Sans-Papiers Under Pressure

Expats tend to get a big kick out of comparing the US and France, pointing out as many differences as possible (and we're no exceptions). But sometimes it's the similarities that are most jarring.

All the debate and tension over Arizona's new immigration law reminds me of something I saw right after my pilgrimage to Lully's grave. Leaving the Notre-Dame-des-Victoires church through a side door, I unexpectedly found myself in the courtyard of the Mairie of the 2nd arrondissement. There, I was confronted with a stark reminder of the stories behind immigration, and the often tragic implications of deportation: Carole Achache's exhibition "Cent papiers" may have only run from April 19 to May 6, but its message was timeless.

To illustrate the complexity of the sans-papiers situation, Achache photographed the hands of immigrants alongside the reams of documentation they need to complete in order to become legal - thus the "cent papiers" (100 papers) pun that gives the exhibition its title.

Beneath the photographs, we read the following captions:

"Her father was arrested in the métro station at Gare d'Austerlitz. He's been imprisoned in a detention center for five days. She's three years old. (top left)

Fled a country in civil war with her eight-year-old daughter. Legalized entry and political exile refused. (top right)

He has lived in France since 1989. He works and pays taxes. He has never been granted legal status. He came for his son, who will soon be 18. (bottom left) 

There, she worked starting at age ten. She lost two fingers doing that work. Here, she continues to be exploited even though she's still a minor." (bottom right)

There were 48 of these pictures with captions, and the ensemble quietly radiated both strength and desperation.

The text below the pictures reads:

"All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and in rights, except the others. They came to France because they wanted to live normally. They were hungry, or they fled wars. Others came to be with a spouse. They arrived in the country of Voltaire. They came to work, and to pay taxes.

Are they pests? Are there two kinds of humans? The first kind to which we belong by randomly being born into a certain nationality, giving us all the rights normally accorded to human beings? And the second kind, foreigners, whom, we decide, do not merit certain rights?

 Who are we to judge others, condemning them for having become sans-papiers?"

I appreciated Achache's photographs and her text. But I would have done something slightly different to point out the inherently fallacious nature of the entire sans-papier/illegal immigration issue. I would have included pictures of sans-papiers who are at little-to-no-risk of being arrested and deported. And the first photograph I would have shown?

Yeah, that's right. Remember when I lost my passport? And then got a new one? Once I had a new passport, even with my old passport in my possession, the titre de séjour I had worked so hard to acquire became obsolete. That meant that from April 21 through June 2, I was in the country illegally. And we knew tons of other Americans who were every bit as much sans-papiers as the people Achache photographed. At least the French are somewhat self-conscious about the basic issue at hand, given Sarkozy's attempt to launch a debate on national identity before the recent regional elections. In the US, we're a little more shy to admit that it's about race and class, not whether you have papers or entered the country "legally." As the controversial new law in Arizona brings this uncomfortable truth to the fore, we need more Carole Achaches to teach us about dignity, respect, and listening before judging.

A Rendez-vous with Remy (from Ratatouille) at Rosa Bonheur

Last week, while the weather was still warm, we spent some time at a great café/bar within the Parc des Buttes Chaumont called "Rosa Bonheur," after the painter. (You know it's great because it was recently reviewed by the NYT.)

Gladis and Becky got super-rich hot chocolate, while Maggie and I shared a relatively cheep beer. We all marveled at the design-conscious interior (including a fairy tale-esque beanstalk centerpiece) and enjoyed some quality people-watching.


They also serve muffins and rotisserie and have this cool beer garden just outside and - hold on a second, what is that.

Oh, yeah. Apparently they have a mouse problem. Not inside, of course - this little guy only seemed interested in rooting around in the dumpsters behind the beer garden area. Given that you're outside, you really can't help if there's a single mouse running around. We minded so little that instead of trying to let everyone know that there was a mouse (which seemed to be Panda's strategy), we distracted ourselves by talking about Ratatouille and the amazing food we were going to eat that night at Mon Oncle le Vigneron. Really, no big deal.

The park administration disagrees. Later on during our walk, we passed a few signs announcing an anti-rat campaign and urging parents to keep a close watch on their children, lest they ingest rat poison or something. 

Poor Remy.

Book Report #3

I just finished a really bloody, creepy detective novel. It wouldn't have made me quite so nervous if it didn't take place in our neighborhood.

