Paris: City of Romance & Immigrant Poverty

Romance...
I had previously heard so much about the Seine in my classical lit course and read about its banks in travel magazines which lead to me imagining a roaring, uncompromising river; similar to the Potaro, Demerara, or Berbice. These are the rivers I had known as a child which are dangerous life takers. On a chilly day in January, I saw for the first time a river; in which, its banks were busy with tourist and lovers from all over the world strolling, and holding hands with their mates while exchanging kisses.

France is a rich nation, which has the financial capital to promote Paris as the city of romance. As a colonial power it acquired billions of dollars from its colonies, it was the 6th largest colonial empire spanning across the world with a large portion of it satellites in Northern and Western Africa. The richness of the country is reflected in the classical architecture of the buildings, the pristine riverboats, the RER trains running along the banks of the Seine and through out the city, the Eifel tower, the Louvre etc... and even the automatic porta potties located on the sides of the streets.

France's strategy of marketing Paris and the city of romance is brilliant in that the Seine helps to upkeep the image. There is always something seductive about peaceful waterfronts and accordion music. The mood of river during the day is calm as the Eifel tower sits still on the bank of the Seine. On that day in January, everyone around the Eifel tower seemed at peace; as they snapped photographs, took the elevator to the top of the tower to have lunch, rode the river boats, or visited the museums.

Poverty...

Everyone except for North African immigrant women who were begging and male African vendors who were being chased by the French police for selling key chains to tourist. My heart went out to vendors, I exhaled for a moment, stood still and watched in disgust as the police harassed them.

It reminded me of the days in my early childhood: watching the Old Earth (my mother) scurrying about Bourda market (Guyana) hiding smuggled goods: split peas, wheat flour, and cans of milk, for which she had travelled all the way to the end of the country's borders to purchase and resell to make a profit. Back then under President Burnham’s quasi-socialist government these items were banned.

Anyways, the African immigrants were scattered at the base to the tower, hiding and running in every direction. The bicycle police caught one of male vendors, collared him, and began yelling; fearful, the vendor dropped all his key chains to the ground.

I stood some 60 yards from him, feeling powerless; I had seen this scenario before: immigrant vendor vs. police, I have seen it too many times, also in New York City. I don't claim to have a full epistemological understanding of immigrant poverty in the context of vendors all over the world but I know these situations and how they end. I grow tired of seeing it.

In NYC, I have seen African Immigrants selling bootleg CDs and DVDs laid out on a bed sheet on the ground. The reason for this is so that they can easily grab the four ends of the sheet and run when the police approaches.

I remember reading in the NY times in the early 2000 that France had been struggling in figuring out way on how to deal with the influx of African immigrants. The immigrants are facing racism as well as a high rate of unemployment and had been rebelling in the streets of France, turning over cars and lighting them on fire.

As I stood watching the French police harassing the vendor, very few tourist or lovers seemed to have noticed or cared. Tourist walked casually by went about their business; observing for a few more minutes I too then left and went about my business.