April 7, 2003

We’ve been here for a week now, back in the Paris we are so familiar with that it doesn’t seem remarkable any more. Looking around, however, there’s plenty to see if you just keep your eyes open. We are staying at the eastern edge of Paris this time, away from the touristy, sophisticated and glamorous center and from here we walk everyday into town. Paris is so densely concentrated that one can walk from one side of town to the other in half a day, were you so inclined. We pass through a very ethnic neighborhood that is an exotic stew of immigrants, mostly North African Arab immigrants; Algerians, Tunisians and Moroccans, with a sprinkling of Asians and Turks. An occasional black African woman resplendent in eye-blinding colored cotton clothing strides down the street, matching turban on her head and plastic thong sandals on her bare feet. Her meeker African sisters, swathed from head to toe in bright colored gauzy fabric, walk escorted by the family’s elder males. Groups of Arab men having a heated discussion on the sidewalk or sitting in a café smoking and drinking tea. The Arab woman crouched on the pavement outside the metro, selling bunches of wilted lilac branches out of a metal bucket.

Our hotel is across the street from a large parking lot, which on the weekends transforms itself into a tent city of a market, large umbrellas shading cheap merchandise from third world countries; plastic shoes, rugs, clothing, electronics and toys, fabric, cosmetics and sunglasses. The occasional stall features used goods and “antiques” that couldn’t be more than 15 years old. Islamic goods- prayers beads, lace trimmed white head scarves, books and objects with Arabic script are common as most of the vendors are Algerian. The periphery of the market reveals another layer of society; the two young men being detained by stern looking police, or the one-armed beggar with his jacket slipped coyly off one shoulder to reveal a smooth round shoulder and a scar where his arm should be, another man with bare feet stretched out on the sidewalk in front of him, small round toes perched on swollen misshapen feet like a handful of garbanzo beans. Knots of young men stand around eyeing the passersby. A few people stand by the fence almost furtively, with a few meager things to sell on the sidewalk in front of them. Others hunched over these items, inquiring the price of a worn pair of ladies shoes or an old boom box.

It was raining when we arrived in Paris but the sun is shining today. The wind is icy, though, and we are bundled against the cold as we shoulder our way through the market to walk into town. I am wearing both of the sweaters I brought to Europe, a rain jacket and a wool scarf that wraps around my head and neck to keep any cold air out. Mike arrived in Paris with a cold, and I, suffering initially with a bad allergy attack now seem to have also succumbed to a cold as well, so we leave a trail of damp Kleenex behind us as we make our way towards town. We vow to not come to back to Paris before summer again and Mike says if he talks again about wanting to spend winter in Europe, I have permission to smack him. There are flowers blooming; cherry trees with branches densely covered with pink blossoms, forsythia bushes with their starry yellow blooms, lilacs just starting their purple display. Elsewhere, trees with branches pruned to blunt clubs show few sprouts and just the barest hints of buds unfurling mint green leaves against the grey sky.

After spending the day in town, we came back to the hotel at 7:30 with the sun still in the sky. The market was being quickly and efficiently torn down and by dark an hour later, all that was left was the detritus of the day; plastic bags, tissue paper, shoe boxes blowing in the wind, wrapped around light poles or swirling high into the air in a mini cyclone. The city had already sent out their clean-up trucks and soon the piles of garbage were safely stowed in the garbage truck while stray pieces of garbage were chased down the street by an army men wielding leaf blowers.

Inspired by the wintry weather, we decided to have dinner at a restaurant that specializes in the food of Savoy. Consisting of various ways to serve cheese, potatoes and cold cuts, the cuisine from the Alps of France is comforting and warming. I had my favorite dish, the Tartiflette which is similar to scalloped potatoes; potatoes baked in a dish with reblochon cheese, crème fraiche, onions and chunks of ham or thick bacon. Mike had Raclette; he received a platter of cheese and cold cuts and a bowl of boiled potatoes. Each table has a small grill about one foot square built into the table which the waiter heated up for us and soon mike was able to melt the cheese to put over his potatoes and to cook some of the meats provided. Fondue is also a typical dish from this area; not a place for those on a weight-loss diet...

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