A Tough City

I avoided Rebecca the rest of the evening yesterday.  There turned out to be no reggae concert and so a group of us just checked out some clubs.  Katy left this morning, and I headed into town around midday.  I booked a night train to Barcelona for tomorrow night.  I’ve had enough of this place already.

Marseille, as far as I can tell, is a very “dry” place.  There doesn’t seem to be much happening.  Also, it doesn’t feel like France.  There are so many North Africans here and the city is so unkempt (unlike Paris), that I keep forgetting that I’m in France still.  I have to remind myself of it frequently.

I had dinner at an Algerian restaurant.  The French really love their baguettes, I’ve noticed, but I’m not much of a fan.  The bread is too dry and hard in my opinion.  However, I didn’t have much of a choice at the Algerian place.  So I instructed the man on how to make a cheesesteak.  It was a slapdash job, but the sandwich came out quite good.

Later when I was returning to the hostel, I got to the bus stop only to learn that the buses had stopped running at 9:00pm.  I was surprised because I had been told buses ran until midnight. It was around 11:00pm, and there was not a single taxi in sight.  So I set out walking.  I saw a man a few yards ahead of me hitchhiking, and after traipsing along for a bit, I decided to give it a try, too.  I stuck my thumb out and watched for any potential takers.  I got no bites.  I continued walking along the broad stretch of empty highway until finally, I saw a cab and hailed it.  I started a conversation with the cab driver, Mohammad, and asked him how he liked Marseille.  He didn’t like it at all, he told me.  So much for trying to get a positive view of the city.

Marseille really is a tough place.  A group of Chinese tourists that just arrived was robbed on the way to the hostel.  The man rented a car, and they were driving to the hostel when a young boy stopped them on the road.  While they were stopped, another boy ran up to the car, grabbed a bag through an open window, and ran off with it.  When they told their story to Jean, he asserted matter-of-factly that the boys must have been Arabs.  I take it Arabs don’t have such a good reputation around here.

A Strange Cast of Characters

A white-haired man wearing an unbuttoned, Hawaiian shirt and fitted white pants greeted me at the door of La Cigla et la Fourmi and told me to walk upstairs where Jen would help me.  It turned out that he meant Jean, but I heard Jen and went looking for a person that would be a Jen, namely a female.

I had read in my Lonely Planet Guidebook that the place is tiny with small stairwells.  However, I wasn’t expecting this.  Only one person can fit at a time on the stairs, and they are so steep in places that you nearly crawl up.  The crawling was even more pronounced with my backpack on, and I trudged up the stairs with quite some difficulty.  I had the sense of being in a cave.  The stairs veered off into dark hallways.  I saw dimly lit corners at the end of several.  I continued to climb, not knowing where I was supposed to go.  I passed a large room where three people sat talking.  I kept going, assuming the three people where other residents.  I found myself at a dead end and backtracked down to the foyer where I had seen the three people.

Turned out that one of the three was Jean, the man who runs the place.  He looks about 50 years old.  A Caucasian French man, he lounged on the couch smoking a cigarette.  The other two were residents on their way out.  Soon the man who had met me at the door also joined us.  His name is Patrick.  He lives in Greece currently and is here in Marseille helping Jean sell the hostel (turns out Jean’s emigrating to the Philippines to be with his Filipino son).  A French Jew of about 65 years of age, Patrick immediately became the center of attention.  He speaks English with a thick, French accent, and he’s usually drunk, high, or both, so his speech is slurred, making it all that more difficult to understand him.  He dug into me right away, introducing me to newcomers as “The Terrorist.”  I played along, not at all flustered.  I think now that it was his way of testing me, to see if I was easygoing enough to hang with him.  He confided that he had spent some time in Pakistan with friends and was well-aware of the culture and people.  I asked him what he was doing in Pakistan. “Smoking hash!” he guffawed.  “You ask me, I tell you!” He lit a hash joint.

