For the past few weeks Paris has had me in its picturesque, seductive clutches. It was fun but looking back at my images I did wonder, where was the challenge? Normally my thing is to seek out the beauty in the ‘unbeautiful’. And ‘unbeautiful’ ain’t Le Marais nor Les Batignolles.

It was time to get back to my mission brief.

My choice for this week was also influenced by the recent election here. All the talk about immigration leading up to the big day was a stark reminder that for many, Paris is a crowded 25sqm room shared with a handful of other people, and no prospect of a job any time soon.

Nowhere could this be more true than in the 18^th arrondissement, around a neighbourhood called Chateau Rouge. Also referred to as la Goutte d’Or, this is the Little Africa of Paris. Exotic foods, tick, but also a slew of problems that can’t be fixed overnight, even if there is a new government in power.

Quickest ‘history’ ever – the hood is named after a red castle that no longer exists. Done.

Okay, iPhones away (will explain later), cameras away (ditto), let’s swagger…

Part 1: F-f-f-fashion

Amazingly, Chateau Rouge is just minutes away from tourist-crazed Montmartre and its top drawcard, the Sacre Coeur. One minute it’s all pretty pretty, then suddenly you’re wondering, what happened? Where did Paris go?

Unlike Faubourg Saint Denis, where there are really just a few streets dedicated to African hair and where there’s a strong bobo presence, this neighbourhood seems to be entirely African and Arab. Markets here offer gombo not oysters or foie gras, and you have to elbow your way through or be elbowed. Shops are filled with colourful African materials not trendy western gear. Butchers are halal. Welcome to Little Africa.

But at the end of the main open-air market a police car is almost permanently parked – along with the colourful exoticism are serious drug and crime problems. Add illegal immigration into the mix and you start to understand why the locals were incredibly unhappy about me and my camera pitching up. One woman explained that some Africans would even be afraid I might use their photos to do, er, black magic.

Up against it, I very quickly realised that any sort of in-depth photographic exploration of the area wasn’t going to be possible. No one was about to invite me into their lives and share.

At one point I almost abandoned ship. Then I’d get some kind soul to agree to a photo (even if they did give me no more than five seconds to take the shot) and I’d think, okay, maybe this will work.

Since I wasn’t going to be able to do anything too deep, I decided to explore one particular facet of Little Africa – its fashion.

The neighbourhood is filled with men and women who continue to dress as they would if they still lived in Africa – only now they’re in Paris, amongst the berets and trench-coats. The shock of hot, vivid colour against a sea of western blah and sombre tones is just fantastic.

Then there are the Africans who take their colourful heritage and apply it to a more contemporary look. I especially loved the men who wear suits, but in a playful, inventive way. I’d actually go so far to say that it was in Chateau Rouge that I saw the most interesting fashion that I’ve seen so far in all of Paris (not that I hang with the fashionistas of course).

Fashion, as an expression of one’s culture… très intéressant!

Little Africa, 'Lowest Prices'

Chateau Rouge is right next door to the Sacre Coeur

First up, the men…

Sayra

Zongo, fashion designer

The man below was very reluctant to be snapped. I explained I just wanted to take a shot of his inventive tie and not his face. “But it’s my creation” he said. Eventually after minutes of discussion he caved – and I had precisely three seconds to take the shot.

when worlds collide

Next was Jean, interior designer. Different story entirely. He was one of the few who was quite happy to be photographed – and why not? Just look at that suit.

for one thing, Jean is wearing Burberry with a purple tie and tartan cap. Dangerous!

I ran into Jean again a few days later. He was wearing the same suit but with a different hat, tie and shoes. Could I please take another shot…

and he did!

even Obama gives Jean's style the thumbs up

Then there were these guys…

check me out!

religious bling

after a trip to the Hammam he felt cleaner and brighter all over

Part 2: Senghor from Senegal

Okay, so this dude in his voluminous boubou deserves a section all of his own. I know nothing more about him other than his name and where he comes from, but my imagination rushed into the vacuum of information and filled it right up. To me he’s a witch-doctor-ish, magic man who appears out of nowhere and travels not by metro but by forces unknown. You could have knocked me over with a chicken feather when he said, yes, you can photograph me.

