Scenes from Paris 2

I took this photo looking west from the Pont de la Tournelle. Towering in the distance you can see, of course, the apse and spire of Notre Dame de Paris. On the left side of the Seine you can see some of Paris' famed riverside promenades. This particular one, a favorite of mine, used to be a port, and there's even a hundreds-of-years-old customs house nestled right behind the trees. If it weren't for the steamboats carrying obnoxious hordes of drunk 20-something Americans, this would be the most serene and beautiful Parisian spot.



Walk south from the Pont de la Tournelle and take a left on the Quai de la Tournelle which borders the Seine, then hang a 90-degree right at Place Mohammed V onto Rue des Fossés St. Bernard. It's from this street that I took this picture, which looks south down Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. In the foreground is a veiled woman, no doubt observing the tenets of Islam. Not surprisingly, this quartier is actually home to lively and teeming Arab/Muslim neighborhood in the fifth arrondissement. Just behind you and to the left is the Institut du Monde Arabe, a dazzling postmodern structure which houses the Arab world's official dissemination of Arab and Muslim cultural values. Behind you and to your right are also plenty of Arab bookshops, art galleries, and schools.



Now turn ninety degrees to your left and head down Rue Jussieu until you reach a T-section at Rue Cuvier which borders the massively extravagant Jardin des Plantes, a public park commissioned by some King back when I-don't-know-when. Take a right on Rue Cuvier and then a left on Rue Linné R. Geoffroy, and walk barely fifty meters until you reach on your right La Grande Mosqueé de Paris (pictured above). This is the largest and most beautiful mosque in Paris, which also hosts the largest congregation in the city as well. Following the Parisian tradition of honoring alliances and bravery through grands projets, this mosque was built shortly after World War I in thanks to the French colonial Muslims who fight successfully against Germany.



To complete the tour, keep walking straight on Rue Linné Geoffroy and you'll see the facade of the Museum National d'Histoire Naturelle on your left, which also serves as an entrance to the Jardin des Plantes. Now take a right on Rue Censier, and then a quick left onto Rue Santeuil. Enter the courtyard of Université Paris III-Censier and, if you can't stand gazing at its notoriously failed attempt at futuristic architecture, ascend the stairs to the second floor. Where is everyone? Good question. The university, as previously mentioned in another blog, has been blocked by the students since February. I know what you're thinking, because I did too. "Blocked" must be metaphorical. Behold the picture above and you'll realize it's not, because the library is literally barricaded with two chairs. If you were paying attention before ascending the stairs, you might've caught a glance at the student "blockers" whose job it is to disallow any persons from entering the building. I had to suffer their begrudging glances and inquisitive stares before snapping this shot.

Nothing to do but read

It's been five months now that I've lived in metropolitan France, and also the most literary five months of my life. True, my legal status prohibits me from having a full-time job yet, which gives me ample time to escape my newly French-dominated world through some good old English classics, or better yet classics in English. Among my favorites have recently been Dostoievski (in English), Albert Camus (in English), Oscar Wilde, and Alexandre Dumas (in English). A good, hearty set of classic prose. But as I'm trying to better my level in French, I thought I should give English a rest and start diving into some versions originales.

So last week I toured around the Left Bank, popping in and out of bookshops trying to hunt down the perfect French-novel primer. One advantage (and vice) of bookshopping in Paris is that books seem to be so astoundingly cheap, and every bookshop always recycles a huge selection of paperbacks selling downwards at $3 or $4, prize-winning authors and littérateurs included. So when I ascended the five floors of the Gilbert Jeune bookstore at the Place St. Michel to find the largest paperback collection I've ever seen, I wasn't surprised to find the complete volume of Hugo's Les Misérables on sale for only $9.

Before I go on with my little story, I have to admit I was forewarned by the assistants at Shakespeare and Company that reading unabridged Hugo in French was like talking to the "information" booth people in the metro. It drags on about nothing, and in a completely incomprehensible way. And it was true, because when I flipped through the first book of Lés Miserables at Gilbert Jeune I found myself stumbling on every fifth word and wanting to tear the pages from their binder, just as you want to tear the heads off the information-booth people. So my search went on and I was redirected by the owner of another French bookshop to the San Francisco Book Co., located on the Rue Monsieur Le Prince (yes, that's "Mr. Prince") in the sixth arrondissement just north of the Luxembourg Gardens. Booksellers in Paris are a clubby sort, it seems, and they know their competition better than their inventories. So when I asked for a store selling simple French novels for relative beginners, the old French bookshop owner (I forget its name and location) gave me the typical French and expressionless nod in the direction of my destination.

A cavernous and musty place of no more than thirty-or-so square meters, the SF is actually a used-English bookshop, kind of like Shakespeare & Co. but even mustier. Also like Shakespeare, the owner of the SF had no idea what he had on the shelves. But like a good American expatriated to France, he warmed to discussion and assumed the French personal touch, and was soon recommending to me a juicy line of crime and mystery novels by Georges Simenon.

