take them inside the Mosque. We stepped into a fabric store across from the Mosque, so that Wanda and Reynaldo could see and touch the amazing African cotton wax cloth that is used to make the long dresses, head scarves and chignons for the African women, and the pajama-style pants and calf or ankle length caftans that the men wear. At Rue Dejean, we turned left and walked through the market as the sellers were closing up. It was empty of people, compared to the thick crowds on Saturday or Sunday mornings.
At Rue Poulet (chicken street! tastes like chicken!), we turned right, heading towards Rue Doudeauville, our final destination. This stretch of the walk would be the place where I might lose a few people. There's trash. There are people loitering. There are cars honking and slowly pressing through the crowd of people who ignore them. There are people yelling really loudly at each other. There are illegal vendors galore, mostly women, with their knock-off purses, sun glasses and belts displayed on top of cardboard boxes. In an instant, when the cops arrive (as they do on a regular basis), these ladies can toss their wares into rolling suitcases and head down the street looking like they just got off the train and are on their way to their apartment. Wanda is the consummate bargain shopper, and stopped to touch each purse. But, nothing combined low price with good looks, so she passed.
At Rue Doudeauville we turned right and made our way to see one of my favorite people, Ben at Au Gamin de Paris. (You have to click through and see how handsome he is. And he's single, ladies! He has a 20-something son who is gorgeous too.) He greeted me as he always does, with a big hug and kiss, making me feel loved. Me and Wanda and Reynaldo sat outside and ordered coffees, and watched the African world go by. If it wasn't for the fact that Wanda doesn't like Indian or Morrocan food, we would have finished off our evening a few doors down at one of my favorite restaurants, with couscous and chicken tagine with olives and lemon. Mmmm. She knows not what she missed.
There were more adventures with Madame Wanda and Monsieur Reynaldo. But this post is already a bit long, and I have to go see a man about a horse.