Senghor from Senegal

with one wave of my magic wand, I can make 1000 volts shoot through the air

where'd you get those D&G sunnies from?

off to make magic with his gombo

And while we’re on the subject of magical things…

the note on the bottle said, Alice, EAT ME

Part 3: The women

Like my experience of observing the sari clad Indians of Sydney’s Harris Park, I loved watching the African women in traditional dress glide down the streets, so unFrench and yet so much a part of modern day Paris.

and Chateau Rouge

wild prints

she buys her flowers from Barbes Market to match her hair

waiting

Then there’s the modern look…

Doris, with Jennifer in her hair

Henna girl

French stripes

Of course, an African woman’s hair is a big deal. Braided, shaved, extended, coloured, whatever. You gotta do something to your hair.

now and then

Part 4: Beyond the fashion

I would have liked to have explored the Arab, Muslim side of the area more – but couldn’t. I lost count of how many Arab men I asked to photograph – in my best French and as respectfully as possible. They were just not into it.

Anyway, the deal is that the neighbourhood has mosque problems. I think there might be two but I only visited one – and from the outside only. You’d miss it if you didn’t notice the small sign, or the collection box sitting on the street outside, raising money I assume to improve the current one or maybe build a new one.

It wasn’t long ago that space problems meant that Muslims in the area were allowed to pray on the streets in front of the mosque. There was all sorts of hoo ha over that and the practice was banned late last year.

There is, however, a major development happening soon – a new, very modern looking Islamic centre is being built nearby and as far as I understand, the mosques might have prayer rooms inside.

they have their iphones, he has his Islam

they must be green with envy of other grander mosques

things are looking up - a new Islamic centre and a new government

The Wrap

I am fascinated by the African presence in Paris. I understand the reason – France needed labour post-war so they invited all of Africa in – but I just find the contrast between the two cultures so incredibly striking.

It was therefore quite exhilarating to hang out in Little Africa this week. And as frustrating as it was to not be able to photograph more and different facets of the area, I did enjoy the challenge.

So what did I find beautiful in this decidedly unbeautiful neighbourhood? The vibrant colour and the ‘fashion’ for sure, but also the energy of the place. It’s hard to describe but it feels excitable, edgy, as if any minute it will reach a crescendo and… pop!, the whole place will implode.

Oh, and the warning to put away your iPhone and camera? Just passing on what I was told. Apparently if you wander around chatting on your iPhone, you’re very likely to have it plucked out of your hand. And one guy told me his friend was carrying a DSLR camera with the strap around his neck and had his arm broken when someone wrenched it so hard to get the camera off him.

Chateau Rouge, and bleu, orange, vert, rose

On the ‘home front’

A lovely Australian blog follower living in Paris for a little while took Coco off this week for some home schooling followed by cartwheels in the park. Coco loved it so hopefully, if the budget holds out, there’ll be a little more of it. On my side, I’d just like the dreary grey stuff to disappear so I can have fun with the sun again, in a photographic sense. And I’d like more sleep too. But who doesn’t?

And to all those in Australia, Happy Mother’s Day!

—

This suburb has been brought to you by Zoe Thompson

—

I’ve decided to change my post date to Sunday or Monday by the way. It’s only taken me five months to work out that I’m probably missing a lot of good stuff that happens on the weekend by making my post day Friday and my so-called ‘day off’ on Saturday.

Which would suit you better by the way – Sunday or Monday?

See you next week.

Week five in Paris, I thought it was time to break out of the east and head north-west to a neighbourhood in the 17th arrondissement called the Batignolles.

Quick history lesson… The name comes from bastillole or bastidiole, meaning small cottage, or the Latin batagliona, little war. Like Belleville, it used to be country and only became part of Paris in 1860. Haunt of the painter Edouard Manet and his mates. Once working class, it’s now a mix of elderly and families with young kids. Oh, and while most of the neighbourhood is sleepy quiet, the northern bit is all go; had Paris won this year’s Olympic bid it would’ve been transformed into the Olympic Village. Instead it’s now an enormous redevelopment site with sprawling parklands and zillions of homes and offices set to shoot up in the near future.

Let’s stroll…

Part 1: The quiet life

As with so many places in Paris, the neighbourhood is distinctly different from those around it. One moment you’re on Avenue de Clichy with its shady bars and discount shops, the next you’re in bohemian, arty Batignolles.

Only it seems to me to be more bourgeois than bohemian. Sure, we did wander past a sculpture class (chisel in one hand, vin rouge in the other) and a café full of singers, and the area definitely has an earthy feel. But the Batignolles is too expensive nowadays for the average bohemian.

Aside from the real estate prices, nothing much seems to have changed over the last 100 years in the main part of the Batignolles. It still feels like a small village where life revolves around the cafes surrounding the church, and the ‘square’ that’s actually a small, English-style park behind it, complete with ducks and a merry-go-round.

