Due to popular demand by our Pride readers, we’re reposting the diary of Liesha Stone –a sister trying to make a new life in the city of love, Paris. Tune in weekly for the next installment of Liesha’s adventures!
It’s 3.30am in a trendy jazz bar just off the Champs Elysées, and everybody is going crazy. CBS has just called it for Obama, and the French are going wild. I am surrounded by a sea of white faces hero-worshipping a black man from Chicago. This is only my second day in Paris, but I am already confused.
After being born and raised in Camden, I realized at 35 that I had never really been outside my comfort zone. I got a good job in IT after uni and gradually moved up the career ladder, but life was missing that buzz. All the excitement that I thought life would bring in my late teens had just not shown up. Therefore I jumped at the chance when I was offered a secondment to Paris. Cristelle, my new assistant, met me at the station and escorted me to my new flat, which was in the chic St-Germain district (the 6th), a bit like a mix of Covent Garden and Kensington.
First problem: the flat is on the fifth floor. Of course, there is a lift; however, since every building in Paris is, like, 400 years old, they have had to squeeze in lifts into whatever space they could find afterwards. Obviously, they could not find much in this building, since my lift is the size of an upright coffin. First, Cristelle had to go up to the fifth floor alone, and then, from the ground floor, I put one suitcase at a time in the lift and sent it up. She took it out and sent the lift back down. This went on until all seven bags had made the ascent. I then got into the lift, took one look at the door that was attempting to close but having problems clearing my nose, and decided to jog upstairs. Note: no need for gym membership.
Second problem: the apartment was not much bigger than the lift. I had been warned it would be small, but this was ridiculous. Swing a cat? You could not swing a hamster in this place. Cristelle could see my shock. “This is quite normal for Paris.” I needed a drink. The fridge was empty, so I went downstairs to a shop I had passed on the way in. As I took in my surroundings, I realized that I stood out in jogging pants. Every woman who passed me, young or old, was dressed elegantly. There were no trainers, no tracksuits and definitely no baseball caps. I would have taken mine off, but you know… bad hair day. Back upstairs, I commented to Cristelle on the French dress code. She smiled. “The thing is, French women take fashion seriously, and we do not consider sportswear,” she looked at me somewhat disapprovingly, “as, well… fashion.” “I should be pleased nobody stared at me like I was some kind of alien,” I giggled. She looked embarrassed. “I do not know how to put this… You are in the 6th, so they would have assumed you were a nanny or…” she whispered, “a cleaner.” “What?!” I exclaimed. “We are not in London,” she continued. “This is Paris, and things here are different. We are not as well integrated as you. You, for example, will be the most senior black person in your division, and you will realize that black people have not moved as far up the career ladder here.” “So my neighbours will assume I am a cleaner,” I retorted. “Well, living in the 6th, no matter the size of the flat, is a luxury, and not many black French people can afford such a luxury. There is also a fair degree of racism here, and tracksuits will not help your image. Remember, the French are not as tolerant as the Brits.” This was all a bit of a bombshell. I had some re-evaluating to do.
So, as I look around on election night at all these white faces dancing to Obama’s victory, I feel confused. It’s ridiculously late, so I ask the club doorman to get me a cab. As I climb in the back, I see the driver give me a disapproving look in his rear-view mirror. I ignore him and give him my address. “Oh, you’re American,” he says in broken English. Before I can correct him, he smiles: “Sorry, I thought you were African. Great news about Obama, hey?” This is going to take some getting used to.