Several more men trickled into the room.  Some were residents, others were looking for a place to stay.  Patrick yelled for a girl.  She would show me to my room, he informed me.  I could also pay for “more,” he suggested.  Jean and Patrick smiled at me slyly.  A brunette girl stuck out her head and looked down at us from a part of the ceiling (the floor of the upstairs bedroom) that was made of Plexiglas.  I noticed it then and couldn’t help wondering what must go on in this hostel.  Who has a see-through floor in their bedroom?  Jean and Patrick were quick to tell me that the brunette wasn’t for sale, but the girl we were waiting for was.  Patrick called her again, “Rebecca!”  The girl shouted something back in French.  She was in the shower, Patrick translated.  The bedroom, Jean divulged, was for couples who liked to put on a show.  He grinned mischievously.  Finally, Rebecca, a blond girl who looks like she is 19 or 20 years old, joined us.  She’s from northern France and barely speaks any English.  She seems like a very friendly girl.  Rebecca led me to where I would be staying. “Don’t take too long!” chortled Jean and Patrick behind us.

I showered and returned to the foyer with Katy, another American staying in the same building as me.  Jean still lounged on the couch, but now a Dutch girl, Dika, sat next to him.  Two other additions, Mattheas and Holly who are both German, sat at the computer.  Patrick was still planted in his chair by the dining table.  His speech had become more crude.  He complimented the women on their “assets” and openly propositioned them.  Jean, meanwhile, was intent on making a move on Dika.  When Katy and I walked in, Patrick’s attention immediately shifted to her, and he began showering her with his ribald remarks.  He produced a bottle of wine and soon Katy was drinking glass after glass.  By the end of the day, she would be completely inebriated.

When I asked about a place to eat dinner, Patrick offered that he would cook instead.  Rebecca vouched for the quality of his cooking, so I agreed to dine with them.  Patrick asked Katy and me to contribute by buying most of the food though.  I felt that I had been set up, but not wanting to cause any problems on my first day, I chipped in.  Patrick, Rebecca, Katy, and I headed out to buy the groceries.  The cooked chicken we bought cost me €10.  Afterwards, Patrick swindled another €5 from me for cigarettes, promising to pay me later.  I knew not to expect the money back.  On the way back from the butcher, Katy and Rebecca went off separately to buy a bottle of wine.  Patrick and I walked together.  He took his time.
     “So you like that girl?” he asked me.
     “Who?” I played dumb.  “Katy?”
     “No!” he snapped.  “Rebecca!  You like her?”
     “She seems fine,” I said cautiously.  I had noticed Rebecca’s sidelong glances and smiles at me.
     “Well, she likes you,” he continued.  “And, Rashid (he was having a hard time with my name still), God will forgive you for everything.”  He had stopped in the middle of the road.  “He will forgive you for killing a man.  He will forgive you for eating swine and drinking alcohol.  But, Rashid, God will not forgive you for refusing a woman.  If a girl wants to sleep with you, you sleep with her!”  (His exact words were a bit more colorful.)
     What was going on?  I was confused.  Was he pimping her out?  Was this a ploy to extort money from me?  For the first time since I started traveling, I felt unsafe.  I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was something going on behind my back.  Some game was being played, and I was an ignorant pawn.  My senses were suddenly on high alert, and I decided to be very careful in how I dealt with this strange cast of characters.
    “Sure,” I nodded.  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

While Patrick prepared dinner, I hung out in the foyer where I had first met everyone.  It is the ad hoc lobby of this hostel, I realize.  People check in and out here.  Cash exchanges hands.  Nothing more official than that.  Jean doesn’t even ask you how long you intend to stay, and you certainly don’t make any payment up front.  At the end of your stay, Jean asks you how many nights you stayed, you tell him, and hand over the cash: €15 per night.  Not a bad deal as long as you’re willing to bear the harassment.  And of course, the hashish.  Hash joints frequently make the rounds, handed dutifully from one person to the next.  I passed each time it got to me.  Now, if ever, was not the time to experiment.

