Backpacking While Black

Paris, March 2006: Day 3, March 16, 2006, Paris, France (CDG, 19th District, Saint Michel, Protests, Bastille)

My eyes have never looked so bloodshot. It was almost demonic looking. I felt fine for most of the flight, but after waking up from breathing rather dry air for almost four hours I wasn’t the happiest traveler. After a quick jaunt to the lavatory, I felt a little better, but longed for an actually shower and a gallon of water.

The captain was making his announcement about our decent into Charles De Gaulle Airport, so that meant a mad dash for the bathrooms by most of the passengers. I was glad I went earlier because I was able to enjoy the breakfast service with a view of the rapidly approaching French landscape. As I looked at the Paris suburbs I was struck with a sense of familiarity. This place looks like home or any other city in the U.S. that I’ve flown into. The only exception was the abundance of fields and vineyards, but you can get the same view flying over northern California.

As we neared touchdown the contrast between my previous thoughts of familiarity began to dissipate. The signs were in French. The graffiti was in French. Things were a bit sleeker. There wasn’t as much traffic surrounding the airport. With all my looking around, I forgot we were about to land. It was the jarring bump of the landing gears hitting the runway that snapped me out of my observation. In all honesty, the landing was much better than the previous night’s takeoff. It was surprisingly smooth with the exception of some S-turns the pilot made. I never liked it when massive amounts of steel, electronics, people and jet fuel made wide turns along a strip of asphalt no wider than a football field.

“Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Charles De Gaulle International Airport in Paris, France. The time is currently 10 a.m.” said the flight attendant over the loudspeaker. We were finally here. I looked back at Matthew who had a congratulatory smile on his face. It’s been almost four years for both of us since we were last in France, but it was well worth the wait. We taxied passed a bevy of other large airliners, some I’ve never seen before. Air Tahiti Nui? I didn’t know Tahiti even had its own airline. One airliner in particular caught my eye. Well, she’s not actually an airliner anymore. Air France’s last Concord supersonic jet sat posted on three pedestals as a testament to one of the most marvelous planes in aviation history. It was one that I hoped to ride on in my lifetime. Unfortunately, I’ll never realize that hope, but hopefully there’s something better on the aviation horizon.

We kept taxiing passed the terminals to a large holding area for a number of airliners, most not Air France airliners. We came to a stop and I was baffled to see a bus pull up next to the plane. I suddenly remembered that our flight’s final destination was Mumbai, India, so the Paris passengers had to depart here to allow the plane to continue on. I was a little peeved that we didn’t get a jetway because of the 32 degree weather outside. It was no bother though because we only spent 30-seconds in the open air before we boarded the bus to the main terminal. Matthew and I bowed goodbye to our flight crew, had our documents checked and boarded the bus for the terminal.

Having worked at a major international airport, it’s interesting to see its operation from the ground level instead sitting high above it in a plane. Some parts aren’t as clean as you would’ve hoped, but just as long as it functioned I wasn’t about to complain…much. We arrived at immigration to find our bags already on the carousel. After we went through another security and immigration checkpoint, we entered into the main hall of Terminal 2A at Charles De Gaulle International Airport (CDG). Now it was time to catch an overland train (RER) to central Paris, but the train station was in Terminal 2C and there was only one moving sidewalk. Thankfully we had rolling luggage.

We arrived in the CDG2 train station to buy our Metro passes for Paris, but the “convenient” kiosks were unfortunately all in French plus we could only buy the five-day passes at the customer service counter who’s line was longer than the previous day’s matinee at the “Lion King.” Matthew and I were kept company by a couple who had also signed up for this trip through Gate1 Travel. We helped each other navigate the terminal and the Metro pass buying process. We soon caught a train together and were well on our way to central Paris. I never turn down the kindness of strangers.

The outskirts of Paris are as industrial and worn as New York City’s, but I’ve learned a lesson about “older” cities. They can’t help, but show their age and the infrastructure needed to keep them going and growing. Although, the French graffiti did bring a certain edge to my French vacation fantasy, but that would soon prove to be the least edgy observation in this city.

