One of the nicest surprises on a recent visit to Paris was one that most Parisians likely know nothing about. In fact, it is not traditionally French at all. Much to the dismay of traditionalists or the staunch defenders of the Old France, it is an ever more present element of the new way. It exemplifies the integration and overlapping of cultures, the blending that immigration and newer generations brings. This was one of the centers of Islamic culture and tradition--the Grande Mosquèe de Paris.
My friend’s roommate vehemently recommended that I go see the Arènes de Lutèce, ruins of a Roman amphitheater built in the 1st century AD for gladiator fights and various other forms of ancient entertainment. After, he advised, I could go to the mosque and drink some tea.
I got on the subway line 4 at Alesia a few blocks from where I was staying, changing at the enormous Chatelet for line 7. Chatelet always reminds me of the larger Beijing subway complexes, structures that, despite connecting only four or so subways, lead you in a maze of stairways, hallways, escalators, and even outside before arriving at the correct line. However, Chatelet is much better organized, does not seem to be eternally in the middle of construction, and does not contain the thousands of people who always tramped along with you in Beijing, no matter what time of day. I took Line 7 to Place Monge. (The announcement of the upcoming station in the subway is always announced twice, but with two different recordings. The first always with an upwards intonation, and the second with a more definitive downwards one, almost as if to say "Well, I guess this must be Place Monge?…Yes, I was right, Place Monge. Yep.").
Following the instructions of the roomate, I did not take the back entrance to the arena, but rather I found the entrance on the street, an almost unmarked cement archway leading to a little maze of turns, which finally opened out to the arena itself. A dramatic entrance indeed, but somewhat of a disappointing result--it was mostly an open sandy space where some teenagers played with a soccer ball, flanked by amphitheater seating where some other spectators had presumably sat two thousand years ago, and some nice greenery along the back part. The roommate had been quite enthusiastic about this place; clearly he is in dire need of a trip to Italy, where ruins such as this are a dime a dozen, and where the good ones are mostly intact and very impressive.
Exiting again, I decided to find this mosque, if only to make the trek out here worth it. I rambled down the big avenue, went too far, checked one of the maps on a subway entrance (I never carried a map in Paris, since there is a subway or bus stop every five minutes, and all have maps of the surrounding area), and realized it was a bit off to the side down one of the smaller streets. I passed a movie theater, checking the schedule--Parisian movie theaters always seem very appealing to me--and, following the trail of headscarf clad ladies as well as my memory of the map, wove through the crowd. I knew I had come to the right place when I saw it: a dream of a sparkling white building appeared, imposing and sacred looking. I doubted this idea of drinking tea in such a place--would I be allowed in without a head covering? I traced my way around the wall of the formidable structure, when that thing happened again, the revelation of whatever it was you were looking for, rising out of the mist of being vaguely lost. As I turned the corner of the mosque, I saw a vision of green, white, bustle, mosaic tiles, arabic sweets, and seemingly stressed waiters running around to accommodate the crowd. There was a front area just adjacent to the street, with lovely little wrought iron tables and chairs; to the right, there was a glimpse of an inner, inside space, hinting of an entire restaurant (a friend later told me they have baths there as well, expensive but luxurious). I stumbled upon a small hallway with a case of sweets, baklava, rose water cakes, bird’s nest pastries with pistachio, several kinds that I had never seen before. Finally, I came upon the back area, roofless, the tables arranged around the edges and some in the middle, occupied by groups of people or couples, quiet and cool. The freshness of greenery and symmetry of those lovely textile-like patterns used in Arabic architecture maintained a relaxed atmosphere, green, white, glowing, and so utterly not French. After selecting a square of coconut cake (2 euro, the dryness of the coconut balanced by the moistness of the base of the cake, soaked with something delicious, not too sweet), I chose an edge table in the back space and a waiter floated right over with a laden tray: “Mint tea?”. Despite a fancy, complicated menu, mint tea is what everyone seemed to be drinking, as when I answered in the affirmative, the waiter immediately handed me a cup from his tray. The tea was also 2 euro, which was too much for such a small amount (served in one of those elegant decorated glass tumblers) but this was Paris, where everything is expensive, and the tea was good, sweetened and strong.