So now in front of me is one of Simenon's "Maigret" series fictionalizing a sharp crime inspector from Paris. It was only $6, and perfectly suits my needs. It has simple French of a non-Hugoian influence, and there's plenty of dialogue. Someone also told me that Simenon was so into his writing that he used to sweat profusely at his desk, changing his shirt at least twice a day (c. 1950s). If this is true and the rumors are accurate, I could easily find myself completing my first French novel, which would be a huge, huge milestone, and hopefully without breaking a sweat.

Who represents French Muslims?

In PNCT's blog entitled The Murder of Ilan Halimi, which follows a discussion concerning antisemitism and jihad in France, he noted that immigrant absorption was smoother in the United States because of common religion, whereas France faces massive Muslim immigration:

"In Europe its clear that a majority of immigrants are not coming from similar religious backgrounds (religion is largely dead in Europe anyway) and instead come from primarily Arab Muslim, or African Muslim backgrounds. Just from my own anecdotal evidence I would venture to say that immigration and subsequent adjustment is far easier in the United States, and we are incredibly lucky for it. I wonder if our Parisian correspondent would like to add further and far more scientific observations of his own?"

This is largely true and perhaps common knowledge in France. Massive Arab immigration not only poses institutional and bureaucratic problems, but also socio-religious ones as well, that lethal mixture that breeds racism and segregation. But what's important to note is that not all Arabs immigrating to France are either jihadists or strict adherents to the Koran. Indeed, there are huge communities of less doctrinaire Muslims who integrate very smoothly into France's largely secularized political and social cultures (one of my students included). But because of events unfolding within the last decade, their reputation falls with the extremists.

I suppose that's why Le Monde just published a front-page article over the weekend called "Qui peut parler pour les Musulmans de France?" (Who can speak for the Muslims of France?) The article details recent attempts by secular Muslims to recapture their respected status by forming a laique group, or a nondenominational group to represent Muslim social and political interests within the country. So there is evidently a struggle among French Islam itself for self-imagery, and this should point out the difficulty of the problem as a whole.

Ironically enough, the Muslims of France could take some notes from the well-organized and nondenominational groups that represent Jews. Jews of course, through and after the Revolution, hadn't achieved complete equality until after World War II. But that they did have early successes in this regard, most specifically following the Revolution where French parliament members passed a creed granting complete de jure equality to Jews, highlights the potential for Muslims to do the same with a highly organized and, especially, secular voice.

The Ring

I thought I'd reply to my friend PNCT's requesting my commentary on the recent Parisian trial of the young Arab who murdered a Jew in Paris' suburban banlieu. Here is what I posted on his blog:

Though I was bar-mitzvah'ed at thirteen I haven't really participated in many holidays or rites since then, so I can't really speak for the Jewish community as a whole. But as a human being I can pretty easily share in your disgust for the acts which saw a Jewish youth tortured and killed simply because he was Jewish. Though shocking, it is however old news. But that it happened at the hands of Arabs in Paris highlights one of the most pressing issues facing the French government: How to deal with the banlieu.

For those of you out of the Paris loop, the banlieu is essentially the immigrant and Arab-dominated suburbs forming a ring around Paris. Cheaper housing and manufacturing jobs are presumably what attracts them. For Paris through the ages, this trend is nothing new. The cycles of urban expansion fed by intense immigration have marked the Parisian landscape since before the Revolution. But what's alarming about developing trends is the inability to integrate today's banlieu with the customs and economy of the more inner city.

If you visit the banlieu you can immediately sense a deep and unsettling alienation amongst its inhabitants. PNCT can probably testify historically to what happens when indigent and alienated communities aren't given due attention and relief. The schools are terrible, the hospitals are overcrowded, the transportation is limited in correspondence, and the same apathy that plagues inner-city black youth in America attaches itself to Arab youth in Paris.

In this view it's not so surprising that a gang of kids abducted, tortured, and killed a 22-year-old Jew. They were acting on complete ignorance, and this much is obvious in the facts. Education is not just good for its own sake. It dissects, liberates, mollifies, and calls into question most prejudices about the way the world operates.

So this latest incident was as much a failure of Parisian administration and social absorption as it was of human dignity.

Allons enfants de l'université

There seems to be a popular myth in conventional political theory that suggests the French governmental system is particularly conducive to dramatic and violent change. Edmund Burke favored the slow-to-evolve British institutions against the vicissitudinal shifts of power experienced during the French Revolution (which French nationalists have pegged at the singular event of the storming of the Bastille), and the virtues of the American political system of checks and balances are always taught in opposition to the French Ancien Régime. Despite its symbolic significance, however, the early days of the Revolution seem to have been characterized by little political turnover. Louis XVI and his court, though forced to rule from the Tuileries in Paris (and not Versailles), still wielded considerable political influence for years before going to the guillotine. Thus it may have happened that the Parlement of Paris evolved just as slowly, if not slower, than the British House of Commons. Certainly it would take many successive “revolutions” to establish a real parliamentary system in France with popular sovereignty at the fore.