The Paris Metro is a sprawling network of three major systems: the Metro (subway system), the RER (overland suburban rail system) and bus system. It’s simple to navigate if you can read a map and signage. My word of warning would be to be patient with the system and not to expect it to be as easy as one stop. Our trip from CDG to our hotel in the 19^th district or arrondissement took three transfers totaling 30 minutes. We finally emerged from the 7-line’s Corentin Cariou station and only had to walk three blocks along Rue de Flandres to our hotel, the Kyriad La Villette. The area surrounding the hotel reminded me of Chelsea, but much more working class. There was an art school nearby so there were a number of students going to class, shopping or just hanging around. There were also plenty of grocery stores, restaurants, pubs, bakeries, banks, pharmacies and anything else that a traveler might need in very close proximity. The 19^th district contains the Parc des Buttes Chaumont and Parc de la Villete both bordering the Canal Saint-Denise. Villette is also the largest park and second largest greenspace in all of Paris. It is also home to the Cite’ des Sciences et l’Industrie, one of the world’s largest and most visited science museums. Our check-in went smoothly and we were soon presented with a moderately sized room just enough to fit two people, even though there was cot for a third person.

Matthew and I had the same level of excitement as our first day in NYC, but we fell into the same syndrome. Within minutes we were both asleep. I don’t know why I try to force myself to stay up and not rest while I’m traveling. I guess I feel that I have to see everything before the day gives out, but sometimes you just can’t ignore your body. If you do you can become cranky and not fully enjoy what you came to see. We woke up around 5 p.m. after about three hours of sleeping. Actually I woke around 5 p.m., Matthew had woke up earlier to do some exploring on his own and to get a phone card to call his friend, Francesca, our resident tour guide for the entire trip. On his outing he found a great Greek sandwich place a block from our hotel on Rue de Nantes. Still in the same clothes from the plane, we left the hotel for Greek sandwiches and a phone booth.

Walking along Rue de Flandres and without opening my mouth, I felt myself starting to blend in to the rush hour crowd. I was dressed mostly like anyone else and looked just the same. I remember on my earlier travels to Europe, I was afraid that I wouldn’t dress enough to fit in and that there wasn’t someone like me (race-wise) in the area. I quickly learned two things: clothes are universal and the color of your skin doesn’t dictate your geographic location or language. There are Black Scotts (Scotland), Asian English, Indian French, etc. I was circled by a direct contradiction to were I grew up, where most Blacks spoke English with a slight to heavy Southern twang in their accent. I guess I’ve been in Georgia far too long; I was beginning to generalize my own race. I was comforted to look like any other Black Frenchman, although I didn’t sound like it. Actually, I don’t sound like a typical Black Southerner and I’m very proud of that.

The Greek sandwich shop on Rue de Nantes was different from other sandwich shops I’ve been to. First, everything was fresh. Nothing was pre-cooked, came out of a plastic bag or out of a freezer, except the fries. Second, they didn’t put the lamb meat on pita bread as most Greek sandwich shops I know. Instead, it was on warm French flatbread. That combined with a cool cucumber mint sauce, some good old fashioned Freedom…I mean French fries drenched in ketchup and a Perrier, I was doing the happy food dance. This was a grand step up from the lamb I had on Air India coming over here. I also took this opportunity to practice what little French I knew with our waiter and Matthew, who’s slightly fluent. I know the basics of basics, but I was glad Matthew was there because I don’t know what I would’ve eaten if it wasn’t for his translation.

Satisfied, we went to the nearest payphone to call Francesca. Matthew and Francesca met while they were both at Georgia State University, my alma mater. He was studying screenwriting while she was on a semester study abroad from Italy. They became good friends and kept in touch over the years. I could tell by the smile on his face when he heard her voice on the payphone that he was just as glad to see her as she obviously sounded to see him. We decided to meet up at 6:30 p.m. in front of the Saint Michel station in the Latin Quarter. That only gave us 45 minutes to meet her, so we dashed back to the hotel, changed clothes and caught the Metro to Saint Michel. Now, throughout this trip, I had the pleasure of seeing some of the most beautiful women while on the Metro. They weren’t just the typical French woman, but the mixture of races had created some glorious looking beauties; Indian and Black, Anglo and Persian, Italian and Spanish, etc. I must’ve fallen in love at first sight multiple times while on this trip, but I was always reminded that there was someone back home that I admired far beyond her beauty.