Dinner was a quiet affair.  In addition to the chicken, we had a fish and vegetable dish.  After dinner I returned to my room to finish doing my laundry.  I am glad that I packed a clothesline with me before I left the US because there was no place otherwise where I could hang my clothes.  As I was finishing up, Rebecca appeared at the door.  I gathered that she was looking for something, but when she didn’t find it, she lingered in the room.  We made small talk, trying as best as we could given the language barrier.  She seemed nervous, and there was something odd about her mannerisms.  Something did not click.
     “Hey, how old are you anyway?”  I asked her.
     “No,” she laughed.
     I wasn’t sure if she understood.  I asked again.
     “No, how old are you?” she replied.
     “Twenty-five,” I said.  “And you?”
     “Guess,” she said.
     “Nineteen?” I ventured.
     She laughed.  Something about the way she was acting made me uncomfortable.
     “OK, I will tell you after the reggae concert tonight,” she conceded.  She had invited me out to the concert earlier, and I had agreed to accompany her.
     “No,” I insisted.  “Tell me now.”
     “OK,” she said finally.  “I am 15.”

Marseille

I awoke this morning, bid farewell to Ali and the Finnish boys, and headed to the station to catch my train to Marseille, France.  I didn’t know what to expect in Marseille.  I had heard that the Mediterranean Coast of France is beautiful, but Marseille has a reputation for being gritty and tough.  When I got off the train at the Marseille station, one thing I knew for sure right away was that this was no Paris.  It didn’t have the same pleasant feeling.

I had called ahead for a bed at La Cigla et la Fourmi youth hostel, and I had to take the Metro and switch to a bus to get there.  When I went to buy a Metro pass, however, the agent denied having change for a €50 bill, even though I was buying a €10 pass.  I asked around for change but had no luck.  Finally, I trekked back to the platform where I had arrived and tried to buy something at the newspaper stand.  The vendor there also claimed not to have change.  Exasperated, I walked into a nearby pharmacy.  There the male attendant was quick to inform me that they didn’t give change.  I’ll buy something, I told him tersely.  I bought a bottle of contact lens solution, and I got my change.

I was on the bus to Robespeare, my stop, when four men suddenly boarded the bus.  They quickly dispersed amongst the passengers, barking orders in French.  I watched the two women sitting across from me pull out some ID cards and hand them to a man.  He had a portable device with him in which he swiped the cards.  The machine emitted two beeps for each card, and the man handed them back to the women.  I observed the exchange in puzzlement, not sure what they were doing.  Then the man approached me and extended his hand.  I fished in my pocket and gave him my Metro pass.  Is this what he wanted?  He stared at the card for a few seconds (during which time I wondered if he wanted my license or passport instead), then swiped it in his machine.  I sat back, relieved. The machine emitted only one beep though.  He swiped the card again.  Again only one beep. He turned the pass around and swiped again.  I thought I heard two beeps this time, but the man didn’t seem satisfied. Nevertheless, he handed the pass back to me and joined the rest of his crew.  I realized then that I had just experienced a raid by the transit authority.  These men were going around making sure the passengers had valid passes and weren’t trying to get free rides.  It was my first raid, and it wouldn’t be my last.

I approached the bus driver and after greeting him asked about my stop.  The driver was maneuvering the bus around an extremely narrow turn, edging around oncoming vehicles, when he finally understood what I was saying.  “Robespeare!” he exclaimed.  He brought the bus to a stop and jerked his thumb back.  “Robespeare back!”  I guessed I had missed my stop.  The driver popped the doors open in the middle of the road and looked at me expectantly.  I got the message.  I grabbed my backpack and jumped off the bus.

Marseille has a dry, heavy heat.  I felt like I was roasting as I plodded my way in the direction the bus had come.  I wasn’t even certain how far back the stop was, and I dreaded having to walk far under the merciless midday sun.  Luckily, the second stop turned out to be Robespeare.  I wasn’t sure where to go from there though.  Walking around a corner I came across a restaurant.  I asked a man there for directions, and he was kind enough to lead me down a nondescript back road to La Cigla et la Fourmi, the weirdest place I have yet visited.