In fact, there are enough remnants of a bygone era to make you feel like time has stopped altogether in les Batignolles.

one must get the correct shoes made for driving la Citroën 2 CV

flowers and bread - nothing's changed for 100 years

Christina, today, and in a former life

the all important scarf

Chantelle wished she could buy those 1950s lights but she was just a poor mannequin

no monsieur, I won't forgive you

Paulette liked to ride her Vespa to Le Tout Petit

une grande sausage at Le Tout Petit

chisel and vin rouge, a dangerous mix :: 1

chisel and vin rouge, a dangerous mix :: 2

Part 2: Les enfants

If you live here, it’s highly probable you’re pregnant; this must surely be the baby boom centre of Paris. And you can see why. Aside from one intriguing street of old mansions and gardens (La Cité des Fleurs) it’s still apartment living. But there are plenty of places to burn off kid energy, from the area around the church to the old square with the ducks, and the sprawling new park.

Marcuse runs round Square des Batignolles

busy boy

three walk, one sits

kid's world

Andrea and Bruno

Bruno and his Hasselblad outside the church

Alice in wisteria wonderland

Soraya and Stephen at the organic market

magically she was transformed into Saraswati, goddess of wisdom, to help her parents buy the best fruit & veg

even the dogs are babies - 8 weeks old Hermes

Aside from the high proportion of whipper snappers, there’s also a large population of elderly in the Batignolles, something we’ve so far not really encountered in Paris.

doing the crossword in the square

90 year old Micheline and 8 year old Ludivine

a marriage made in heaven - Claudia and Jean, married 50 years

purple and blue all over

Part 3: La pétanque – the players

The two petanque courts are sandwiched between the old square and the new development, currently a massive building site. But if you stand with your back to the cranes and concrete you could be somewhere in the country.

all eyes on the boule

how you can tell whose boule is whose

clearly mine is closer

the dispute

boule boys - Patrick, Raymond, Giles, Jacques

tree baubles

one's boules are kept under lock and key

After watching so much petanque…

I see boules everywhere

Part 4: La pétanque – as a spectator sport

Petanque may be a very simple game – the person who gets closest to the jack wins – but it’s quite addictive. Once you start watching, it’s hard to stop. When we visited another time there were quite a few old fellas chatting amongst themselves while they watched the various games in play. But one lovely old man stood on his own. He held on to the fence like a kid, glued to the proceedings, not moving a muscle.

the discussion

the watcher :: 1

the watcher :: 2

he may be deaf but he doesn't miss a move

Just outside the petanque courts is another spectator sport – cards. Unlike the boule boys, this was serious business, not to be photographed madame.

the card game

Part 5: New Batignolles

While the law fraternity are apparently not thrilled, the families of the Batignolles are; the old square as lovely as it is was built in 1876, well before the current baby boom. So the new parklands, which are already installed, are a welcome addition, offering play areas for everyone from small bubs to teens.

The edge of the Batignolles Cemetery a little further north has also undergone an extreme makeover. On one side, mossy old gravestones, on the other, along rue Rebière, a set of 10 buildings, all architect designed.

So much for sleepy old Batignolles.

right next to the petanque courts, a new part of les Batignolles is rising out of the ground

ironwork, old and new

the new parklands - Georgette in the rain

Georgette and her rosy scarf

the building's colour scheme, 'wisteria'

bright

But no matter how much the Batignolles are transformed, one thing is sacrosanct…

hands off the petanque courts

The Wrap

While there may not be any ‘sights’ to see in the Batignolles, I enjoyed the walk back in time – and into the future too. It’s unlike any of the neighbourhoods we’ve visited so far don’t you think? Not ethnically diverse or chic or urban. More like an old French village, albeit a village with a major development on its doorstep. And I did love photographing the petanque. Nothing like asking a group of French men to show me their boules.

 

 

fun and games

 

On the ‘home front’

No luck so far with finding a beret wearing, English speaking helper for Coco. But she and I are both trying harder with the home schooling challenge. And she’s going back to the Montessori school for a few days a week until we leave Paris – I love my daughter dearly but good lord I need a break. Aside from that, we’ve been enjoying the lead up to the French Presidential elections; by the time you read this, France may well have a new top dog.

 —

This suburb has been brought to you by Iain & Llyn

—

Rain again this week meant another late post. But it’s meant to fine up this week so hopefully I’ll see you next Friday.

 

Yeah, yeah, I know. The Marais? Tourist trap extraordinaire? 

