Goodbye, Canal Saint Martin

Today I bid farewell to Canal Saint Martin, my center of gravity since I moved in early November 2005. Had arrived in Paris exactly on 30 June the same year, a day before joining UNESCO. That was several days before London was proclaimed host for the 2012 Olympic Games, further deepening the melancholy atmosphere of decline of the last times in Jacques Chirac’s presidency. That was also exactly twelve days before turning thirty.

But I did not get to the canal until November. I had to land in the City of Light as it should, with a good history of nomadism in Paris at some point I will have to sit down to write in detail. I spent a month in my point of arrival at Regis’ place in Rueil-Malmaison, a chic suburb west of Paris, beyond La Défense and Nanterre; August and mid September at Leszek’s, in Malakoff, in the South; not even three nights in the Goutte d'Or, in the heart of Africa in Paris; and survived an entire UNESCO general conference sleeping on a sofa when I was given asylum at Ruth’s in rue Amiral Mouchez, in the thirteenth arrondissement, south of Paris, next to the Butte aux Cailles and the Parc Monstouris.

The small study on the Quai de Valmy, with its wonderful windows on the locks of Recollets, became the balcony of the Tiger: my haven, arrival and departure point of my comings and goings, of the so far three times I left Paris for long periods, always to return there sooner or later. In October 2006 I left for three months to work in the poorest region of Senegal, to return in January and find the canal full of tents for the mobilization in support of homeless people. Only a few months after my return, in early August 2007, I changed the Parisian summer to the damply cold winter of River Plate. I returned from Uruguay just when autumn had taken possession of Paris and the plane trees on the canal had undressed for the winter sleep. Not even a year after that I emptied the studio and packed my bags again to leave for my second African adventure: to Namibia and Zimbabwe, in that spring of 2008 that I started in my African paradise, to finish it in winter in a country that was disintegrating in the grip of a former hero turned into an operetta tyrant. To the canal I returned, physically and morally shattered, in July 2008.

I bid farewell to my everyday geography. The quiet drinks at l'Atmosphère at the corner of the rue des Recollets, or at the Jemmapes, on the other side of the Canal; those moments reading in the sun –when there was sun- on a Sunday afternoon lying on the grass at square Villemin with its view on the canal, after a meal started with an appetizer of oysters bought at the market next to Hôpital Saint Louis, just out of my swim at the Parmentier swimming pool. The walks up the Canal to go to the cinema at Bassin de la Villette; my mornings of seeing a whole city waking up and finding her already awake and mad with noisy traffic on the Place de la Republique; the garbage trucks which seemed to be in the room despite the double glass, and the indefectible queues that formed each day past seven in the evening. The cleaning of streets at seven in the morning, and the calm and stillness of the Canal closed to traffic on Sundays. The long afternoons in spring and summer, with the banks of the Canal full of people picnicking. And the branches of plane trees, which seemed part of the decoration of the house and reminded me at every moment which was the season.

And so many other things, of all the times passed in this peculiar corner of Paris, which was a disreputable industrial suburb for a long time, to become relatively recently an increasingly chic area, the territory of the "bobo" (Bourgeois Bohème). I leave this corner of the rive droite where both Montmartre and the Marais were within reasonable walking distance.

And I leave with the certainty that even if I go for a better place, I'll miss this part of Paris that became mine. A much more common, informal and easygoing Paris than the flamboyant west of the city. A part of me remains forever on the Quai de Valmy, between the water and the plane trees on the Canal.

Impressions from Colombia

For the first time in my life I started the New Year in the Southern hemisphere. This time close to the Equator, and hence with warm weather in December. A deeply felt and intense journey in all its aspects. Long awaited, as it was pending since 2007 when I had to postpone it, and as the last part of 2009 was hard to walk through; ideal, as I could take part in the celebration of one of my best friend’s 30^th birthday –a Colombian-; deeply felt, as I was in a moment of change and in the best company.

Here are some impressions, knowing that each of them would merit its own entry:

Soroche: the altitude sickness that hits with sudden and big changes in altitude. The body feels the decrease in the percentage of oxygen, one can feel dizziness and any physical exercise becomes difficult, if not painful. I felt it slightly upon my first landing in Bogotá, and much more strongly yesterday when I went from the sea level to three thousand meters in a bit more than an hour. The stroll in Montserrate –the sanctuary that dominates Bogotá, consecrated to the patron saint of Catalonia-, became complicated.

Medellín: an animal. The most interesting city I have seen for a while. With a lot of effort, intelligence and imagination evolved from being the international symbol of narcotrafficking to become a city open to the world and with legitimate aspirations for innovation and leadership. It is very impressive, it reminded me of Sarajevo for its placement among the mountains, but in a tropical version –it is known as the city of eternal spring-; it encompasses all the contrasts of a country so unequal, diverse and fascinating as Colombia, from the mansions in the exclusive areas to the slums that colonized the mountains out of poverty and internally displaced persons, slums which gradually gained their dignity.

Stars: it had been a long while since I had last seen a sky filled with so many shining stars as I could see during the nights at the national natural park of Tayrona, in the Sierra de Santa Marta, where the Andes meet the Caribbean sea. Uribe’s government wanted to turn the place into a massive tourist resort. For once, the environmentalists won the battle to preserve a real jewel. It cannot be reached but by foot and access is restricted. Here is where Colombia should continue emulating Costa Rica rather than the Dominican Republic; quality over quantity in tourism.

Fruit juices: nowhere else I could enjoy fruit juices so much. The culture of fresh fruit juices in Colombia is as great as the variety of available fruits. A fresh juice is anytime a nutritious, hydrating and refreshing element that helps overcoming the rigor of tropical heat. In our latitudes the culture of fruit juices became reduced to tetra packs and to a certain and somehow exclusive culture of healthy lifestyles. A real pity. This is one of a number of things we could learn from Colombia.

The people: warm, extremely gentle and considerate, with an idea of service that I had never seen anywhere, not even in the USofA, where everything including customer service is determined by profit and nothing else. We do not have want you want? We are sorry but we will help you find it even addressing you to our competitors, as our goal is making your life comfortable. Really impressive.

More impressions to follow, if time allows.

The "shitlog"

Her two bits of ocean stared at me in disbelief while she affirmed it was the most surreal thing she had ever heard. I replied it was true; it was even mentioned in a BBC show recently (see video clip here). Yes, we Catalans do hit a log for it to shit presents on Christmas eve. And yes we do place in our chrèche, in a discrete spot, a figure defecating, the "caganer". Let me explain.

Every Catalan home is decorated with a “tió” –which thanks to public schooling has survived as a tradition and coexists with a Christmas tree or crèche or sometimes both-. The “tió” –not “cagatió” and hence not “shitlog” as wrongly translated in the video clip- is a log, usually one irregular and full of holes, nerves and cavities, anthropomorphized with a smiling face and wearing a “barretina”, the typical Catalan shepherd cap. This tradition comes from rural Catalonia, from the time when Santa Claus had not been imported yet and poor communications, isolation and enclaves made the arrival of the three wise men unlikely. The log would be covered with a blanket and children would hit it with sticks and sing for it to defecate sweets and presents previously hidden in the log’s holes and cavities by the parents. Of course the fantasy would have been built up by simulating the log had been fed for a week, with the enthusiastic participation of the children.