Last Day in Geneva

I didn’t have any place to stay tonight.  I tried extending my booking at the International Youth Hostel, but the receptionist was firm in his response: No rooms. It wasn’t so much the sleeping I was worried about (although that, too, was an issue) but more so about my luggage.  I would have to pack everything up and check out by 10:00am if I couldn’t get an extension.  At breakfast my new Swiss friends, Mika and Alfi, suggested that I could leave my stuff in their room and sleep in one of their beds.  The two of them could share a bed.  It didn’t seem like a bad idea.  In the meantime, I left my stuff on Ali’s bed and my valuables in his locker, and I checked out of the hostel.  Then Ali, Mika, Alfi, another girl Natalie, and I set out for Lake Geneva.  On the way, I checked the train schedule. I would have to take a 7:00am train the next morning to Marseille.  We made a pit stop at the grocery store and picked up some lunch supplies as well.

At the lake we found a spot on the dock across from Jet d’eau.  There really was no beach, and people lay sunbathing on the pathways and all along the dock. Mika and Alfi had warned me that the water would be cold, and an older couple dog-paddling about in the water confirmed this to be true.  Nonetheless, I was getting hot, and before I could discourage myself, I leapt into the water.  To say that the water was cold is an understatement.  The coldness hit me like a sack of nails.  Any drowsiness I had felt earlier dissipated instantly.  I swam about for a bit and tried to get the others to join me.  Over the course of the day, Ali, Alfi, and Mika also took a few dips in the freezing water.  Mika, however, cut a deep gash on the bottom of her foot, and sat out the rest of the time. We tied a piece of cloth around her foot to staunch the bleeding.  I noticed that my feet were sliced up as well.  There must have been shards of glass in the shallow water.  I went swimming again though.  I really enjoyed myself.  It was great to just relax for a day and read for a bit.  I brought along Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and I finally got around to reading the first few pages.

Earlier tonight, when it came time for our group to part, the girls offered their room again.  However, it looked like Mika would end up sleeping on the floor.  It didn’t seem right to me.  If anyone had to sleep on the floor, it should be me.  So I told them I would sleep on the floor in my former room.  It made sense since all my stuff was with Ali anyway.

Later when I was setting up my bed on the floor in Ali’s room, one of the Finnish boys saw me and offered to let me use his air mattress.  I gratefully took him up on his kind offer.  The other two boys also offered to help out.  Such nice people.

Man’s Noble Aspirations

I met Ali this morning.  He’s a young surgeon in Goth, Germany and is spending a week in Geneva on vacation.  Originally from Yemen, he understands English well, but I often have to repeat myself several times, each time slower than before.  It can be frustrating, but I realize that my American English can be difficult to understand for many Europeans.  Ali and I are in the same room along with three boys from Finland and one guy who I haven’t met.  I mentioned to Ali over breakfast that I planned to visit the UN and the Red Cross Museum this morning, and he indicated that he wanted to come as well.  So after breakfast, he and I hopped on a bus to the United Nations.

Upon arriving at the United Nations Geneva headquarters, we were screened and ushered into a large Border Customs-like area.  There the officer asked for our passports.  I produced mine first and gave it to him.  The officer entered my information into his computer, took a digital picture of me, and within a few minutes, printed out a UN tourist ID card for me, with a color picture and all.  It would make a nice souvenir.  Then for 10 Francs each, Ali and I joined an English tour of the building.

I think Americans in general have a low opinion of the United Nations Organization.  We may respect and even celebratize the Secretary General (as I believe was the case with Kofi Annan), but we feel that the organization itself is an impotent player in international politics.  It has no real power of its own and whatever force it has to influence world politics, it derives from its most powerful member states.  This has been starkly evident recently given its inability to prevent the war in Iraq.  The appointment of John Bolton as the US ambassador to the UN despite opposition from the UN community was also telling of the American opinion of the organization.  Yet this attitude towards the UN is not limited to Americans.  Especially because of the war in Iraq, I believe that much of the international community has lost faith in the organization.  If the purpose of this organization is to prevent war, then it failed miserably in the case of Iraq.  Ali, too, brought up this point.

As I toured the headquarters building, however, I began to see another side of the United Nations, one that perhaps should be obvious, but I had not given much thought to in the past.  The UN may not be very effective at influencing international politics, but as an institution, it represents the efforts of men of all creeds coming together to agree that there are certain goals that all humans aspire to: peace, security, economic and social well-being.  It ensconces the dream of a world that could be.  It celebrates the ability of man to overcome his fears and limitations and to accomplish great things.  Sure, the UN may not succeed in preventing wars or other scourges wrought by humans, but it continues to serve as the repository of our common, human ideals and noble aspirations.  Over time we may still achieve these goals.