The Saint Michel Metro station is right across the street from the Seine River and the fountain of Saint Michel (for the archangel Michael), and on outskirts of the Latin Quarter, one of Paris’ “to be” places for students, good conversation, food and drinks. Matthew spotted Francesca across the street, and as if it was something straight out of a movie, Francesca ran to Matthew and leapt into his arms with her legs wrapped around him. I guess they were “really” good friends. After an extended introduction we were off to celebrate the friends’ reunion at Café Latin (Rue Git le Coeur, across the street from the Hotel Villa d'Estrees at 17 Rue Git le Coeur). Café Latin was a perfect place to begin our journey into the Paris nightlife. It’s a warm place with low lighting and a cherry atmosphere, resembling an English pub. We toasted our trip with Kronenburg and Guinness. After getting caught up Francesca wanted to take us past her school, Sorbornne. She was studying writing there for the past month until recent protests had turned violent and closed the school temporarily. I had no desire to be in a protest, but I still wanted to see how a protest went on in the capital of all protests. I got more than I bargained for.

We walked up Boulevard Saint Michel a wide avenue full of shops, brasseries and the occasional fast food joint, but for a Wednesday evening around 7 p.m., most were closed and some were even barricaded. That should’ve been my first warning, but we kept walking. Francesca explained why students where protested en route. The French Senate had passed a resolution making it possible for companies to fire young hires after their first two years without any notice. In effect it was making France an “at-will” employment country. This resolution was designed to spur the rabid unemployment percentages, but the youth saw it from a different side. Their ability to secure a job after graduation assures their quality of life. In effect helping them start a life and contribute to society. The resolution allowed companies to take that ability away from students and now they were voicing their discontent.

In the distance I could see the orange glow of a fire. We all thought it was a bonfire, but as the flames shot hire and the smoke turned obscenely black, we knew it was a car. That was my second warning, but as Matthew and Francesca held back, I suggested that we go for a closer look and then leave if it was too intense. We then passed a strange site. In contrast to the violence ahead, revelers played bongos and danced in the streets. Most came to protest, some came to party and few came to wreak havoc, but why do the few always seem to outweigh the many?

We got close enough to see police in full riot gear and water trucks poised to blast the crowd with water cannons; this protest had turned to a riot. I’ve never seen anything like this before and it excited me. My true adventurous side comes out when danger is involved. I sometimes like to play with “fire,” but sometimes fail to realize that I just might get burned. The crowd’s noise was deafening, but suddenly there was a hush amongst the voices. I looked up to see fireworks go off, but the sparklers stayed lit while they hit the ground with a metallic sound. Those weren’t fireworks, those were tear gas canisters. The crowd realized this as well and started running away from the gas, but in our direction. That prompted us to run too. We had two choices: avoid the crowd or tear gas. We decided to inconvenience ourselves rather then suffering a death by trampling and went for the gas. We tried our best to avoid it, ducking around corners that weren’t too hazy, but the wind carried it in our direction and we were soon feeling the gas’ effects. It starts with a burning sensation in the chest, almost like acid reflux and you start to cough. The cough gets more violent as the gas moves to your throat which makes also makes you thirsty. The gas finally moves to your nostrils, sinuses and eyes, and all the sniffling and coughing in the world can’t stop the burning sensation in your eyes and your nose turns into a leaky faucet. We pulled our scarves over our nose and mouth to reduce the effect, but it was too little too late. All three of us were coughing violently and stumbling towards the side of the road. Luckily an owner of a movie theatre took pity on us and few other escapees, and ushered us into the lobby of his theatre. We couldn’t find a bathroom to wash out our eyes, but we were at least grateful for filtered air. Francesca and Matthew struck a conversation with the owner in French. From the gist of things he agreed with the protesters, but didn’t agree with the violence that was spreading over the past few days. The French welcome the raising of voices to bring about change, but not when it’s coupled with the complete disregard for order.

We saw police and rioters run by the theatre, and I prayed that this would soon be over. I wish I’d brought my camera, but realized it was the best decision to the leave it at the hotel. I would’ve been crazy to take pictures while a crowd was running towards me followed by police in riot gear. I was on vacation not an assignment for a magazine or newspaper.

