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.

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.

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.

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.