Well, it’s a choice I made by accident really. Due to my sudden decision to stay longer in Paris, we’ve had to find new accommodation. Our next apartment wasn’t available for a week so I needed something quickly to fill in the gap. When I spotted a tiny pied-à-terre in the Marais for a good price it got me thinking – was the Marais as souless as it seemed?

At a quick glance the area, which straddles the 3rd and 4th arrondissement, seemed to be just shops, cafes and a handful of historic mansions converted into museums. Did anyone actually live there? On a previous whip through the place some weeks ago I hadn’t seen a single boulangerie or boucherie. Just shiny shops and smart cafes. Was that it?

I decided to rent the apartment for the week and explore the place. And so here we are, ‘Suburb’ No 16… Le Marais.

The history of the place in warp speed… From the 13th-17th century, French nobles built their grand Hôtels, urban mansions, here. When they left the Jews moved in. By the 1950s, it was working class and the place was a mess; the mansions were crumbling and by the 1960s there was talk of it being demolished. In the decades following the Hôtels were restored and turned into museums, the area scrubbed up. Today, it’s a mix of Jewish, gay, cafes and restaurants, fashion labels and museums.

But a soul? Did it have one of them?

Part 1: Rained out

The Marais started out in life as a swampy marsh – and this week it very nearly returned to one. La pluie has not stopped falling. Well, that’s not entirely true. It was sparkling sunshine on the day we arrived. Then the next day it rained. Only it would rain and then stop. Rain and stop. Rain and stop. And that’s how it continued. Every day, all day long, for the entire time we were there. (Hence the late post by the way.)

before la pluie

one moment, sun, the next, rain

cold and wet - perfect Spring weather - if you're a duck :: 1

cold and wet - perfect Spring weather - if you're a duck :: 2

what rain?

wet weather activities in the Marais :: 1

best to sit inside madame

wet weather activities in the Marais :: 2

a few tourists still braved the wet

please sun, come back again

Part 2: The mix in the Marais

At first the rain was just irritating. Water on the lens. Coco complaining about her umbrella. Wet shoes. But as the days passed, I started to like it. Most importantly, it meant hardly any tourists; when we’d arrived on that sunny Sunday it was so packed with bodies that I literally couldn’t get a sense of the place let alone take any pictures.

Now virtually empty, I started to see another Marais than the one I’d first encountered. Instead of packs of tourists, anonymous clothes shops and fashionable eateries, I saw medieval winding streets lined with magnificent former mansions and beautiful gardens. I suddenly got how amazing it was that Haussman hadn’t done his thing here, leaving the maze of narrow streets intact instead of creating grand boulevards as he had in much of Paris.

inside a pied-à-terre, outside a mansion

after the purple rain

What also intrigued me was the mix of Jewish and gay. One here for centuries, the other a more recent arrival.

star and studs side by side

With the tourists gone, we met people who either lived, worked or played in the Marais. For example, Gregoire, a lovely French guy who was heading to an interesting book-bar called La Belle Hortense. He invited us to join him for a drink and to meet a friend of his, Nikolai, and the woman behind the bar, Caroline.

so I said, where are you going, and Gregoire said, to La Belle Hortense, come with me

Caroline at La Belle Hortense

maybe he's writing A History of Paris at La Belle Hortense

Leaving La Belle Hortense to its merry business we met…

Marceau

what is it exactly, Jean Louis?

Then there’s the Jewish side of the neighbourhood. In the 13th century and then again in the 19th, Jewish people moved in to the Marais around rue des Rosiers, or Pletzl as they call it, Yiddish for ‘small square’. Although gentrification has transformed the Marais into le chic, it’s still very Jewish with kosher restaurants, boulangeries, charcuteries, bookshops plus synagogues and shtiebels.

the Jewish quarter of Paris

Sacha

James

On the day we arrived I spotted a tiny blue Fiat 500 sitting on a street corner. Suddenly a family of four appeared and poured into it. In response to my look of surprise they said, there’s only four of us today, normally there’s five.

normally there's five of us, this is our weekend car

Aside from the gay and Jewish side of the Marais, there are also the young lovers, taking advantage of a handful of beautiful gardens to look deep into each other’s eyes. Well, until I butt in with my camera that is.

there are gardens to admire and gardens for amour - Hannah and Ederim

love struck - Fabien and Rebecca

And while the Marais is filled with cutting edge fashion labels, it also has a couple of second hand shops and a library that houses fashion mags from the 50s and 60s.

