LETTER FROM PARIS #31 "welcome" to Paris.

There has always been a feeling that, France is not a very friendly place for strangers, whether they have come to settle or are simply visitors like us. I don’t think it is true, at least not any more. But the signs of disconnected newcomers to France are impossible to miss.

I had two very different and at the same time, very similar experiences. Both were women colour. The similarity was cosmetic. The differences were social, and they were huge.

The first. Shirley and I were at the coin laundry. We had arrived in time to take the only very large machine which would do most of our wash. The cycle was in its last seven or eight minutes. A young woman, probably Senegalese or Mali (which is what so many in Paris are) her spiky hair tinted red at the tips, entered with her cart of washing, took one angry look at the machine we were using, made a very sour sound, and sat down sullenly. I made a brief wisecrack to her about having to wait. I thought I was just being friendly. Stony silence.

We finished. She deposited her laundry and put coins in the machine. Nothing happaned. Out came a volley of obviously angry rapid fire French directed at me. I think was accusing me of doing something to thwart her laundry plans. (A woman who was in the place at the time and spoke English, confirmed that yes, she was somehow blaming us.) She stormed out, leaving her laundry inv the machine. After she left, it started up, obviously having needed a cooling off period before its mechanism started to function again. But hey – I’m no engineer.

The other. We were in the immensely popular Relais de Venise, where the only thing is steak-frites and all you can ask for is the way you want your steak. Seated on one side of us a French speaking couple from Lebanon. On the other side, an American couple.

We chatted. The conversation grew in interest and intimacy. They are both I.T. people who live in the Silicon Valley area of California. After a cordial dinner and an exchange of small talk, including a look at a picture of their five year old daughter, I suggested it was too early to end the evening – let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Outside the restaurant we finally introduced ourselves. They are Merline and Greg. Off we went to sit on the sidewalk and have an after dinner digestif. I find myself talking too much (what else is new?) Because of my age and my three month presence in Paris, it was natural that I would talk about retirement, about the book, and about how to stay connected. Greg told me that his father, a retired school principal, was retired, totally adrift and at loose ends. So I talked and talked and talked – about focus and planning and organization and about how being retired was not just about making sure you had enough money to survive.

Finally I realized I had monopolized the conversation. I asked Merlene to tell me about herself. This is where the comparison to the angry Senegalese woman became really vivid. Merlene, who earlier had said she still had some fragmented memories of French, came to Florida from Haiti. Given the demographics of Haiti, I had to presume that she did not come from affluence, and had arrived with her family in whatever precarious way many Haitians made their way to Florida and freedom. Perhaps she didn’t arrive on a tiny boat. Perhaps she came in much more easily. I don’t know. But she was five when she arrived. She thrived. She was, and still is, in love with mathematics. She graduated from Florida State, where she met Greg. If I got it right, he was at the other college in Tallahassee. They both have graduate degrees. They appear to be prosperous. Because I was so attracted by her story, and about her success, I wanted to tell her the story of the woman in the laundry. I didn’t. She didn’t seem to want to discuss race. So I didn’t.

But to myself I wondered. America has not always been a friendly place (and in many parts still is not) to their black citizens and even less so to people like Haitians many of whom arrive illegally and put pressure on whatever remnants of social safety nets exist in Florida. The state is not famous for its tolerance and leans politically to the right. This woman did have the chance to succeed. I didn’t ask her about alienation or exclusion. She was neither alienated nor excluded.

Because she put my name into her electronic gizmo and said she would Google it so she could read my blog, I wonder if she did. I wonder if she will read this. I wonder if she will be surprised at the comparison. I may never know.

I didn’t see the Senegalese woman again. We left before she returned. One of a million stories that leaves you wondering about the ending. Will there even be one?