This message was most poignant for me in the Council Chamber.  In this room murals by Spanish artist José-Maria Sert cover three walls and the ceiling.  On one wall, a mural depicts the futility of war.  On the left side the wall, victorious soldiers march back from the battlefield carrying a massive coffin which contains their dead brethren.  Mothers who have lost their children cry at their feet.  On the right, the artist shows the losers of the war.  A wailing mother sits above a heap of dead soldiers with her fists raised to the sky calling for retribution.  Both the victors and the losers suffer terribly from war.  Moreover, the war never really ends because the losers won’t all die and will seek vengeance.  In the middle of these two sides of war stand five giants holding up an arch.  The giants symbolize the five continents with whose combined effort we can all succeed in preventing war.   The other two walls depict the progress of mankind through health, technology, freedom, and peace.  The ceiling shows the giants again, this time clasping their hands together in solidarity.

Afterwards, Ali and I paid a visit to the Red Cross-Red Crescent Museum, which is located right across the street from the UN building.  I found its dedication to preserving and serving human life inspiring as well.

On to Geneva

After spending a day in Basel, I had seen everything there was to see in the small town.  So I decided to head to Geneva this afternoon.  Most of my group of backpackers had left already.  Before he left, Zane gave me his Swiss SIM card, which he didn’t need anymore.  It still had 12 Swiss Francs of credit left, and I could finally start using my phone.

I tried to book a hostel in Geneva online before I left Basel, but I could find nothing available.  Moreover, I wasn’t sure how long I wanted to stay in Geneva and where I should go next — Marseille, France or Barcelona, Spain?  If I went to Barcelona, I could take a night train all the way.  If I went to Marseille, I would have to spend at least a day or two there, which would cost me that many nights of hostel fees.  Finally, I decided to just go to Geneva.  I would figure things out once I got there.  So what if I didn’t get a room at a hostel?  It was about time I slept at a train station anyway.

I arrived in Geneva late in the afternoon.  I stored my backpack in a locker at the train station while I set out to hunt for a hostel.  I found a tourist information booth and asked the agent to point me to the nearest youth hostel.  Interestingly, while the Swiss in Basel speak a dialect of German, the ones in Geneva speak French.  In southern Switzerland, the people speak Italian.  There is no “native Swiss” language.  Trying to talk to the information booth agent, I felt like I was back in France.  The man was quite helpful though, and as soon as he figured out I was looking for a youth hostel, he told me where to go.

Walking down the avenue to where the agent had directed me, I saw a variety of people, many in their native, cultural attire.  In a bout of nerdiness, I felt like I had arrived in some futuristic Star Wars-like world, and this was the capital where the representatives of all the worlds gathered.  I found the International Youth Hostel on Rothschild Street.  I spoke to the receptionist and a few minutes and 34 Swiss Francs later, I had a room for the night.  I decided I would see how I liked the place before I booked any additional nights.

This hostel is much bigger and has a lot more people staying here.  I’ve seen many Americans, most of whom appear to be high school kids.  This hostel doesn’t have the cozy feel that the hostel in Basel did.  The room, however, is quite nice.  There are six of us in the room.  I retrieved my backpack from the train station and then took off to see the city.

Roaming around the city, I ended up at the Jardin Anglais (English Garden) where the Geneva Music Festival is kicking off in a week.  To warm up for the actual festival, there are free concerts every night.  I walked around for a bit, checking out the scenery.  The place is quite beautiful.  You can see the Jet d’eau (literally, water fountain) from the gardens as it shoots up 140 meters into the air and splashes down into Lake Geneva.  It’s really just a bigger version of the fountain Pepsi has at its headquarters in New York, but heck, this one’s in Switzerland.

I noticed that the park had hired people to sort through the garbage bins and separate recyclable items – glass, PET (plastic), biodegradables, and papers.  Large canisters stood around the park, each marked with the type of material it was meant for, and the workers went around making sure the right type was deposited in each.  What an impressive commitment to recycling!