I had done that when I was a kid, and when I told my mother about my friend’s incredulity she recalled one of the few vivid memories she has from early childhood: right after Christmas, when her father –the grandfather that I never met, for he passed away long before I was born-, would chop wood for the fireplace, she would lurk and observe attentively, ready to jump for any sweets left.

It is also true that we place in every crèche a character, usually a shepherd, kneeling down and defecating. We place it in a discrete corner, although my brother and me used to get reprimanded by my mother for intentionally misplacing it beside the son of the Father in an act of petty domestic blasphemy. She never spoke of blasphemy though, just of bad taste and lack of respect. She also added that the son of the Father did not deserve that smell.

The tradition has evolved lately, and from having just a shepherd now all sorts of public figures are depicted in this condition or position –from local politicians to Obama, from the best paid player of FC Barcelona to the last top model, which should mean no offence, as in this case it is rather a recognition of a certain notoriety-. In fact the introduction of celebrities reinforces the expression of the main underlying message: bodily functions are natural and universal, and while they should be performed in discretion, they should not be a reason for shame.

I will leave the interpretation of all these pieces of escathologic culture -particularly the second bit- to the folklorists and anthropologists. I just had to write this to convince her I was not pulling her leg and to try providing some explanation. Now if you will excuse me...

Airport security

A few hours before xmas eve. For the first time since I left Barcelona I will go back home for xmas only on the 24th itself, just in time for the “shitlog” (new entry to come soonest). I used to do so earlier, to allow some time for last minute shopping and prepare for all the excesses, gastronomic and others. This time, though, I waited until the last moment to allow myself a longer holiday break.

I set for the Parisian Orly airport by taxi. Streets seemed almost empty by my place, but I forgot it is indeed 24 December and I am flying in the early afternoon. I am bound to face a city close to collapse with traffic jams, as everyone just left their workplaces to head home in this shortened working day. Not only the taxi will cost me a fortune; on top of it I will reach the airport in full anxiety to check in before the flight is closed. I trust meteorology will have caused some delays; I will only be wrong in part. I get to the terminal just on schedule and yet I will have to wait. The flight is delayed.

We are told the delay is caused by the late arrival of the aircraft, which was flying in from Rome, where a lady had a panic attack and had to be disembarked with her family. Security regulations indicate that in such a case the luggage has to be located and unloaded. Logical, but not on account of any preoccupation about that particular person’s welfare, but rather to avoid that the luggage could be forgotten intentionally and with criminal motivations.

The world’s evolution, particularly during the last decade, transformed security measures in such a way that, being a frequent traveler, forced me get used to all the procedures. As soon as my luggage is checked in I set for the security control. My wallet, my keys, my telephone, all goes in the pockets of my jacket, which will be scanned. I take off my belt and store it in my briefcase. My laptop will also go through the detector on a separate tray.

I am not carrying any liquids or gels, not even a miserable bottle of water. I try to avoid them since their transport in cabin was severely restricted after an attempt to blow airplanes in flight by use of liquid explosives. This was another security measure with interesting side effects; in this case it implied reinforcing the business of bars and restaurants in airports, as well as the general trend by which terminals became enormous shopping malls targeting travelers, who have by definition a considerable purchasing power.

I always asked myself which percentage of the security ritual is nothing but dissuasion or sheer intimidation. This was crystal clear to me in 2000, in Tel-Aviv, when I had to witness how a military officer with a metal detector went through every single piece of my luggage including dirty underwear. That was nothing but the Israeli despicable punishment as I dared spending some time with Palestinian friends in the West Bank. 9/11 prompted security measures to increasingly emulate this Israeli experience, which back then was just a draconian exception. Ever since all the security ritual reinforced all procedures, and most particularly this intimidation side, which I find revolting. I simply detest being treated as a criminal. Intimidation is part of the game, and measures are on the increase after the last incident in Amsterdam when a criminal wanted to blow off a plane using explosive hidden in his underwear. Hugely expensive all-body scans will be installed at the Schiphol airport. However, I read opinions by experts who say upgrading security measures will only cause delays and stress, and that efforts should concentrate on observing people’s patterns of behavior as the terrorists’ seem to be quite distinguishable.

My walk through the metal detector and my thinking is disturbed by a resounding beep. I don’t know what did provoke it, as I never went through any surgery that involved inserting any metal piece in my body. If it were not the bit of metal in my glasses or iron in my liver (?), I ignore what it was. A security guard comes and politely asks whether he can search me. I concede as I do not know what might happen if I refuse. I extend my arms and he searches me. As he goes down my chest and before getting to my legs, his exceeding zeal or excess in hurry result in him touching my left testicle. I immediately jump back, he immediately goes pale and apologizes, which he will later reiterate while I start chuckling in a mix of disbelief and amazement.

As explained above in a more polite language, a certain approach to security measures in airports always broke my balls. However, I never imagined one day this would come so close to being literal.

Spring in Montevideo

Once again Montevideo welcomes me with open arms. This time it feels warmer than ever, for I had only seen the city in winter. The change is notable. Two things strike me: firstly, the light; the sun is much higher and daylight lasts much longer in these last days of the Austral spring than in August. Secondly, the trees; the platanus were naked in winter, now they are dressed in live green and give the streets a completely different aspect, full of live.

I land in Montevideo three days after the run off to the presidential election. The majority went to the electoral ticket of the Frente Amplio, the coalition of the left led into power by the outgoing president, Tabaré Vázquez. The President elect is Mr. José Mujica, “el Pepe”. 75 years old, former member of the Movimiento de Liberación Nacional - Tupamaros, the urban guerrilla that operated in Uruguay in the late sixties and early seventies.

Pepe Mugica is a very controversial character, the kind of charismatic person that leaves no margin but to love or hate. Obviously his past as a guerrilla leader earns him numerous detractors. Yet there is more. Pepe continued to live in his chacra even when appointed minister of agriculture with president Vázquez. Pepe speaks the language of the people in the street, even consciously reproducing typical grammar mistakes people make. Pepe does not wear suits, just ordinary shirts, sweaters and jackets. A number of Uruguayans do not think his image allows him to represent the country in a proper manner and reckon international representation should be left to Danilo Astori, the vice-president elect and minister of economy with Tabaré. They reckon he is too plain, too raw, they think he has no style, he looks too much like a peasant. Besides, the country cannot afford being represented by a former guerrilla leader.

El Pepe used to appear daily in an early morning radio show that I used to listen to when I lived in Montevideo. He would comment on daily matters, on the economy, on politics… I was always struck by the deepness of his thinking combined with an enormous pedagogic capacity; he would be able to explain complicated things and convey complex messages in a totally intelligible and compelling language. Having heard him several times nobody can convince me that he is simple. Quite the contrary.