retro vs classic - Claudia

old fashion

Part 3: Manger in the Marais

While the rain helped transform the Marais from tourist trap to moody ghost town, it was also incredibly frustrating as much of the week was just too wet and windy to shoot. Some days there was nothing for it but another visit to Meert, a pastry-sweet shop that has been ruining French teeth since 1761. Their speciality is a gaufre (waffle) filled with sugar, butter and vanilla. Nice (apparently – I couldn’t try) but what we found totally addictive were the fruit jellies and caramels.

how to brighten up a rainy day in the Marais

tangerine dreams

gaufres

Place de Vosges residents have eaten Meert's waffles for 200+ years

Aside from waffles, there’s the Yiddish/Eastern European specialties in the Jewish quarter, from the baked goods to the famous falafel.

they come from all over Paris for the pastrami

baker and butcher, Jewish style

There are of course myriad cafes and elegant restaurants in the neighbourhood too. We eschewed the lot of them for our weekly ‘treat’ meal by revisiting the classic Le Bistro Paul Bert, just around the corner from the Marais. We’d had lunch there with Audrey, a lovely blog follower, the week before and I was keen to go back to snap the place. Very reasonable (18 euros for a three course lunch), plenty of atmosphere and yes, le bon gout.

18 euros for 3 courses equals happy customers

lamb with celery puree

mmm, is that Emincée de pomme au caramel et beurre salé?

Part 4: The other creatures who inhabit the Marais

They live out their days on handsome doors or in quiet corners down narrow streets away from the tourist packs.

wild Marais

mieow!

once a mansion, today a museum

The Wrap

If we’d never rented that apartment and spent a week hanging around in the Marais, I would’ve probably written it off as touristy and shallow. But wandering those empty streets in the half light, rain dripping down its proud stone walls, without its adoring fans, I felt like I had a glimpse into its aristocratic past and saw a little of what lies behind its present shiny veneer. It’s not an ordinary neighbourhood anymore and the people I spoke to who’ve lived there for more than 20 years are not fans of the way it’s changed. But despite all its faults – expensive, tourist-oriented, and in need of a few more boulangeries and boucheries – I do think the Marais has a soul. But you can only see it in the rain.

look at the sky Coco!

On the ‘home front’

As I explained, we’re between ‘homes’ at the moment. After this week in the pied-à-terre – tiny, old and eccentric with a bathroom in a cupboard – we’re off tomorrow to our next place for two and a half weeks, then it’ll be onto another one for a month. Luckily Coco is not a child who craves consistency and like me, is excited by the prospect of new.

And the home schooling? Not good. We barely do any and when we do, Coco tells me I’m the worst teacher ever. How bad is that? But then she has learned at least five new French words in the last few weeks. That’s got to count for something right?

(Actually, it is worrying me. If anyone knows of someone in Paris who wears a beret and can home school a child, please get in contact with me. Okay, the beret is negotiable.)

 —

This suburb has been brought to you by Jen Robinson

—

See you next Friday. So long as la pluie stays away.

This week we slip back within the périphérique to explore a neighbourhood called Belleville. But only just. Located mainly in the 20th Arrondissement, Belleville began life as a wine-making village well outside the city walls. It was only in the 1860s that it was dragged kicking and screaming into Paris.

Since then various waves of immigrants have kept changing the face of Belleville, the latest being the Chinese. In some parts it feels distinctly like we never left Hong Kong, with Asian shops, restaurants and residents dominating the landscape.

But it’s more than just another Chinatown. On top of the Asian vibe is a cosmopolitan, arty feel, something close to New York’s East Village.

Nearby is also the world’s most visited cemetery, Père Lachaise, where anyone who was anyone is buried, from Napoleon Bonaparte to Jim Morrison. Knowing I would encounter le touriste there, in droves, I ventured not.

Anyway, enough chit chat. Let’s go Belleville!

Part 1: Asia in Paris

As I said, Belleville houses one of Paris’s Chinatowns (the other is in the 13th). By the way, if you’re wondering why there are no images of any Chinese people, it’s because they were extremely reluctant to be photographed. It was even touch and go there for a while with the dumplings.

Asiatique indeed

when Camille was tired, all she wanted to eat were dumplings

whereas the ladies ate them anytime, especially after a rigorous morning of tai chi - or is that Qi Gong?

Mr Wu yearned to be out there on a bicyclette

Belleville, located somewhere between Manhattan and China

Part 2: The bar scene of Belleville

Well, the bar scene before dark anyway. You know I don’t do dark. Like to but the logistics of organising babysitters etc etc … Anyway, Belleville and nearby Menilmontant offer everything from the quiet, shady to the hip and loud.