Next Stop: Basel

I awoke this morning to pouring rain.  It had been so clear and sunny until today, and then suddenly, the rain came pounding down.  I caught the 3:00pm train to Basel, Switzerland from Paris’ Gare l’Est.  It was my first time using the Eurail Pass.  The pass, which I bought before I left New York, gives me 15 days of travel over 2 months.

The train to Basel was very clean and the ride was surprisingly smooth.  I spent some time working on my journal in between eyeing the picture-perfect French countryside.  A young, French soldier sat across the aisle from me.  He had a large backpack, too, and I wondered if he was going backpacking as well.  So when he gestured at his watch, presumably asking for the time, I took the opportunity to ask him where he was headed.  He knew not a single word of English though, and despite my hand gestures, he could not understand my question.  He grew frustrated and asked the man sitting in the seat behind me whether he spoke English.  The man shook his head no.  Then to my embarrassment, the soldier made a loud announcement to the whole carriage.  I gathered he was asking for an interpreter.  I had simply been making small talk, and it didn’t seem necessary to make such a big fuss.  The soldier was determined though.  A young man who looked North African stood up from a seat further back and offered to translate.
– No, the soldier was not going backpacking.
– No, he was not going to Basel and would be getting off at the next stop.
– If I needed any help whatsoever, he would be happy to oblige.
I thanked him for his kind offer but declined.  We shook hands, and he deboarded at the next stop.

My interpreter introduced himself.  His name was Faisal, and he was on his way to Belfort, where he would be attending a Master’s program in September.  He planned to stay a week in Belfort, and then he would return home to Marrakesh in Morocco for the month of August.  A tall, lanky fellow, he had just returned from a six-month internship in Florida.  His eyes sparkled when he spoke about America, and it was evident that he had an amazing time there.  When I told him that I would be in southern Spain in August, he insisted that I come to Marrakesh and stay with his family.  He seemed genuinely excited about the prospect of my visit and even offered to help me find airplane tickets.  I assured him that I would make every effort to come, especially now that I had someone to show me the city.

I arrived in Basel around 9:00pm to a downpour.  Though I had an umbrella, I was soaked by the time I plodded into the YMCA Youth Hostel.  I was pleasantly surprised to see how well-kept the place was.  Very clean and furnished with modern decor and appliances, the hostel is quite cozy.  I got a bed in an 8-person room for about $25 per night.

I soon met several other young backpackers, and we quickly became friends.  There are two Danish girls, Heidi and Nendt.  They are friends who travelled through Europe for about a month and are now on their way home to Denmark.  Tom is an Australian attending a design program at Basel University.  Zane, a South African, bicycled around Europe for a month and is now headed home.  Daniel is a Mexican who has been travelling for about two weeks on a turbo-tour of western Europe.  He is headed to eastern Europe eventually.  There is Rueben, another Mexican, who was completely inebriated by the time we met.  His unintentionally funny antics kept us entertained all night.  Alex, a Spaniard who looked Indian, joined us a bit later.  Turned out that his mother is German and his father Indian, and he was born and raised in Malaga, Spain.  Finally, there is Cat, another Aussie, who just arrived from Morocco.  She is on her way to Dubai to teach primary school kids.  We hung out playing cards until late at night and made plans to see Basel tomorrow.  Alex, who lived in Basel for some time, offered to show us around.

Gangsta’s Paradise

I left the apartment late yet again.  Maybe it’s all the walking, but I feel exhausted at the end of the day and can’t seem to wake myself before noon.  It’s tragic, perhaps, to spend so much time asleep in Paris, but then again, I’m on break.  I need the rest.

Although I’ve only had cheese baguette once, I’m already feeling resistant to it.  I couldn’t bring myself to have it for breakfast this morning, so I had an omelette instead.  It came to about €8, which isn’t so bad.  As I continue on my trip and start paying for housing, I will need to be more thrifty.

I headed next to the Rodin Museum.  It hadn’t been part of my initial plan.  In fact, I confess I didn’t even know who Auguste Rodin was.  However, a friend from Pepsi had made me promise that I would visit the museum.  So I went.  At first I didn’t see anything of particular interest, but then I learned that Rodin sculpted the famous piece known as The Kiss.  Soon afterwards I got a bigger shock: Rodin also designed the sculpture known as The Thinker!  That very same sculpture that all we Columbians take pride in!  Shame on me indeed.  The original sculpture sits in the Rodin Museum gardens.