On the other hand, I do not think anyone should make a fuss about his past as a guerrilla leader –a terrorist, to use a term hugely connotated in Latin America well before 9/11-, all the more when he spent fifteen years in jail. He does not resemble any of the former guerrilla leaders now in power in the region. He is not like the Castro brothers, who maintain Cuba in a surreal economic system that creates poverty and despair rather than wealth; he is not Daniel Ortega, who turned the Sandinist revolution into a parasitarian cleptocracy. And in terms of the present Latin American left, he is much closer to Lula than to Chávez.

If I were Uruguayan, would I be proud? I do not know. I am sure I would not be ashamed, though. El Pepe won the presidency talking plain politics and economy to the people, while most of the world lives in the era of showbiz-like politics, where the real issues are often hidden by a spin of action where appearing to be constantly doing something becomes much more important than actually achieving anything –from Blair to Sarkozy through Zapatero, Cristina Kirchner or Abdulaye Wade-. A model sublimated by Berlusconi, the biggest master of diversion whose presence into politics responds mainly to his search to protect his own personal wealth and nothing else. If I take these other examples, some of them better than others, I can say as humbly as firmly that in my opinion Uruguayans should not be ashamed. Rather, they should be proud.

Dreams of change

It happened about two years ago. Autumn 2007, which I started based in Montevideo and finished in Paris, with two big pieces to munch in between: first a UNESCO general conference, the sort of marathon we just finish now, right after stepping down the plane after two months of hard work in Uruguay; then, a long and challenging UN-reform related mission in Cape Verde, which concerned the reform in its “UN Wars” version. From time to time I would wake up in the middle of the night in spells of intercontinental confusion, not knowing whether I was in Paris, in Barcelona, in Kolda, in Montevideo or anywhere else. That night I was in Paris.

I dreamt about home, in Barcelona. I had returned to my parents’ place in East Poblenou, where I grew up. I was walking in amazement down the Diagonal Avenue. I saw my old school in Pallars street, in a section where the road had been asphalted only when I was eighteen years old. Looking East I saw the Princess Hotel and the Forum, where the old Camp de la Bota had been; many people had been summarily executed there by the fascists at the end of the civil war in 1939; later there were slums amongst the latest ones to disappear, in the mid seventies. Looking west I saw the Diagonal up until the Glòries area; now it is a beautiful avenue, at the time there were just bits of it between old factories and new housing. Looking south-east I saw Selva de Mar street on its way to the new Diagonal Mar residential area and the beach; that street was opened only when I was eighteen, after the railroad tracks of what had been Spain’s first line had been removed; after the massive Material y Construcciones SA factory had been closed down and demolished.

I could not stop thinking about all these changes. How the city had changed, and how I had changed, how I left Poblenou and my city and embarked in an adventure that took me to Paris, but also to Africa and to South America. Caught in my reflection and still amazed I sat down on a bench. Within a minute a young boy appeared and sat down with me. Blue cat-like eyes, very blond, sunny smiling, he said hello and engaged in conversation. He wanted to know who I was, where did I come from, what I was doing there. He was nice and pleasant, and asked with an innocent eagerness to know that immediately conquered my heart.

Suddenly I realized that the boy was no other than me; it was me when I was ten years old.

I woke up in the middle of the night, my eyes full of tears.

Worlds apart

Friday morning. I commute to work in a packed carriage of Paris' metro, line 8. As I step off at Ecole Militaire I spot a woman doing the same thing. She carries a baby on her back using a backpack-like device which is actually a real chair. Young Mr. or Mrs. Chairperson is having a peaceful and comfortable nap. I am amazed by the invention, as it looks solid enough to isolate the baby from the dangers inherent to this city’s commuting experience. Especially from a recurring one in the form of the impact of a heavy purse or small briefcase on one’s chest –why bother holding it on your hand? Why depriving people from appreciating it? People spend fortunes in purses! It has to show!-.

The thing is that I immediately think about Africa. The many women, always women, that I have seen doing the same thing but using a much simpler blanket-like big piece of fabric. You can often see women doing so while also carrying in their hands big bags with food or other items, sometimes even carrying something on their heads.

It feels like worlds apart. Thinking just about the devices, one is a world of opulence, where babies are the modus vivendi of a whole industry that involves textiles, plastics –and hence rubber and latex but also, amongst other materials, oil-, as well as transportation, marketing, sales… This means lots of jobs all along the production and distribution chain. Meanwhile there is another world, certainly simpler and rather more modest. Livestock, natural fabrics, little marketing but the markets themselves; light industry even if too often the bulk of the fabrics is imported –from Europe for centuries, from the big Asia more recently. Silk is another story-. Even if these jobs I mentioned might be spread around the globe, I cannot prevent myself from thinking about the different carbon footprints of the ones and the others. I know the question is far from being simple as I suspect that a radical transformation of our lifestyles is unlikely, at least as long as there is still plenty of oil available. Yet I grow increasingly convinced that we need a simpler life.

Suddenly I remember about that funny story about the space race. Apparently while the NASA invested (or simply spent, or wasted, depending on your point of view) a large amount of money developing a pen that could write in a situation of no gravity, the Soviets went to space with pencils. Further proof that life can be simpler, even in space. This is not an apology of real socialism, as Marxism is as production-oriented as capitalism and its models did not factor in production’s impacts on the environment. That was just a funny example.

Several books could be written just by comparing the two examples and analyzing the implications of its various ramifications. For tonight I will only add that to me this is yet another proof that we have much to learn from Africa, despite the poverty, the conflicts and the inequality so real but also so stereotyped in our latitudes. Yet I do not think we are ready to listen. In this part of the world, too often, even if we listen we hardly hear anything but ourselves.

PS: for anyone interested in further information about the whole issue of carrying babies, you may wish to examine this website I found while doing some minimal research to write this piece: it is the French “Association pour la promotion du portage”. Long life to civil society!

A big hug and see you soon, Fernando!

So that was it. While we were immerged in this worldly institutional whirl, you came to remind us that the world keeps going round basically on its own. Moves that come even to our small but yet great unesquian island. The day came, and as scheduled you left for a new stage in your life, to La Habana.

This kind of life we chose to live presents us with opportunities for extraordinary meetings, but it also implies, from time to time, deeply felt farewells. There is no one without the other. With time one gets used to it and develops a sort of shield. Also with time one improves one’s ability to differentiate important people from simple passers-by. Yet no shield can contain what one feels when a true friend leaves, especially when one has a crystal heart. Fernando, thanks for knowing how to listen as good as you know how to talk. Thanks for sharing so many interesting things with me. Thanks for helping me in my effort to see beyond myself. And thanks for sharing your enormous sense of humor, which is no other thing than a supreme form of intelligence. Thanks for being both a gentleman and a wise person. And thanks for allowing me to call you a friend.

I will miss you, compay! But well, we will meet again sooner than later, with a mojito if possible, be it travelling from the Old Europe or from somewhere else. I wish you all the best for the new life you begin, from which I hope to be a distant but yet present part. Or future part. Well, it was understood, wasn’t it?

PS: the most sentimental part I leave it, if you allow me, to someone from Uruguay, Mr. Jaime Roos.