Written in the late-1970s, Babel-ville follows a schizophrenic serial killer as he tries to eliminate the members of an all-female, neo-Saint-Simonian sect operating in Belleville. As is usual for this kind of book, the plot - the mystery - is actually the least interesting aspect, while the psychological side is fascinating. You start out feeling bad for the killer, seeing as how he's just trying to find his "missing" wife, but by the end you mostly just feel revulsion. I'm actually glad I couldn't understand a lot of the more graphic vocabulary, although my imagination probably made up for it.

What I did enjoy were Bialot's descriptions of Belleville in the 1970s, the snapshots into the lives of its residents (not unlike our own), and the unabashed, parodic treatment of the kinds of culture clashes a place like Belleville inspires. The impassioned interactions between the story's detective protagonists and the immigrants/descendants of immigrants they meet during their investigation may have been dramatized for literary purposes, but the ignorance and fear coming from both sides feels authentic enough.

The book's title draws attention to Belleville's multi-linguistic, multicultural demographics. I can't find anything on the etymology of the portmanteau "Babel-Ville," but it's clear that the neighborhood's inhabitants have embraced the notion.

Now if only France would follow. Just after finishing Babel-ville, I read a great article in the NYT about French conservatives' inability to cope with the fact that most French-speakers don't live in France, don't subscribe to French nationalist mythologies about a glorious past stretching back to Rome, don't practice Catholicism, and don't appreciate being told what to wear (but that's another issue for another time). Bad news for French conservatives: the article ultimately reinforces the possibility that Belleville's demographics, while not "typical" of Paris past-and-present, are increasingly typical of the city's future.

Afternoon Tea in Paris with Joy and Cathy (Part II)

Louis already posted about two of the salons de thé we visited when Joy and Cathy were here, and I'm going to tell you about a few more.

Mariage Frères is probably the most famous tea seller in Paris, with a menu of hundreds and hundreds of teas from all over the world. They have three salons de thé and we visited the original one on Rue Bourg-Tibourg. The salon is just as unabashedly exoticist as Ladurée's, with posters from various Colonial Expositions throughout French history. But we didn't go for the décor - we went for the tea and the dessert. Tea is served in a specially insulated pot (see below left) first designed in the 1920s and arrives already perfectly steeped by one of the white-tux-clad waitstaff. We ordered a single pot of Vanilla Imperial tea which was delicious (but which was not quite enough for three people, in case you're thinking about sharing to cut costs). We also had a crème brulée made with Marco Polo tea (a fruity blend), which was beautiful as well as tasty. As far as looks go, this salon de thé wasn't at the top of our list, and in terms of food/drink, we'll probably stick with buying the dry kind of tea in the future. But we're still glad we went, and we might be investing in one of those théières (teapots) very soon!


Berthillon Glacier is probably the most famous purveyor of ice creams and sorbets in Paris, and you can buy their products at many locations around the city. (Our favorite place happens to be right around the corner from the Berthillon Glace salon de thé - right at the point of the Île-St.-Louis, just across from Notre Dame.) But you have to go to their salon de thé to try their tarte tatin (upside-down apple tart), and so go there we did. Louis had a scoop of raspberry sorbet with his tarte tatin (below left) while Joy ordered a moelleux au chocolat (a chocolate pastry shell surrounding melted chocolate) with a scoop of vanilla. While vanilla might sound boring, consider that this vanilla tastes nothing like that watered-down stuff we get in the US. This is real (strong) vanilla. The room in which we ate was beautiful in a distinctive, indescribable way. (Luckily there's a picture.) Final verdict? We can't wait to go back.

Our final salon de thé for the week was Angelina, on the Rue de Rivoli. We first learned about Angelina through a December New York Times article (NYT hearts Paris so, so much), and later found out it's in just about every guidebook. The place was incredibly busy and loud, and when we go back we'll ask to be seated in the back section of the salon, which seemed quieter and more private. But we didn't care too much about the noise, at least not once our hot chocolate arrived. Called "L'Africaine" (what is up with salons de thé and imperial nostalgia?), this was hands-down the best we'd had all week, and it didn't hurt that it came with a big bowl of whipped cream just waiting to enrich an already dense liquid (you can see the deadly combination below left). We also ordered some of the house pastries, which embodied tradition with a twist. Cathy's St. Honoré (below right) was particularly photogenic, and the others were fancy-looking too. Angelina sells its hot chocolate in glass bottles so you can relive the artery-clogging experience in the comfort of your own home and without having to wait for a table. 

After five salons de thé in less than a week, we were ready to be finished for a while. At least, until our next tea- and pastry-loving visitors arrive . . .

Miscommunications

We interrupt our regularly scheduled Flanders-centric programming to bring you an update from the end of last week. Maggie's college friend Sarah visited from Wednesday afternoon to Sunday morning, and great fun was had by all. Except Thursday night.