We waited for about 30 minutes until things had settled down. Francesca wanted to get a move onto the restaurant, but the theatre owner had just heard a report that the riot had spread so the police had blocked off that section of the neighborhood where the restaurant was located. Disappointed, we left theatre in search of an alternative. We took the Metro to the Pont Marie/Bastille area to find a restaurant Francesca had forgotten the name and location of. She remembered what the street looked like, but everything looked different at night. We went around Place de Bastille and then down Rue de la Bastille looking at a few places that seemed interesting. I was about to give up when I turned to see this brightly, but invitingly lit restaurant. I cocked my head to read the sign on the awning. Could it be? This can’t be the restaurant I wanted to visit that was featured in “Something’s Gotta Give?” This can’t be…Bofinger (5 rue de la Bastille)? It actually was. In our haste to find a suitable place to eat, we stumble upon the one place at the top of my list of things to do in Paris, and possibly the most expensive. We looked at the menu and I was a little weary at the prices, but, like most Paris restaurants and to my relief, there was a prix fixe menu offering a three-course meal including appetizer, main course and dessert for €29 (euros). Matthew suggested that we might as well go to the restaurant now since we were standing in front of it. Know what, he was right. We went in and were promptly seated in one of Paris’ finest brasseries. Another word of advice, go to popular restaurants during the weekdays when the crowds are at their lowest. You’ll still get excellent service, but won’t have to suffer long waits for a table or worse yet, make a reservation far in advanced.

Unfortunately, our prompt table came at a price. We were seated in the smoking section, thankfully next to a window, but still in the midst of powerful French cigarette smoke. I was raised around a smoker, Francesca is a smoker and Matthew didn’t care, so it didn’t bother us too much. The restaurant’s atmosphere was first class. The maitre d’ guessed that we were American and gave us English menus, but the service didn’t diminish as I thought it would. Within minutes the prompt waiter had bread at our table and wine menus in our hands. Francesca suggested a merlot that she often had, so we all had a glass. I also ordered sparkling bottled water, a luxury to me seeing that my water choices in restaurants back home are limited to whatever comes out of the restaurant tap. The merlot came in three generous glasses and lasted throughout dinner. It’s medium body, but fruity flavor had hints blackberry so it had enough sweetness to make it compatible with the first two savory courses.

From the prix fixe menu I ordered a roasted mushroom loaf in a light cream sauce as an appetizer, roasted duck breasts with creamed potatoes for the main course and the chocolate mousse cake for dessert. Matthew had the foie gras of duck with brioche toast, pork tenderloin in a béarnaise sauce and the chocolate mousse cake. Francesca was the odd ball and just ordered the schnitzel with sauerkraut. We enjoyed the restaurant’s atmosphere and our own light-hearted conversation until the food arrived. The mushroom “loaf” was a lighter consistency than a meatloaf, but one could taste the slow roasted process that they went through and the cream sauce balanced out the smoky flavor. Matthew seemed to be enjoying his foie gras of duck which, after a small sample, tasted sweeter than other foie gras that I’ve had before.

After we finished our appetizers our main courses soon followed. This is where the service impressed me. All of our dishes arrived with three separate waiters and was placed in front of us simultaneously. Even though Francesca ordered just schnitzel with sauerkraut, her dish was the most elaborate. First, a small tray with a brass sterno canister was placed on our table at the end of our appetizers. Second, her meal arrived in a covered silver tray with the rest our meals. Finally, the tray was placed over the brass sterno tray, the sterno lit and the covered lifted with flair to reveal a heaping mound of glistening schnitzel and pungent sauerkraut. I looked at my duck breast and had immediate meal envy, but the taste made up for the portion. The duck breasts were done medium well so they were still juicy with a pink center, but a chewy texture. The béarnaise sauce kept the duck’s sweet taste balanced with its robust flavor. The creamed potatoes were the only disappointment, but my expectations weren’t that high to begin with. I love a good conversation during dinner, but when good food is present, I love silence even more so I can enjoy the first few bites. As the meal progressed, we sampled each other’s dishes and also helped Francesca get through her food. Matthew’s pork medallions weren’t as savory as I expected, but the accompanying sauce helped elevate the dish’s overall taste. Francesca’s schnitzel tasted more like the turkey kielbasa my roommate gets at the supermarket back home. I was a little taken back, but ignored my inclination to ask the wait staff if this was real schnitzel. Sadly, the main course came to an end, but our stomachs were ever thankful. The dessert wasn’t far behind the conclusion of the main course. The chocolate mousse cake came on pool of raspberry coulee and met my wildest expectations.

Satisfied, we looked at each other and laughed at the whole situation. Here we were enjoying the service of a fine French restaurant when only a few hours previous we were running from a stampeding mob and suffering the effects of tear gas. I loved the irony of this evening, so with the last of my merlot I raised my glass and toasted this vacation and the many more ironic situations we would go through.

posted by Dre' @ 3/16/2006 12:06:00 AM