Le Marais.

The Marsh.

(The train is leaving Marseille for Nice, and I figure I will do a little catch-up journaling during the four-hour ride.)

There were two things I saw in Paris last week that I wanted to capture on film but chose not to. I saw them both within 30 minutes of each other on Sunday afternoon. We — Justin, Antonio, and I — had gone to a Segolène Royal rally dans le Marais, which is a very international neighborhood just northeast of Notre Dame. Le Marais also happens to be where the Sarkosy headquarters are. Sarkosy is not at all popular with the immigrant population of France. In the last few blocks before we got to the rally, I noticed an increase in uniformed policeman, which couldn't have been a coincidence. The rally was for non-French Sego supporters; actually, it wasn't so much a rally as a potluck. There was one big poster up about immigration, but mostly it was just about 100 people milling around the food tables, of all ages and colors. We met up with two of Justin and Antonio's friends: Loic, a Parisien, and Brandon, an American. After the potluck the five of us headed a few blocks over for coffee.



Leaving the rally, we came upon an African woman, with two small children in tow, who was yelling at two policemen. We weren't there for whatever got her going, but she had plenty to say. And though she spoke very quickly, I heard pieces: "le couleur de mon peau"... "Vous êtes racistes!" The five of us stood not six feet away, looking at each other and wondering if this would escalate, but too interested to leave. Luckily for everyone, the woman ran out of things to yell, and in a few minutes she dragged her kids away. Later, in discussion, I said that I was impressed with the restraint of the policemen, and that in the States the police would have acted in a more intimidating manner. The rest were not so impressed — Justin said that they probably would have acted better if my camera had been pointed at them — so perhaps the police had said some things that I didn't catch. The reason I didn't start the camera rolling was that I didn't want to become part of the story. And, in retrospect, that scene probably had little to do with the upcoming election — I believe I've seen policemen yelled at and called racist in the States, too. But it does seem like the issue of racism might be closer to the surface here than in the States.

After our coffees, Loic, Brandon, Justin, and I walked south towards Châtelet les Halles. Brandon and I continued our discussion (in English) about technology and design, which was really interesting, though I could have had it back in the States. We passed a large Arch, a picture of which I have included in this post. Continuing south, Loic stopped to mention that this block was the street for prostitutes. I looked up, and sure enough, there they were. These were not young, "Me so horny" hookers, these were Old French Whores. The one I can remember the best was wearing a black miniskirt, a midriff-baring red shirt, and a black leather jacket. She was probably around sixty years old. She was not attractive. The others were worse. They all unquestionably had so much mileage on them that their odometers had rolled over. They stood still, stationed every ten meters or so on either side of the street, some with cigarettes dangling from a pair of loose lips, leading me to wonder about the other pair. Yes, gross indeed. I can only imagine being lonely or horny enough to seek companionship there, shuffling down the street, revealing through your desperate eyes, being led inside, upstairs to a creaking bed beneath peeling wallpaper and a swinging lightbulb casting harsh yellow light on varicose veins and liver spots as you close your eyes and wonder if, one way or another, this will be the last time.

One block later, things are back to normal — there are shops, CD's and clothes to buy, food to eat, and an ancient church, standing still, inviting you in to pray.