gray Paris

Versailles and Paris hold childhood memories. Learning to roller skate in those few spaces that weren’t cobble stoned is still etched in the permanent memory of my knees. Playing in the shade of trees that somehow refracted light, the faint watermark brushes of fat pigeons and shiny snail tracks haven’t changed. The melodic beauty of French, the bells for Matin, and the childish chatter of Kindergarteners sing-songing their way through the morning mist met us this morning. But the change is drastic. The children slow to let an imam leave the Japanese restaurant across the street. When I pop into a shop to ask for directions, the Islamic call to prayer is being broadcast on the radio for the Pakistani selling plastic Parisian souvenirs made in China. We eat our dripping good, traditional French crepes at a miniature café where each wall holds a large sign taped up slightly crooked, declaring all meat to be halal. The cook speaks French but heralds from Algeria. Crepes is the only French thing being served. Couscous, tandori, falafel, and doner compete for air space as the aromas create a silent cacophony. Next door the Chinese are serving truly ethnic dishes that would be hard to find at stateside buffets. ‘Nepal en Paris’ hangs over the adjacent store, while the truck pulled up one shop down is unloading Turkish newspapers.

Yet you look up and find madame in fur walking her poodle. Cabaret are sprinkled between the ethnic fast foods. Several nuns float by in the mist. The Montmartre stairs are still lantern lit in the early morning dusk. French speaking boys run to watch the Funicular perch mesmerizingly on the hill before it plummets to the valley. Surely a red balloon lurks somewhere in the shadows? ‘Le Chat Noir’ purrs sweetly next to the Irish pub and the artists are already breaking out their easels in the shadow of the cathedral. But the people who come out of the woodwork are the determined North African salesmen. “What! I’m a good catholic boy, non? You buy my necklace, yes? For charity, oui?” Beneath the ads of a now historic visit of the pope sweetly waving, this beguiling young man takes it upon himself to find out how many children we have and seek to convince us that we should have more. Oui?

Yes, the fat pigeons still waddle in gay Paris. Jackdaws cackle down at them in hilarious mockery as the rounded ones meticulously climb stairs rather than be bothered to fly. Yes, snails still measure the distance between fountains, cobble stones, and gargoyles. Perhaps it was just the rain, but the flavor seemed washed out, like a paper billboard left out in the weather. The poodle madame was old beyond her years and the nuns live behind high walls. In spite of the changeless monuments and traditions, Paris seemed a shadow of itself, being swallowed slowly by a Eurabian presence that accentuates the gray.