I spent most of my time at one cafe-bar called Aux Folies. This was where Edith Piaf, who was born in Belleville, used to sing when the place was a cabaret theater back in the 1950s.

and so are tattoos

he's straight out of Edith's day

off to le café

mint tea and her messages

love that look

Aux Folies is the sort of place you can’t fail to meet someone interesting. Like Luna and her dad, Pat. He runs a rock n roll bar in nearby Menilmontant and told me that I should come that evening as there was an excellent singer on. I mumbled something lame about babysitters, all the while thinking, damn, I’d so love to go.

Luna and her rock n roll dad :: 1

Luna and her rock n roll dad :: 2

Right now, the various bars in Belleville are filled with people studying the papers – the Presidential elections are on this Sunday.

all eyes are on the news as France prepares to vote this weekend

politics goes better with beer

no papers, just his thoughts to keep him company

Part 3: Spring has sprung

Well, sort of. When we arrived almost five weeks ago it was unseasonably warm and sunny. Not a glove or hat to be seen. Spring, I thought. But no. In the last week the real Spring has reared its head apparently, which pretty much means rain, wind and cold with occasional sunny bits. Gloves and hat back on. Maybe even thermals.

Still, the gardens and flowers of Paris could care less. They’re out and proud, holding their pretty little heads high despite the chilly drenchings. All except for the cherry blossoms, which seem to have peaked and are now busy forming pink carpets all over Paris.

Belleville has le Parc de Belleville. Not only filled with fleurs but also offering an excellent view over all of Paris – Montmartre without the crowds. The first time I looked out over the view I couldn’t believe I could see the Eiffel Tower as well as the twin steam stacks of Ivry-sur-Seine, a suburb just outside Paris where some friends of ours live. Paris proper really is very small.

flowers are springing up everywhere

Anna and her purple fleurs

Spring may have sprung but it still sprinkles

their best days are behind them

and Pauline

his days of chasing women in the springtime are fini

and look, there's the Eiffel Tower!

Part 4: To Gambetta

It’s quite tricky knowing when you’ve left one neighbourhood and entered another in Paris. So I decided to just wander and not worry too much if I strayed out of Belleville. Which I did, quite convincingly, into nearby Menilmontant and Gambetta.

Gambetta in particular has some interesting pockets. Still in the 20th, the area around rue Saint Blaise is one of the oldest in Paris, with the original cobblestone street still intact.

I'm still standing, yeah, yeah, yeah

It was on rue Saint Blaise that I met Florence, a proud African woman who was somewhat bemused by my desire to take a picture of her dress. But come on, great frock.

the times they are a changin'

equality?

Just around the corner from Florence I met this lovely lady. I can’t remember her name but I loved her ‘do.

as she was then and now

Gambetta is home to Mama Shelter, a hip hotel designed by Philippe Starck, located alongside an abandoned railway, le Petite Ceinture, which I think once defined the boundary of Paris.

next to le Petite Ceinture, now abandoned

blue eye shadow - Mama and Lena

(And yes, you have seen Lena before, in the first Paris post. I met her in the 20th when we first arrived and I was nosing around the area. I mistakenly put her in the Faubourg Saint Denis post. She’s so radiant I thought she deserved a second appearance.)

Sarah, so Paris

Gambetta is also home to La Fleche d’Or, a famous music scene that operates out of an old railway station.

maybe scooter girl is off to La Fleche d'Or tonight

Part 5: Yes Coco, by law French people must eat a baguette every day

It could almost be true. What else can explain the fact that every French man and woman seems to end up with a baguette under their arm at some point during the day, if not at numerous times.

baguette before church

baguette after bar

The queues outside the Patisseries also make me wonder if every Parisian eats cake every day. It would make sense – they need the calories to fuel all the walking they do, especially the near vertical variety.

walking shoes, Paris style

Parisians walk, in rain or shine

and delicieux

Part 6: Chiens and chats

Hate to end on a sad note but one of our cats, Jinx, is still missing in action in Sydney. It’s been weeks now but I still haven’t told Coco as I keep waiting, hoping to hear news. As a result, I seem to have noticed more ‘Lost Cat’ posters than ever in my life as well as wanting desperately to stop and pat every single four legged creature that comes my way.

Arty, the camera shy chien

cat flying up stairs

how do you tell a child her favourite animal may be no more?

