Gare Du Nord Eurostar terminal, le gai Paris, some time ago; my girlfriend Emily is queuing in some monster line at a ticket machine so that we can bumble around Paris on ze metro like aimless fools when a taxi would guarantee a much smoother passage. We’re not visiting Disneyland Paris until tomorrow but this queue already looks a million times longer than the one for The Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster could ever be. Deciding to chance my arm in another queue, I dart over to the other machine twenty or so yards away; yet suddenly, a suntanned little dwarf/young boy of about ten years old stands in my path. With puppy dog eyes staring up at me, he garbles something in French; tears are in his eyes, and I’m flummoxed. What to say? What to do? Shall I lob a Euro coin at his feet and flee in the chaos or attempt to engage the skinny, impoverished looking scamp? There’s an air of the Oliver Twist, Dickensian ruffian about him. Just as I prepare to carry on walking, he spews out some surprisingly accurate English.
“Will you donate to my charity?” He’s very polite; polite to the extent of being persuasive, may I add, and he happens to withdraw a clipboard from behind his back. A page of signatures and e-mail addresses, as well as noted donations, stares undeniably up at me. I repeat: the lovable little chap has a clipboard at his disposal. That settles it, this must be official; he continues to briefly explain what the charity is for (putting homeless Parisian children into care), and as he really begins to get into his stride, flashing a cheeky grin and gaining in confidence, a shout from some way off seems to petrify him. We both dart our eyes towards the source of the commotion in unison. Suddenly, I feel complicit with this mysterious stranger in whatever it is that’s aroused his fear. As a uniformed, overly podgy French traffic cop wobbles his way over, I turn my head to the spot where, moments before, the young chappie had been coercing me to donate. Yep, you guessed it: gone. Vamos, au revoir, into thin air like a kid version of Harry Houdini.
And then I realise, shaken out of my daze by the panting cop; how stupid could I be? A tatty looking child with darting eyes and a desperate air about him collecting for charity? Without any official documentation or clothing, just a poxy clipboard with a few scribbled names he’d thought of that morning? I thanked my chubby saviour, then moved on, a smidge furious at myself, and a hell of a lot more cautious and watchful for the rest of the trip.
I mention this tale because, upon scanning the news reel this morning, my attention was brought to the comments made by Claude Gueant, French Interior Minister. Apparently, Monsieur Gueant claims that 80% of ALL street crime in Paris is perpetrated by the children of Romanian immigrants. My experience was brought back into sharp focus; vindication flooded through my veins, and yet... And yet... No. I felt more self disgust at this fleeting thought than when I was angry at myself for almost falling into that little street urchin’s trap. One (almost) relevant experience simply doesn’t make a sweeping statistic like that correct or acceptable. Especially considering the French government’s troubled recent history with ethnic minorities in the region of their capital. My memory is brought back to 2005, and the Bosquets riots on the outskirts of the city. A poor, crime-ridden area, the violent uprising there marred the French bid for the 2012 Olympics and, according to some, was a great help in ensuring the U.K. captured the games. Regardless, the occupants of the Bosquets estate claimed neglect of their community, which was and still is primarily of an African expatriate denomination, as well as a corrupt police force who regularly bothered innocent black youths for no valid reason. The incident was hushed under the carpet as quickly as possible by the then French Interior Minister (a certain Nicolas Sarkozy), yet this type of uprising is rife in France and never quite goes away. Rather, it’s an underlying problem that bubbles under the surface until a spark ignites, and the issue returns to the wider public consciousness.
So next time I’m feeling a bit smarmy and relieved by reading the comments of a biased French politician with an arguably malicious agenda, I’m going to shout ‘SACRE BLEU’ at the top of my lungs, and slap myself silly.
It’s been a while, but I’m glad to be back; G. x
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