On the contrary, I don’t think Parisians like change all that much. It may even be that they so detest change enough to shed blood, money, or die for its preservation. Since the Counter-Reformation (or even Roman rule if you want to get picky) there’s been a lineage of Parisian resistance to almost any form of change. Popular figures such as St. Genevieve, Joan D’Arc, Robespierre, and Charles De Gaulle all gained clout and fame through resistance movements of their own. But why the recalcitrance? I don’t know exactly why myself, but there does exist in Paris a special quality of life spurred on by art and learning, so much so that Parisians typically favor its patronage through state control itself, as “deregulation” has an ominous connotation for Parisians ever since the Terror.

Maybe that’s why on April 28 I felt very Parisian for joining thousands of university students, researchers, professors, and med students in a massive manifestation protesting President Sarkozy’s new line of policies aimed at privatizing universities and curtailing the academic freedom of professors and researchers. To be a part of a student protest is like writing yourself into Parisian history, because when Robert de Sorbon instituted his little theological school on the Left Bank over 700 years ago, Parisian students have been barricading streets and leading resistance movements ever since (not to mention decrying any attempts at marginalizing their intellectual freedom and bohemian way of life; see the poems of former 15^th century Sorbonne student François Villon).

So I got to march from Montparnasse south towards the Senate, which

now occupies the ornate Luxembourg Palace, a dwelling which once housed Marie de’ Medici. What I think most impressive about many Parisians, with special regard to students, is their ability to mobilize and use monumental public spaces to their advantage. Ever since Sarkozy’s infamous law was introduced to the Senate in late January, about half of Paris’ public universities have been on strike, physically blocking the entrances and forbidding professors to lecture on school premises. This may not have been necessary, though, as professors themselves have been on strike, many of whom have since taken up freelance lecturing in public spaces on several topics. So the students shrewdly barricaded the extremely busy thoroughfare of Rue de Vaugirard, which connects Montparnasse to the Luxembourg Palace and ends at the Robert de Sorbon’s now-secularized and world-famous Sorbonne.

As onlookers and commuters glanced curiously (some impatiently) at the procession, pamphleteers made their rounds, effigies of legislators were defiled, chants were chanted, drums were pounded, and trumpets were blaring. The bystanders, though probably superficially informed, must have been wondering whether this was at all warranted. I myself don’t even know, but the theatre of it was too much fun to begin asking questions. All I knew was that Sarkozy and his senatorial henchmen were trying to change something institutionally Parisian, and that there was no danger in partaking in a peaceful demonstration of collective grievance.

I recently read that Sarkozy also wants to build skyscrapers in the heart of old Paris. I wonder how that’ll go over...

A bas les bisous!

Down with the kisses!

Last night I was bragging to my friend on Facebook chat that France was still "swine" flu-free. Not an hour passed when Radio France reported on their evening broadcast that two French young adults had been recently hospitalized in Paris after the discovery that they'd contracted the rare strain of Influena A. Then came the roundup of public service announcements detailing cautionary steps, recommended by doctors, that we should all take to contain the potentially deadly virus. Among them was to wash our hands incessantly, avoid touching anything in the metro, avoid needless hand-shaking, and, my favorite, the suspension of bisous.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Mediterranean customary greeting of bisous, it consists of swapping alternating kisses on each cheek with whom you're familiar and presumably on good terms (family, friends, and close acquaintances). As a general rule, the further south you travel in France, the more bisous you're expected to exchange upon encountering your acquaintance. In Paris, I've never given more than two bisous, and reflexively I've never received it. But as my friend teaching in the south-central region of Auvergne will tell you, up to four bisous (two on each cheek) may be exchanged depending on the circumstances, and never less than three. For you anthropologists, I have my own theory that the number of bisous given corresponds to the level of Latin and/or Anglo-Saxon influence. The further north you travel in France, the more Anglo-Saxon the culture, and consequently the less intimate are the greetings.

So you can imagine the joy of a purely Anglicized and cold American like me upon learning that bisous are even temporarily suspended. For whenever I'm made to exchange bisous, my pseudo-Puritan nerves become taut with anxiety and subdued repulsion, yet I acclamate nonetheless. If I can save the world from a deadly virus through an old-fashioned hug, sign me up.

Scenes from Paris

Sorry for the light blogging folks. I've been finalizing my application to the American Graduate School of International Relations and Diplomacy, located in the sixth arrondissement. To placate PNCT and all you other virtual vagabonds hungry for la vie quotidienne, I've decided to post some pictures I took a few days ago while I sell my soul to admissions committees.

La Conciergerie and former prison (death row) of Marie Antoinette, along with plenty of other notables who fell victim to the Revolution. It's towering presence on the Ïle de la Cité between the Pont Neuf and the Pont au Change is still eerily imposing.



Paris' Finest: Serving, protecting, and dutifully observing red lights on the Quai de la Tournelle.



Springtime at the Place du Châtelet, a favorite reading spot of mine and former site of another famous prison bearing the same name. It was torn down as a symbol of royalism (like the Bastille) following the Revolution.