The Wrap

I don’t think I’ve done Belleville and its surrounding areas full justice – blame it on the rain, as well as the fact that I suspect I missed a lot by not being there at night when the place apparently really swings. But from what I did see, I can understand why those that live there are fiercely proud of it and consider it the best in all of Paree. Diverse, down to earth and not trop cher to live in. Vive le 20e arrondissement!

Coco and her Montessori mates

On the ‘home front’

Coco loved her kid time at the local bilingual Montessori school. She finished up there a week ago when the school broke for holidays. But she may be going back – because guess what? We’re staying longer in Paris. After booking flights to Berlin and arranging accommodation from next weekend onwards, I suddenly realised that I really wasn’t ready to leave. As excited as I am about Berlin, I’m just not done with Paris. (Okay, you may as well know, I love the place. Somewhere between the 4th arrondissement and the 20th, I got Paris. It happens.)

Who would have thought it from just two posts ago?

 —

This suburb has been brought to you by Berice Dudley and her grandchildren

—

See you next Friday.

Apologies for the late post but I decided to take the advice of many on this blog and catch my breath. After one attempt at sight-seeing (Eiffel Tower) Coco and I retreated out of the rain and cold, and did nothing over Easter but eat macarons and sleep.

Ironically, having now missed a week, I feel far more relaxed about it – my first project ran over time so this one is bound to as well. As long as it doesn’t run over too long, I surrender to the inevitable.

So, to this week’s suburb – and a ‘real’ suburb at that. Having last explored the neighbourhood around Faubourg Saint Denis, I thought it would be interesting to follow up with another Saint Denis. Same saint, different address.

Very different in fact. Because Saint Denis is one of the much maligned Northern suburbs – banlieues – of Paris. Not quite riot territory (2005) but not far from it. I expected that people would warn me off it and they did. But others I asked were far more neutral – yes, there were problems there but no, I wasn’t likely to be knifed. Pickpocketed maybe but not knifed.

So, hide your jewels and on y va Saint Denis!

Part 1: The saintly side of Saint Denis

Despite its reputation, some tourists do in fact venture ‘all the way’ (10 km from the city centre) out to Saint Denis. Because in the midst of all the apparent horror lies the beautiful Basilica of Saint Denis. Gothic and old (10th century), it’s the burial site of 43 kings and 32 queens. You see a few adventurous souls hop off the metro and make a beeline directly to the church before scuttling back, warnings not to dally no doubt ringing in their ears.

The Basilica is lovely but what impressed me more was the general environment around it. From what I’d heard Saint Denis was dirty and pretty crap so I wasn’t expecting much. Instead I found a generous town square with a beautiful mairie (town hall) on one side, the Basilica on another and a handful of charming cafes facing both. On the days I visited that were sunny, older kids raced around the square, on foot or bike, while little ones whizzed around on an amusement ride. Twice I found markets nearby the square, general and flea, the latter complete with wonderful old books.

This was more South of France than scary suburb, and far from feeling uptight, I felt my shoulders drop. After weeks of intense Paris, here was space to breath.

outside kids play noisily while inside kings and queens sleep quietly

crowning glories

love the stained glass light

old France

Maxim, struggling with his numeration

My initial impression of Saint Denis as somewhere thoroughly pleasant was also helped by the fact that the first people I met were a delightfully rambunctious group of school kids on an outing to see the Basilica. Although they were from the Stalingrad area in Paris, their teachers told me they had similar backgrounds to kids in Saint Denis, and as a result were sometimes challenging but never boring.

United Nations of Paris

Hossama

energy

Abdoulaye

Sokona

didn't catch his name but delighful he is

au revoir, kids of Stalingrad

Part 2: Beyond the Basilica

Leaving the town square, I braved the main street, rue de la République. I say braved because this of all the areas I explored was the one the locals told me to avoid. I’d stop somewhere and someone would say in hushed tones, you shouldn’t be carrying that camera around here, it’s dangerous. Or, ‘No, Saint Denis is fine – but don’t walk down the main street, it’s… dangerous.’

Aside from one incident when a bunch of police cars screamed up the road to man-handle some dude into a van while shouting to the crowd, ‘Regarde!’, by which I think they meant, ‘Let that be a lesson to you!’ but can’t be sure, nothing much happened. La vie ordinaire.

life on the 'dangerous' street

On another visit, I headed west of rue de la République to find the public housing blocks you hear so much about. Just prior to doing that I popped my head in to see a local exhibition, ‘Cent ans de logement social‘, ’100 years of public housing’. It was all in French but from what I could understand, things had improved but they were still far from rosy. The worst HLMs had been demolished and replaced with smaller, more humane apartment blocks, but many still remain. As do their problems.