See, Richard Strauss's Salomé is playing at the Opéra, and as Salomé is just about my favorite opera ever, we decided to try for rush tickets. We were all going to meet at 5:30 to get in line, but Maggie called at 5 to let me know that she and Sarah were second in line, and that I didn't need to come. They'd get the tickets and return home for dinner, then we'd all go back together. So I made a spinach, tomato, and red onion quiche.

Then I checked my phone and saw that Maggie had texted me right after our phone conversation to say that she had already picked up some surprises for dinner, and all I needed to do was get bread and make salad. Oops. Miscommunication #2.

#2?? What happened to #1? Here's what happened: Maggie called back around 6:15 to say that the ticket windows were just opening, so they probably couldn't make it home. Thinking I'd bring dinner to them, I packed up some quiche, salad, and water, and headed out. Two minutes later, Maggie called again to say they had mistakenly gotten tickets for a ballet rather than Salomé. That's weird, I thought. I didn't know they were giving a ballet tonight. Maybe I got the date wrong. When I arrived at Bastille, I called Maggie to find out where they were (they had gone to get bread) and she told me to meet them across from the Uniqlo. That's weird, I thought. I didn't know they'd opened a Uniqlo at Bastille.

It was only when I happened to pass by a poster advertising the evening's cultural offerings that I realized, with disbelief, the nature of Miscommunication #1.

We were at different opera houses.

Maggie and Sarah had gone to the Palais Garnier - you know, the one that looks like an opulent opera house.

I, on the other hand, had gone to the place where I knew Salomé was playing, which looks very little like an opera house, and which is always called "l'Opéra Bastille," while the older building is commonly called "l'Opéra".

Miscommunication #3 actually occurred between Maggie/Sarah and the establishment of the Opéra (Garnier). These ladies never looked at the tickets to see what time the ballet started - since Salomé was supposed to start at 8, they assumed the ballet started at 8, too - and when I called Maggie to tell her that we were in different places, I also ended up informing her that the ballet started at 7:30. So we weren't going to have time to eat, and I had to rush over from Bastille.

Ultimately, I arrived a few minutes late, but luckily we had "loge" (ground-floor box) seats, so they could let us in even though the performance had already started. The evening was split into three ballets by three different choreographers. The first ballet was minimalist through and through, with musical extracts from Phillip Glass's Einstein on the Beach, the dancers wearing only primary colors (and green), and the "set" consisting of a screen on which was projected many slowly moving, primary colored-lines, which created accidental optical illusions. The second ballet, choreographed to Georg Ligeti, was most notable for having made two-way mirrors out of the scrims. It was also the première run of that ballet. We didn't stay for the third ballet, due to the combination of miscommunications, dance semiotics incomprehension, ultra-repetitive/unpalatable music, and hunger. Luckily the NYT published a review of the evening, and you can see pictures and read all about it there. (That's 6 articles about Paris or Parisian events just this week.)

We learned the following lessons: always specify which Opéra you're meeting at. Never bake a surprise quiche. And if you find yourself disliking whatever's being performed at Opéra Garnier, you can always draw strength from the heavens above:

Ceiling art by Marc Chagall.

NYT hearts Paris

This morning, the lead story in the Travel section of the New York Times addressed three topics close to our hearts: Paris, history, and food. In the article, Tony Perrottet walks in the (massive) footsteps of famous gourmand Alexandre-Balthazar-Laurent Grimod de la Reynière, who reviewed all of the most famous establishments of the early 19th century - including the newest kind of eatery, the restaurant - in a series of food "almanacs." Only a few of the places reviewed by de la Reynière remain today, but most that do are still high-quality (and high-price) institutions on the Paris food scene. Le Grand Vefour, in the Palais Royal, is one of them.

Alas, most of Paris outside the first six arrondissements didn't exist when de la Reynière wrote his guides, so Perrottet can't help but perpetuate the canonization of the city center as the best/only place to find good food. (See, for example, the interactive map the NYT put together to accompany the article.) Luckily we're here to set the record straight! I'm pleased to present our very own gastronomic map of Paris. It's a work-in-progress, and we'll keep adding restaurants, boulangeries, and purveyors of fine food and drink as we hear about or visit them. Feel free to send along recommendations!

View Eat, Drink, and Be Merry: Paris in a larger map

In other news, the NYT has devoted at least five articles to Paris just in the last week. Does that feel like a lot to anyone else, or do we just notice more because we're here? The NYT writers must be looking for excuses to travel . . . just like musicology grad students . . .