Too much, too early

The 2009 Peace Nobel prize went to the President of the United States of America, Mr. Barack Obama, "for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples". This came as a big surprise to me, and I must humbly say that I do not think this is appropriate.

I do not have to convince anyone about my high respect for Mr. Obama. In the Catalan edition of this blog I expressed my sympathy, recognition and hope when he was elected; both as the first Afro-American person to become president, with all the symbolism it entails after centuries of segregation, and as a man who won the election with a message of reconciliation and hope.

Barack Obama brought to the international arena a new language and some concrete proposals, notably in the area of nuclear disarmament. He reengaged his country with multilateralism. He also appears to engage in efforts to find a long lasting peaceful solution for the conflict in Palestine/Israel. He has cancelled the anti-missile shield project that must be a long cherished dream of his country’s industrial-military complex. And there are a number of other things. However, I feel we are still at the stage of proposals. We are not yet at the stage of accomplishments. That is why I consider this award unjustified.

I can understand some may want to express strong support for his proposals and compel him to redouble his efforts at a particularly complicated time in his domestic arena, by awarding him this prize somehow in anticipation. Yet I still think this is too much, too early.

Rest in peace, Negra, and many thanks!!!

Many thanks for your company, many thanks for leading us through the darkest times, many thanks for so many things.

How to become Parisian in one hour?

"Cute" was the word my friend used yesterday when we were leaving the Théatre de la Main d'Or, after watching this one man show. I dare quoting her as I find it quite fair, considerably accurate. "Sympa" might be a good equivalent in French in this case.

Olivier Giraud conducts the show in English, of course with a French accent. For about an hour and fifteen minutes he illustrates the audience with a number of tips to understand and mimetize at convenience the typical Parisian people's behaviours. That is to say, those stereotypes that earned world fame, and which anyone who has been in Paris for a while had to encounter at some point. If it was not on a daily basis. The way Olivier mimics the facial gestures, the body language and the verbal expressions most typical of Parisians is as remarkable as it is hilarious. He makes fun of everyone, from himself to the French in general including the audience and other nationalities. He is funny but always kind. Cute.

Through comparing Parisians mainly to (North)Americans, out of his own personal experience, he also reproduces a trend deeply enshrined in the French national psique, by which they compare themselves mainly with no less than the USofA. Even if, too often, dimensions force them to wrap themselves in the European flag in order to do so. In any event, in this case the comparison works, because the (North)Americans are also subject to their own stereotypes, and in many respects they have a totally different approach to things which, in contrast and if cleverly taken as Olivier does, can be very funny.

However, I would recommend this show mainly to recent newcomers, frequent visitors and adventurous tourists. For people who have been here for a while, it might be "cute", but not necessarily exhilarating. Because, for instance, if one has had to fight more than once with the likes of the "customer service" commodity companies usually have in France, the risk is finding this show just not that funny. I had a good time, though.

Irina Bokova

Mrs. Irina Bokova, nominated candidate to Director-General of UNESCO, appears in France 24 (Interview in English).

Times of change

Since 6 September I have been working without interruption except for one day, Sunday 13. I was seconded to one of the Commissions of UNESCO’s Executive Board. Amongst the decisions to take there was the nomination of a candidate to the post of Director-General, which is tantamount to the election of a Director-General, unless there would be an unexpected and never seen before battle at the upcoming General Conference.

During these very exciting weeks I could observe from the inside an intergovernmental negotiation at the highest level, to put it in nice words. A great learning moment that, for the time being, will only be commented in private as to all its various dimensions. Nine candidates; five ballots. An opaque process with people negotiating in our name, as they stand to “defend the interest of our [respective] country[ies]”, which has in my view two fundamental problems: on the one hand, everything happens in secret, behind closed doors. This leaves too wide a margin for this high interest of our respective countries (States is a much more appropriate term) to become “so high” that in the end it relates much more to the interest of a small minority than to the general interest. This happens quite often. In the end, if one lives in a more or less democratic state, at least there is some space left for accountability. Otherwise everything remains in the unique and private domain of an elite. An elite that, for most countries, is nothing but one of the main obstacles to human development.

On the other hand, I have fundamental doubts about the interest of humankind being the result of the mere addition of the interests expressed along these division lines that we have given ourselves basically through centuries of fights. To put it differently and using an example, if we look at what is happening in terms of response to Climate Change, we can see everyone concentrating mostly on short-term interest, while it seems that no one really thinks about a longer term, in this very future generations everyone invokes. Yes I know, this is a much longer discussion and my view is rather pessimistic. Anyway, there will be more entries.

In any event, the final result of this game is Egypt 27, Bulgaria 31. While I warmly welcome the fact that for the first time in history there will be a female Director General of UNESCO (Yes, a WOMAN, Mrs. Irina Bokova, this is indeed historic!), I remind and underscore that I was always a great fan of Mr. Hristo Stoichkov, whom I could see live many times, scoring many goals. In addition I express my satisfaction of the fact that, lately, there are no problems in my private life. It must be that I actually do not have one.

More information will follow. For the time being I can say that I am happy. And that I would not be if the Egyptian candidate had been elected, out of both candidate's profile and vision statements. There will be more, in person. By now it is time to carry on working, since as my mother use to tell me, “it is those who are tired who do the work” –free translation from Catalan, as the rest of the article-. Moreover, my salary is paid by the taxpayer. So have a good night.

PS: the pictures are, respectively, from early August and from yesterday. It is “the yard” at UNESCO’s HQ. The corner is Av. Lowendal with Av. Suffren.

Duracell Rabbit runs out of batteries

The president of the French Republic, Mr. Nicolas Sarkozy, left yesterday the Val de Grâce military hospital, were he had spent some hours after a sudden faintness during his daily jogging.

Mr. Sarkozy’s forced visit to hospital gave rise to comments of all kinds. The political class unanimously expressed its encouragement to the President. Meanwhile, pundits from all sides speculated, argued, glossed and pontificated about the virtues and defects of a political animal defined as hyperactive by fans and critics alike. The former denounced again “l’hyperpresidence”, which they see as the president exerting total control and protagonism contrary to the traditional distant leadership of the V Republic, what turns even the government ministers into spectators with no other recourse than running after the presidential initiatives, in a potentially dangerous transformation of the executive power and hence the very balance of powers. Meanwhile, the latter commended again a tireless and selfless man who tries by all means pushing for reform in a rather conservative country which sees itself in decline but yet resists change.

Personal views aside, we are talking about someone famous for being a hard worker, who rarely touches alcohol –which could explain his curious press conference right after a meeting with Mr. Vladimir Putin (see this video), who exercises regularly, some say up to torturing himself, and above all, who has a heavily loaded agenda full of travel within and out of the country. By the way it seems that the first lady has shown her disgust with comments appeared in the British press, which attributed the presidential malaise to her ardent demands. Such comments are coincident with the French vox populi. In any event, what Sarkozy suffered seems no more than an occasional incident which should possibly lead him to lower his pace a bit, but nothing more.

