Snapshot of Paris: Barbès - Rochechouart

The Barbès - Rochechouart Metro stop is on the 2 and 4 lines which appear, respectively, as blue and hot purple strips on the Plan de Metro. Populated in large part by immigrants (seemingly north African), this is not the Paris of the Trocadero or Champs-Élysées. The streets are mobbed with vendors peddling wares that range from cheap Malboro cigarrettes (smuggled by the Eastern European mafias) to Dolce and Gabbana purse knockoffs. It provokes the sensory overload you might expect at a giant outdoor flea market, with men shouting "Malboro! Malboro!" and pressing the red and white boxes on you, while others stalk you for a full block trying to sell you a fake Fendi watch. I had an older man, cloaked in the charming scent of alcohol and stale cigarrettes, approach me without anything to sell. Nonetheless, he struck up a slurred conversation. Upon learning that I was American, he bent over and confessed that he loved me.

"I loooove youuu."

I thanked him and went on my merry way.

I had made my way over to Barbès on my friend Gaby's suggestion. Gaby, having spent a year living in Paris recently, was chock full of good ideas for exploring the "other side" of Paris, the part that tourists rarely see or even imagine. Me, having already done the tourist circuit of Paris, well, I was favorably inclined towards his suggestions.

So after finally dragging myself out of bed at 1 pm, I ambled over there last Tuesday with Linda, who was visiting for New Year's. We decided to make a lunch of it and enjoy some delicious and cheap ethnic food while in the neighborhood. Which we did, entering a small establishment (read: hole in the wall) that promised a 6 euro menu consisting of just about every food group.

Of course, we were the only women in sight. But aside from a few surprised looks and modest head turns, the attraction we drew was most welcome, offered by the only waiter (and, perhaps, owner) of the joint.

He launched immediately into an explanation of the menu which I tried to decipher with little success. Fast and truncated, Parisian street French is hard enough to understand when it is spoken by the French. When the speaker is an immigrant with a heavy accent, it is near is possible. I repeated the few words I could make out - couscous, soupe, et poulet - and hoped for the best.

The waiter then brought out a heaping plate of couscous, a steaming bowl of vegetable stew, and a roasted chicken leg. I ladled the stew onto the couscous, adding some harissa for a kick, and tucked in. The food, served in generous portions and prepared like a home cooked meal, was excellent.

I washed it all down with an ice cold Coke.

Linda and I parted from the restaurant after thanking our waiter. Warm and stuffed, we waddled back to the Metro station, where I was accosted not once but twice in the span of about 2 minutes.

First, a group of men and women bearing palms full of Metro tickets approached me, offering to sell the tickets at a greatly reduced price. The word "offer," however, falls short of describing their gestures and cries. And of how they actively cornered me by the ticket machines, where I remained until Linda rescued me.

As it turns out, I didn't need the ticket after all. In the crowd of people trying to squeeze through the bottleneck that is the entrance to most Paris Metro stations, one particularly aggressive gentleman behind me decided not to wait for me to insert my ticket. He simply popped his in and pushed us both through the turnstyle. I can't say I was displeased.

Following the turnstyles, a series of stairs leads down to the trains. I flitted down the stairwell, and in a most becoming and graceful moment, lost my balance and took a tumble.

In less than 5 seconds, a herd of Malboro men flocked to me. I had picked myself up, dusted myself off, and was about to thank them for their concern and wave them away. But they beat me to it and opened their mouths first.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle... Malboro?"