I roamed around Paris tonight.  The Parisians and tourists were out, streaming on and off the trains, going out to party with friends.  I had already eaten dinner with Greg.  He had made a pasta with broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes.  The walk helped digest the food.  I criss-crossed over the myriad bridges that connect the two banks of the Sienne River.  Clusters of young men and women sat on the bridges, playing music and singing along.  The noise of their chatter and laughter followed me as I walked along the east bank.  The City of Lights sparkled, glittering in a rainbow of colors on the river.  I marveled at its beauty and decided I would return some day with my fiancé or wife.  Paris truly is a romantic place.

I had crossed another bridge, and I was now back on the west bank.  It looked familiar.  I had been there earlier when I visited the Notre Dame Cathedral.  Clusters of young people sat scattered across the promenade on the edge of the river.  Their voices – laughing, talking, singing – drifted up to me.  I walked down the stairs and sauntered between the groups until I found a place to sit.  A group of young, Caucasian-French men and women sat on my left.  On my right, a group of African-French boys danced to hip-hop and rap music playing on their boombox.  The lyrics were in French, but I found myself tapping along to the rhythm.  They noticed me and laughed appreciatively.  One of them waved his arm towards his group and yelled something in French.  I figured he wanted me to join them.  I jumped down from my perch and walked over to the group of six guys: Yanik 1, Yanik 2, Jimmy, Allen, Kevin, and Alexander, who was the token Caucasian.  Yanik 1 spoke English very well, and he quickly became my interpreter.  Jimmy, who had called me over, appeared to be the group leader.  Allen was celebrating his birthday and was ridiculously drunk.  Kevin seemed like a very nice guy and made every effort to make me feel welcome.  He soon produced his camera phone and started snapping photos.  They were all between 18 and 21 years old.

They asked me what kind of music I listened to.  I like a variety of music, but I especially like hip-hop and rap because I grew up with it.  They appreciated that and asked me if I liked what they were playing.   It had a nice beat, but I couldn’t understand the French words, of course.  They translated for me for a bit but changed the song soon after because it was apparently too violent.  I asked them if they liked American hip-hop and rap, and they responded enthusiastically.  Dre, Snoop Dogg, Tupac – they listed several rappers.  I wasn’t surprised.  Greg had mentioned earlier that France is the second biggest market in the world (after the US) for hip-hop.  I had been surprised then.  These guys didn’t look much different from many of the urban youth I know in America.  The only difference was that these guys were conversing in French.  They lived in the 94th arrondissement or district of the Paris suburbs, which is where Parisian housing projects are located.  The riots that occurred in Paris not so long ago had been catalysed by disaffected youth of these same suburbs.  I asked Yanik 1 if the suburbs really were as bad as the media portrays them.  Yes, he confirmed.  Drugs and armed robbery are rampant.  Yet, these guys didn’t seem angry or disaffected.  They laughed, joked, and had a genuinely good time celebrating their friend’s birthday.

As Jimmy flipped through the songs on the boombox, I heard a snippet of Coolio’s classic, Gangsta’s Paradise.  I asked Yanik 1 if they knew Coolio.  Sure, he said, Gangsta’s Paradise, of course, and it occurred to him that they had that song.  Hey Jimmy, he called, put on Gangsta’s Paradise.  Jimmy tweaked the dial, and the beginning notes of the song punched out of the boombox.  The boys gave a roar of approval and gave me the floor to rap along with Coolio:

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I take a look at my life
And realize there’s nothing left
‘Cause I’ve been brassing and laughing so long
That even my momma thinks that my mind has gone

They all joined me for the refrain:

Been spending most our lives
Living in a Gangsta’s Paradise

A cool breeze blew.  Paris sparkled in the background.  And the seven of us rapped on the banks of the Sienne River with not a care in the world.

Around Paris

Today I had cheese baguette for breakfast.  Even with coffee the cost only came out to €5.  The cheese smelled funny though, and I’m not sure if I will be able to bring myself to eat it again.