However, this incident raised again the question of information about the President’s health. Sarkozy committed to following the practice established by François Mitterrand of publishing health bulletins every fortnight, with transparency. Mitterrand did establish this practice, yet the bulletins proved to be worth very little. Later we learned that he spent practically five years of his last mandate fighting a prostate cancer which consumed him, leaving him barely capable to do his job. For the time being, Sarkozy’s moves on this were no more than cosmetic, since he did not hesitate in firing one of his spokespersons who was too zealous in providing information about a minor surgery intervention. Secrecy about the President’s health is justified with rather spurious arguments –national security, as he’s the person retaining the nuclear power? Disincentives to power or succession fights?-, and his nothing but another element in the liturgy of power, and on something French people love: secrecy itself.

Ferraaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

It is Monday, late afternoon. It has been, as all Mondays, a long day, especially since the good weather permitted a full enjoyment of the weekend. I managed to get home early enough, so I have some spare time after leaving for dinner at Jaïr’s, to welcome a Scots friend based in Beijing who is visiting.

I lay on my bed, reading. I’m finishing one of the most interesting books I read lately: “The uncertainty of hope”, by the London-based Zimbabwean Valerie Tagwira. The novel describes life in Mbare, a disadvantaged suburb in Harare, in 2005, when the government launched Operation Murambatsvina (“drive out the trash”, in Shona language), which consisted in fighting informal trade and all problems associated with slums through a very straightforward approach: forced expulsion of all inhabitants and demolition of any form of housing that lacked an officially approved building plan. Eliminating the disease by killing the patient, in a context where the economy was nearly collapsing by structural problems of the supply chain which would continue for years and would eventually unchain the spiralling hyperinflation that I could see in person. This operation only reinforced the conditions of poverty that was supposed to alleviate.

It was not easy to enter into the story, but shortly afterwards the novel completely captured my attention and became another of those cases I love: when commuting to work becomes too short of a travel, when I allow myself a minute standing on the platform to finish a chapter, when sometimes sleeping hours are affected, but never too much…
-“Ferran!”
I think I heard a voice shouting my name. So now I hear voices? Am I nuts? I carry on reading.
-“Ferran!”
Yes, it was my name! I realize my windows are open, it is hot outside. It must be someone who knows where I leave and who is looking for me… What a strange thing!

I look through the window and the mystery vanishes with an enormous surprise. My friend Anand! He used to be my neighbour, up until he went back to India by the end of 2006. My landlady put us in touch, and that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, made out of long conversations about music, cinema, life and whatever else was on. I was absent on the occasion of all his recent visits to Paris. Today I am very pleasantly surprised.

We met and we established a good relationship as neighbours, which is something rare in Paris. While these things become increasingly scarce in the “developed” world, I come from a culture where neighbours are always well known, sometimes even an extension of the family. This is uncommon in Paris, a particularly anonymous city where people, be it out of shyness or complete lack of interest, very seldom make contact with neighbours, unless there is a leak or something similar. Actually people are famous in Paris for speeding up to close the door of the lift or of their house to avoid contact with neighbours. By the end of the spring, the municipality organizes every year “la fête des voisins”, so people have a space to meet!

Besides that, Anand did something that brings me back to childhood. He passes by, and in fact he is not even sure that I still live here, yet he sees an open window and just shouts out. Great, and even more unusual, as our culture’s evolution is such than going to see someone out of an impromptu becomes increasingly rare. A French friend completely astonished me with his reply on the phone. I just said “hey, it’s been a while, let’s get together for a drink”, thinking about sometime after work. He fired his reply: “I am free on Saturday afternoon in three weeks time”. Needless to say we did not meet.

My friend will be in Paris at least for a month and a half, as he is editing a documentary. His presence coincides with the nicest time of the year. Great!

U2 in Paris

Friday, five in the afternoon. Just tidying up a couple of things before going home for a long weekend. Tomorrow is my birthday and Tuesday is a holiday. I log on facebook. My friend Fernanda has an unequivocal status message: “I have spare tickets for U2 concerts in Paris, call me at XX.XX.XX.XX.XX”. I call her immediately.

Two hours later I have to tickets for the U2 concert in Paris on Sunday 12. This is an unexpected, pleasant and promising birthday present. I have been a U2 fan since I discovered them many years ago when they released “The Joshua Tree”, the album of their international consecration. I saw them live in two occasions: at Palau Sant Jordi in Barcelona, 1992, during their Zoo Tv Tour, when they trotted the world with a stage full of old Trabants and TV screens; and in Cork, Ireland, 2003, by the end of the Zooropa Tour, when they expanded the stage to fit big stadiums.

Since then I heard them only on their records. Now it is the “360º Tour”, a show with an open stage that can be seen all around. This will not disappoint me, on the contrary it will remind me the extraordinary sensations one can live in such a show.

It was definitely worth it. These guys are criticized for their use of pre-recorded sound, and for hiding their music behind screens and ostentatious technology. What can I say… The best live music I ever saw was by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, that is best quality music and nothing else. But U2 are much more than technology. A career longer than 30 years made them an undisputable reference of contemporary music.

That is what this concert is all about. A visit through my thirtysome. Songs from the new album, “Breathe”, “No line on the horizon”, “Magnificient”, or “I’ll go crazy tonight” where Larry Mullen Junior plays a Djembé!!! Songs from the most recent records such as “Beautiful day” or “Vertigo”, classics that leave me breathless and close to tears like “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for”… And they can still astonish me completely: a version of another new song, “Unknown caller”, where you can follow the words through the screens; halfway through the concert they use their long repertoire and play “The unforgettable fire”, which I had never heard live.

U2 has been on the first line for so long because they manage to adapt to the evolution of times, both to the music and to the technology. Meanwhile they stayed committed to a number of worldwide social causes, in a move that can be subject to criticism –as for instance the social responsibility of big corporations- but is yet remarkable and most welcome in many cases, since it raises the awareness about certain causes to people with little exposure to them. The stage goes green for the revolution in Iran while we hear “Sunday bloody Sunday”. And for once Bono remains silent while Desmond Tutu gives a speech about development in Africa, while I can see the coming of the red colours of my favourite song, “Where the streets have no name”. By the end of the concert Bono revisits the effect of the lighters and candles in a dark stadium, by asking the people to use their phones and cameras while we hear another classic, “With or without you”.

The concert finishes with a new song that in my opinion will be a classic: “Moment of surrender”. Yes, I do surrender. Great concert, great sensations, I could not have had a better birthday present.

Coup in Honduras

Military coups became increasingly unusual owing to the worldwide expansion of democracy during the nineties. The military were progressively separated from politics, out of the relative but yet existent expansion and improvement of democratic institutions, and the possibility for ruling classes to maintain social control without resort to violence. Such process was particularly visible in Latin America. The continent just went through two decades that were convulsed by regime changes from Ecuador to Argentina, yet in general the military did not interfere in political processes, at least publicly and using arms.

However, two days ago Honduras wake us up with a military coup that resonated with the worst moments of the XXth century in the region. We saw again things we though forever gone. The military forcibly deposed the president and embarked him in a plane heading to Costa Rica still in his pyjamas. They retaliated after the president had dismissed the head of the army, who had refused to install ballot boxes for a referendum. Such referendum was an attempt to modify the constitution to enable the President to stand for re-election, although not immediately but after another mandate by someone else. The Parliament opposed this referendum and the Supreme Court declared it illegal. Yet the president insisted in carrying on. The military decided to expedite matters and ignored the constitutional procedure of impeachment to forcibly remove the president from office.

The background: a President coming from the most conservative sectors who made a 180 degree turn to approach Hugo Chavez’s positions, and an elite increasingly worried about its deeply rooted privileges.
The US administration’s reaction was also unusual, but very positive in my opinion: condemn of the violent action, no public interference and ample leeway for the Organization of American States to lead negotiations. The US no longer considers Central America as their backyard? In fact all the Central American elite hold property in Miami, while millions migrate and send their remittances to sustain their families barely out of a line of poverty that is never lowered. My suspicion is that the US does not intervene in the zone the same way it used to do primarily because they do not need it.

In memoriam: Michael Jackson

Thursday evening. I get home, tired after a long working day which I finished with a good swim. One of those when you just enter home and land on the bed. Nonetheless I do not want to sleep without a bit of music. Today I feel for a classic: the last four songs of “Dark Side of the Moon”, by Pink Floyd, a masterpiece of contemporary music. One of those to listen to only from time to time, yet always enjoyable.

I listen lying on my bed, through the iphone headphones. It is the last tunes and the incidental sounds of the very end. A voice says “there is no dark side of the moon, really…” with a heart beating in the background, presumably the same one you can hear at the beginning of the record. Right at this moment, the end of the record, a text message comes in. A good friend says: “Michael Jackson is dead. :(”. Is that so? Oh… Tomorrow will be another day.

Next morning news is all over. Which is logical, given his worldwide popularity. His death came as an unexpected surprise, yet I do not feel particularly sad. I was never his fan, and I always found excessive to devote so much attention to someone who lived in his own amusement park, where he was slowly whitening while facing very serious accusations of child molestation. I found it excessive even if I could understand the reasons behind it.

However, I must acknowledge that Michael Jacksons' decease is the death of a symbol of the last quarter of the XXth century, an artist with a unique impact in the world of music, where he introduced his original fusion of styles, from rock to disco through pop and soul; also for his revolutionary innovations in dance, notably his moon walk. And most of all for being the first Afro-American artist who broke the glass wall and became a world icon for all races alike.

Michael Jackson brings me back to my childhood. I was barely nine years old when the mythical “Thriller” was released. When video clips had just appeared and were slowly making their way in terms of music promotion, Jacko released fifteen minutes of a real movie that kept us all glued to our seats in amazement, in a move that changed the genre forever. This is the Michael Jackson I will remember, the one I feel a part of my cultural background; the member of the Jackson five, the fresh creative man of the first half of the eighties. Before success, popularity and a very complicated history turned him into a pathetic character. Someone who could afford anything he liked but could never be really happy, to the point of turning his life into a circus that will probably continue after his death.

May he rest, finally, in peace.

Why Iran hurts me

Last 13 June there were presidential elections, after a long and mediatised campaign never seen since the Islamic revolution thirty years ago. The supreme leader Ayatollah Khamenei immediately sanctioned the results, by which the outgoing President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad had been re-elected for a margin wider than 60% of the votes. However, there were several powerful reasons to suspect a well-prepared rigging. Among those:
-Khamenei did not wait for the usual three days before announcing the results. These three days are used to discuss and clear any allegations the candidates may have;
-The geographic distribution of Ahmadinejad’s vote was suspiciously uniform. He even won by a landslide in places widely recognized as other candidate’s most favourable territories;
-The opposition candidates denounced their observers had been barred from the polling stations, and that ballots were missing in many places;
-The elections saw an unprecedented turnout. Such moves happen rarely in favour of the maintenance of the status quo. That would be even stranger in a society were the majority of the population had not been born when the Islamic revolution took place.

Khamenei’s reaction gave rise to huge demonstrations that had not been seen since the days of the revolution. The rest is sadly known. On 19 June, at Friday’s prayer, the supreme leader took another step the delegitimation of the institution he represents, by proclaiming that the demonstrations were illegal, not legitimate, and inspired by foreign powers, and that they would be repressed. This was said when, according to official figures, already ten people had been killed. So Khamenei was essentially giving his green light to a bloodbath, while he mortally injured the institution of velayat-el-faqih, by which government and parliament are under the guidance of the religious authority. Khamenei openly associated himself with a clear breach in democracy and with the crackdown on popular revolt.

This move only intensified what the regime had been doing for decades: iron-fist repression inside the country, impeding any demonstration with tear gases, acidic water, batons and live shots, with total freedom of action for the basiji, the youth militia akin for instance to Mugabe’s thugs that terrorized Zimbabwe a year ago –and who continue doing so whenever it is expedient to the regime-; massive arrests. All these combined with intoxication outside the country, accusing everyone of interfering with Iran’s affairs while restricting any access to information, cutting off Internet, expelling journalists or restricting their movements to prevent them from verifying any information they receive, or even attacking the premises of an opposition newspaper and arresting everyone under the accusation of terrorism. Up until now, the only source of information was the people themselves, using the new information technologies.

So far the regime acknowledged some twenty dead people –while some estimates affirm that the real figure could be tenfold-; there have been almost two hundred arrests amongst dissident intellectuals and civil society figures; any attempt to demonstrate continues to be fiercely repressed. The opposition leader did not surrender and denounces his movements have been restricted. At this point the fact that Mr. Moussavi comes from the same regime where he was once the prime Minister became irrelevant. The intestine fight for power has been totally exceeded by the popular movement. Equally irrelevant as the ignominy of the vote recounting, which acknowledged irregularities in 50 districts out of 170; and that there were three million more votes than there were electors. The regime added that, all in all, this last detail does not affect the final result.

What matters is that the regime is tainted with its own people’s blood. There has been an earthquake which will have deep consequences. Iran is seeing its civil rights movement, symbol of the emergence of a new middle class and of the evolution of customs. The regime’s crackdown was for everyone to see. This will not end here.

Some say that solidarity is the tenderness of peoples. Raising my voice for a true democracy in Iran is for me a duty of global citizenship. A citizenship I had the chance to progressively enrich with affective bonds all over the world. These allow me to get first hand information, but also to share impressions, feelings and an outlook. There is also the certainty that anyone who was never deprived of liberty can rarely have a clear conscience of all that it entails. In my case I was lucky enough to grow up in a country that was just liberating itself, but my parents did transmit me the experience of living under a dictatorship. All the aspirations limited by fear; but also the rediscovery of dignity. This goes also to them.

That SIMCA 1200

I am just about to get to the office when I found the jewel in the picture, parked in a corner of Place de Fontenoy, in the heart of Paris’ VII arrondissement. I cannot help taking a picture, as this car is old enough to be very rare. Moreover, this SIMCA immediately evokes a great stream of memories.

For that is my childhood’s car. My parents had one, a SIMCA 1200, which had originally been red and I knew only in blue. Plaque B-8775-Y, it lasted from the early seventies until July 1987, when it was replaced by a Ford Orion. It must have run for more than 150.000 Km. I still remember vaguely that night, on National road II between Malgrat de Mar and Vidreres, in one of the countless allers-retours from Barcelona to Palafrugell, when we excitedly saw the meter going from 99.999 to 00.000.