I visited the Louvre Museum today.  Shame on me, but I had forgotten that the Mona Lisa is located at the Louvre.  It didn’t take long for me to figure it out though because there were signs pointing to it’s location all around the grand museum.  The painting is housed in the Denin section, and as I made my way there, a foul stench filled the air.  It smelled like someone had exploded a stink bomb in the stairwell. I tried to fan it away, but to no avail.  I think the smell was a combination of body odor and the odors emanating from the nearby restrooms.  I finally made it to the Mona Lisa, the popularity of which was immediately evident.  A huge crowd was gathered around Da Vinci’s masterpiece.  Despite numerous signs prohibiting photography, everyone’s cameras were out and clicking away.  She, Mona Lisa, must feel like such a celebrity, I thought, and she plays the part well with her smug smile and coy glance.  I remember reading somewhere that people tend to identify one piece or symbol of an entire field as the epitome of the whole.  As in, the Colosseum in Rome may represent all of Roman architecture, Hamlet represents all of literature, etc.  The Mona Lisa, I read, stands as the epitome of art for many people, especially for those who are not very knowledgeable of art.  What a presumptuous honor, I mused.  The crowd jostled to get closer to the painting.  The cameras clicked away.  Mona Lisa smiled smugly from behind her glass panel.

I learned that the Venus de Milo is also located at the Louvre.  I tracked it down to find a crowd gathered around it as well.  For a piece that’s not even whole – it’s missing both arms – it’s quite popular.  There is a certain tension in the body as it twists upward that I did find charming.  Another sculpture that really stood out for me was of a lion attacking a man who is trapped with one hand caught in a crack of a massive, broken tree.  I forget the man’s name, but the story goes that in his old age he tried to prove his strength by breaking the tree apart.  He used to be a renowned athlete, and he could not accept that old age had weakened him.  His hand got stuck, and wild animals devoured him.  The sculpture is very impressive.  The ferocity of the lion with its taught body and unforgiving jaws and the man’s anguish as he twists his body to ward off the hungry beast with one hand are beautifully sculpted.  The piece also conveys a poignant message about the inevitability of old age.  We must all face it eventually.

I checked out the Islamic art exhibit as well, and I found it quite sparse.  The museum had some finely crafted swords and knives with beautiful hilts and blades on display, but not much else of interest.

I made my way through the Jardin des Tuileries (Tuileries Garden).  It’s a long stretch of grass, shrubs, and trees adjacent to the Louvre.  I followed the dirt path through the park.  I came across a large fountain in the center of the park where several boys were floating miniature sailboats.  A man stood with a cart of sailboats nearby, renting them out to the kids.  The boys circled the fountain carrying long poles, which they used to prod the boats away from the sides.  Walking further I arrived at the Place de la Concorde where the Egyptian obelisk stands.  I remember learning about this obelisk when I visited Luxor, Egypt in 2006.  Mohammad Ali, the ruler of Egypt at the time, gave it to France in exchange for a clock tower.  The clock never worked, but here it was, that very same missing obelisk.

I took a bus to Champs Elysees earlier tonight.  It is a brighly-lit avenue that is known for its shopping.  It starts at the massive Arc de Triomphe Etoile, which was built by Napolean to commemorate his victories.  Walking down the avenue I came across a throng of people waiting in line outside a Virgin Megastore.  I asked a security guard what was going on, but he didn’t speak English.  He still wanted to help and said hesitatingly, “Arapotre?”  I didn’t understand him, so I asked a girl who was waiting in line.  Turned out they were all waiting for the launch of the next and last book in the Harry Potter series.  Of course.

Blog Launched!

Dear Friends and Family,
I hope this email finds you well and in the best of spirits. I’m currently in Paris, which really is as beautiful as I’ve heard. I was in England from July 13 through the 18th, which is when I came here. As promised, I’ve been working on setting up a blog, but given all that I’ve had going on, I’ve fallen really far behind. I finally just got it started. Please feel free to check it out. The rest of the site is under construction, so don’t expect to find much there. The blog though is good to go. Feel free to follow me on my journey and do leave comments so I know I’m not talking into a void 🙂