I always liked that car. It was relatively rare and hence easily recognizable. I used to like its rounded forms that I preferred to other’s cars at the time. I always saw two eyes in those lights, like a smiling face that looked at me. So many hours spent at the back seats with my brother, teasing each other. Seeing a black plaque (a French one, like the one in the picture) would be a pretext to pinch the other. And so many other games that used to irritate our parents. The runs to see who would get to touch the car first after a day on the beach. And the long imaginary travels I used to do when I could sneak in the car and sit at the wheel on my own.

All that melancholy that used to fill me when we would leave Palafrugell for Barcelona and I could see the town through the rear window. The stops in Caldetes to get water at the thermal source. As a small kid I failed to understand how could it be that we could drink it after a while if it was so hot. Those huge traffic jams when going through Mataró, when I used to amuse myself observing the path taken by that coin towards the money box at the neon sign on top of Caixa Laietana. And so many other moments that come to my mind thanks to objects’ enormous evocative power. More than twenty years ago.

Private transport and second residence, symbols of a new middle class emerging from the Francoist “desarrollismo”, the same middle class that finished by forcing the coming of democracy. People who had to build their future by working and remaining passive and silent in a repressed and repressive society, in a regime that was first totalitarian then authoritarian and legitimized itself in this prosperity, yet never abandoned or denounced its violent and criminal essence. This very prosperity was the beginning of the end of that horror. Thanks to the effort of people like my parents I could grow up in a free country.

Moments of sybaritism, #7: my choice of restaurants in Paris (10 more)

As my first entry in English and my restaurant travel-guide-like critiques were gently and warmly welcomed by the friend who had become in this case an amusing muse, and as they were welcomed not only by her but by others as well, I promised to come back with more. Paris does offer a large number of places to eat well. Here are a further few, again with the same premises as last time: less than 20-25€ of expense; informal and relaxed atmosphere; and last but not least, discovered in good company.

Le Chartier
7 Rue du Faubourg Montmartre 75009
Created in 1896, the whole place is like a living museum. The building was classified as historic in 1989, and hosts a big hall with classic decoration and sober but yet elegant ambiance. Simple cuisine, based on fresh meat, fish and vegetables. All the classics of a Paris Brasserie –Entrecôte, faux filet, etc.-, some all-time French classics –boeuf bourguignon, choucrute-, and the dishes of the day, all inexpensive. Feels a bit like a canteen, as you will see when the energetic but always respectful waiters note your order. Yet the most remarkable one for a simple but tasty meal in a singular place.

T’Chok Dy
35 rue du Banquier, 75013
A few steps from the Factorie des Gobelins, within easy walking distance from Place d’Italie, you can find this surprising small Thai restaurant which proposes traditional cuisine from Siam. Be prepared for the most tasteful experience. The fish is just excellent, from the amazing scallops (Noix de Saint Jacques), the Hor Mok (steamed fish in banana leaves); other specialites are equally enjoyable, such as the chicken in coconut sauce. There are also other delicacies. Never too spicy, always delicious.

Swann et Vincent
32 Bv Garibaldi, 75015
Is it possible that a restaurant where you only go for lunch because it happens to be within walking distance from your workplace becomes one of your favourite ones? Yes it is, provided that it is like the Swann. Cosy, welcoming, warm ambiance. Salads and antipasti that are simple but with first quality ingredients. Tasteful pasta dishes. Carefully cooked meats. Home made bread. A symphony of simplicity. Definitely rare.

Le café du Marché
38 rue Clerc, 75007
Right in the middle of the 7th arrondissement, not far from the Eiffel Tower, in one of the most scenic streets in the area –pedestrian road, rue Clerc- sits this café with an optimal quality-price ratio. Again, brasserie food as simple as delicious. Salads that are a full meal, well cooked meats, well served fish, amazing deserts, good wine and more than acceptable coffee. All these with the possibility of lunching or dining on a terrasse even in wintertime.

Le Cambodge
10 avenue Richerand, 75010
You better go queue before 20h to reserve a table, or be ready to do so afterwards and have a walk or an apéro on Canal St. Martin while you wait (more details on the website, as there are no reservations on the phone). Whichever way the wait will be worth it. You’ll be asked to be creative when writing your order, and indeed you can make it to the house’s museum or the website. A trip to south east Asia in a place with a very strong personality that welcomes you in its own particular manner. My favourite is the Ban Hoy –Angkorian picnic with assorted salad-, but a Bobun or any rice dish will certainly be enjoyable. The house has its particular rules, but you'll feel at home.

Le verre volé
67 rue Lancry, 75010
Again close to my place sits this cave/bistrot with relaxed and informal atmosphere, served by youthful and multilingual staff that will guide you into discovering wines while having some bistrot-like food. Be ready for a very idiosyncratic French cuisine experience, largely based on pork. Definitely abstain if you’re a vegetarian or you don’t eat pork because of religious observance or simply reasons of taste. If, on the contrary, you like it, just go for it. The patés are just amazing, the caillette de l’Ardèche is an experience not to be missed.

Chez Marianne
2, Rue des Hospitalières-Saint-Gervais, 75004
A charming place in a charming spot, on a corner of rue des Rosiers, in the middle of the Marais, chez Marianne proposes traditional kosher specialities from central Europe, combined with Middle-Eastern recipes such as Falafel or Hummus. Central Europe meets the Mediterranean through the lenses of this millenarian culture. Said to have the best falafel in town.

Lézard Café
32, rue Etienne Marcel, 75002
Another inexpensive an unsophisticated place that will win your heart and stomach through a nice atmosphere and service, and with simple but delicious salads and bistrot cuisine. Nice wines, the Argentinian Malbec is a classic, and a full meal in the terrace to the side of rue Tiquetonne (which is a pedestrian road) will reconcile you with this world. Just off rue Montorgueil, a nice walk from Les Halles.

El Sur
35, boulevard Saint-Germain 75006
Sober modern design that reminded me of my beloved Montevideo, albeit more Gotan than Tango. Just a walk from Ile de Saint Louis or from Place Monge. A good “parrilla” to savour some delicious red meat to the purest River Plate style, with real Chimichurri. I need to refrain from going there often not to get too nostalgic. Empanadas and other criollo specialties, remarkable desserts… Someday I’ll be back to Palermo and walk again those roads that brought me back to my Poblenou.

La Crêperie du comptoir
3, Carrefour de l’Odéon 75006
How dare I refer here a take away place? I do have my reasons. Firstly I love crêpes. Both sucré or salé, as a main course or as a dessert. Secondly, Paris has a culture of take-away crêpes, as a snack that you can eat anytime. I don’t like take away pizzas and find that the general level of kebab in Paris is rather low (sorry but my standard here is the delicious kebabs I used to eat in Rusholme, Manchester), I generally do not like take away sandwiches too much. But I happen to love crêpes.Both ends meet at the Crêperie du comptoir. The only one where you will have a take away with blé noir, as a real galette. Tuna, cheese and marinated tomatoes is my favourite. Great.

One year ago

One year ago, day by day, I was flying. Flying away.

Away from the old Europe, back to Africa. This time to the Southern part of the continent, what was for me terra incognita.

Lands that once again embraced me in the most welcoming fashion. There I saw both the greatest meanings and the meaningless meanness of humanity all. Together in the same physical space, confronted right in face of each other. The dignity regained by all those who had been humiliated for so long. The same dignity subtly or abruptly kidnapped by some who gained it without learning the value of it, without learning the need to treasure, honour and protect it.

Yes, I suffer from the "mal d'Afrique". It has little to do though with the usual pain of those who plunge into deep sadness when holidays are over. It has to do rather with the bruises and wounds left into my very soul by being exposed to and having being part of so blatant contradictions. Those that arise from trying to do something to make things better for all with one hand, while the other hand is forced to hold onto all what is making things worse. Those that come from witnessing the most unfair suffering combined with the greatest indifference, if not the greatest scorn, living door by door. And there is much more.

All this will not prevent me from continuing to celebrate the miracle of life in lands touched by a kind of spirituality that I never found anywhere else. Where you feel part of the land and the people. Where you feel the ubuntu in all its deepness.

Nor it will prevent me from wanting to be back there so badly.

Moments of sybaritism, #6: my choice of restaurants in Paris

Yesterday evening I was celebrating the Chinese New Year with a delicious Chinese dinner right at the heart of Paris’ Chinatown, in the XIII arrondissement. A friend asked me a question that was as apparently simple as it was straightforward: "what is your favourite restaurant in Paris?" Not an easy one to answer. I made an attempt to a listing that I would call “my top ten”. Here it follows, with three caveats:
-I rarely spend more than 20 or 25 € in a restaurant. In this case I must say that the average level of restaurants in Paris is fairly high. Spending 20 € is generally a guarantee of a good meal almost anywhere you go, unlike other places such as, for example, my hometown. Or London for that matter;
-I generally prefer an informal and relaxed atmosphere to an “exclusive” one;
-last but not least: a fundamental part of the experience in a restaurant is of course the company. In this case I must aknowledge that I have been gifted with some friends who really enjoy the pleasure of eating as I do.
Having said that, here we go. Please be advised that the order in which those are presented does not imply a hierarchy of any kind:

Tierra del Fuego
4-6 Rue Sainte Marthe 75010
Situated in rue Sainte Marthe, a few meters from one of the most charming spots in the X arrondissement, Place de Sainte Marthe, a place where you will forget you’re right in the middle of a big city. Tierra del Fuego offers a wide range of Chilean specialities, from empanadas to Ceviche, with other delicacies from the country and from wider South America. The “Pastel de choclo”, a gratinate of minced meat with corn, is excellent. There is also a very well assorted cave where you’ll find a considerable assortment of great quality Chilean wines.

Chez Janou
2, Rue Roger Verlomme 75003
Very close to Place des Vosges, this is a bistrot Provençal which offers specialities from the South East of France in a relaxed and charming atmosphere which feels like all-time rural Mediterranean countryside. The collection of bottles of Pastís is simply amazing, the wines from the Rhone are the guarantee of an interesting afternoon and the specialities are delicately tasty and thoroughly enjoyable.

Pho Dông-Huông
14, rue Louis Bonnet 75011
A few meters away from the Belleville metro station, this place feels like a canteen and appears to be always full of people, with a considerable number of Asians –which, in an Asian restaurant, I tend to take as an indicator of good quality-. One of the rare places where you can actually have a full meal for about 10 €, it is a temple of Tonkin soups and some other Vietnamese specialities. Having been to Viet Nam where I greatly enjoyed the food, I can tell you this place does feel, in a way, like being there.

Le relais gascon
6 rue des Abbesses 75018
Right in the middle of Montmartre, within walking distance from the Place des Abesses, sits this remarkable place specialized in the cuisine of the South West of France. Can you imagine feeling like having had a full meal after just a salad? Well that is the whole point, what they propose could hardly be qualified as “just a salad”. An enormous salad bowl with several greens and tomato, assorted with confit de canard, foie-gras, chèvre cheese on toast, lardons, cantal or any combination you can imagine of other produits du terroir. Always generously accompanied with delicious pommes sautés. Not to be missed.

Koba
7, rue de la Michodière 75002
The area between Opera and Bourse hosts an important concentration of Japanese restaurants of different kinds, from sushi bars to soup counters. Among these, a friend showed me to Koba, a small spot in rue Michaudière with familiar atmosphere and unpredictable but yet always delicious dishes of the day. The sashimi is just great; they do know how to treat fish. If there is toro –greasy tuna- do not hesitate to order. Just relax and prepare to be surprised.

Pizzeria da Carmine
61 rue des Martyrs 75009
On rue des Martyrs, very close to Montmartre. Another one that appears to be always packed. With reason. Pizza the Napoli style, it is as simple as it is delicious. Even being not so fond of pizza myself, I always had a great time dining there. Even with the place completely full of people the waiters and the owners will do everything they can to make you feel comfortable, from offering you pieces of fresh pizza while you wait to presenting you with a nice apéritif. Another remarkable Mediterranean spot.

Gwon’s dinning
51, rue Cambronne 75015
Yet another trip to Asia in the middle of the XV arrondissement. Sober design atmosphere for the venue of –traditional, or so I have been told- Korean recipes, from the barbecue to the Bibimbap. I forgot to ask what was the tea they were serving last time I went there. The way it matched the food was a new and surprising experience to me. Always made me feel like going to Korea. Never disappointed.

Le Gavroche
19, rue Saint-Marc 75002
Right in the centre of Paris, in a small street in the middle of the II arrondissement, sits this very remarkable bistrot. In a city as international as Paris it is rare to find a place where you'll see only French people. The real traditional French cuisine, far from the design and fake sophistication that is sometimes used to hide the lack of ideas. All pure substance, but yet with style. I ate a "carré d'agneau" that will be long remembered. Meat of excellent quality and very well cooked. Nice wine menu. An amazing range of home-made desserts. All with reasonable prices.

Chez Elias
22 Rue Fremicourt, 75015
I discovered this Lebanese restaurant thanks to Lebanese colleagues. On rue Fremicourt, it is apparently owned by the brother of that of El Farès, on Boulevard de Grenelle. While the two restaurants are quite close, the distance when it comes to taste and quality is in the order of miles. Delicious Homous, delightful pastries and delicately marinated and cooked meat. A gate to the middle east cuisine with family atmosphere.

Le Majungais
11, cour des Petites Ecuries 75010
A trip to Madagascar on the cour des petites écuries, in the heart of the X arrondissement, with a very interesting cusine of an island where Africa meets Asia. Spicy and tropical recipes –the chicken with coconut sauce is a real experience-. The fried appetizers are remarkable, and there is a wide offer of punch. The ginger punch is a must for anyone who likes rhum. All of that in a warm and welcoming ambiance.

That was just a selection, there are other places discovered and for sure other places to discover...