HLMs – Habitation de Loyer Modéré (House at Moderate Rent) – were built to house a largely immigrant population, needed to work in the factories during France’s great industrial boom in the 1950s-70s. While the boom ended, the people stayed. The result? An unhappy trio of unemployment, crime and drugs. And a fondness for setting cars on fire. At least that’s what you read. I wanted to see for myself.

then and now - how much had changed?

HLMs - the worst were demolished but many remain

in need of heavenly help

I was shocked by my visit to the HLMs, but not in the way you’d expect. They were remarkably unremarkable. Quiet, clean with just a smattering of graffiti here and there. And the two young residents I ran into, Chris and Stephen, were more than happy to be photographed and very sweet. I asked them, what was it like living here, did they like their home. “Oui, bien sur”, yes, of course, they replied.

Stephen and Chris

their HLM

Chris loves his HLM too

I later learned that I’d merely chanced on a better group of public housing and that other areas really did have issues.

But then youth unemployment, crime and drugs are the same problems much of France faces. Hence the comment left at the exhibition – it’s not just the disadvantaged banlieues, “La France est en crise!” It will be interesting to see how this plays out at the presidential elections in two weeks time.

what will Sarkozy's response be - let them eat cake?

Part 3: Green and cultured

In spite of the social problems, Saint Denis has a lot going for it. Sure it has its HLMs but it’s also blessed with lovely centuries old buildings, as well as being green – and clean. And on top of that, Saint Denis has culture, by the bucket load. A thriving theatre scene, jazz festival (ends today), classical music concerts, a delightful art school – and if anyone reading this is in Paris and has nothing to do this weekend, une fete des tulipes, a festival of tulips. Suffice it to say, its Saison Culturelle booklet for spring and summer is a chunky number.

Saint Denis, surprisingly green

the Armenian gang, enjoying the peace and quiet

Abrehim's into theatre, the other fella, literature

fun and games at the theatre cafe

Banlieu Blues Festival, jazz en Seine-Saint-Denis

Donnell, bookish yet hip

who needs the Eiffel Tower when you have so much culture in Saint Denis?

Part 3: The sweet life

It’s sweet tooth heaven in Saint Denis, from the 100 year old Boulangerie/Patissier, to the more recent ‘Oriental’ arrivals.

nothing and everything changes

cherry blossoms and Easter bells

nice nests

Delice de la Casbah

succulent Saint Denis

not easy with braces

Faxsa with her Orientale wares

new and old France

Part 4: The art of living in Saint Denis

On another visit, I took Coco with me and we stumbled on a beautiful old house that looked like it had been plucked out of the French countryside and plonked in Saint Denis. We stuck our heads in the door to see what or whom lived there to find Peggy, a lovely French woman with a very unFrench name.

The house turned out to be the ‘Ecole d’arts Plastiques‘, a school of visual art for children and teens, and Peggy, its director.

While she insists she doesn’t speak good English, it was more than sufficient to allow us to have an in-depth discussion about all manner of stuff, from the unjustified bad rap that Saint Denis gets to the positive role art can play in a child’s life.

What was also interesting to hear was that Peggy doesn’t consider she lives in Paris. She lives in Saint Denis, an altogether different place – despite the fact just 10 km separates the two. And she’s not alone; many teens who live here have never been to Paris. Ever.

you could be in the country - at the art school with Peggy

new energy enlivening the old beauty

It was Peggy who enlightened me about the fact that I’d only seen the better HLMs and that, yes, there were worse areas with real problems. Did I want to meet her when she was visiting another branch of the art school in one of those worse areas? Oui, bien sur!

And that’s how Coco and I ended up in the Franc-Moisin/Bel-Air quartier of Saint Denis. Looks can be deceiving but again, from the outside at least, it all seemed pretty benign. And it just so happened that when we visited the art school, three of the sweetest kids from the neighbourhood were happily moulding clay into pots before patiently lining up to have their photos taken. I had visions of what the place might be like before I arrived and I have to say, a perfect picture of domestic-creative-happy bliss was not one of them.

we arrived when the sun was shining

Maryam, Aisseta and Moukthar

the joy you can create with a box of pencils

making pride from clay

nature tamed vs wild

The kids were just delightful as were the two art teachers in there helping them with their work. But the fact is, they’re kids still, not yet at the more challenging teen age. Peggy mentioned the drug problem and the challenges of having such a different culture exist within the French one. Almost as a reminder that not everything is a walk in the park in Saint Denis, the sun had disappeared by the time we left, and in its place, a dark and threatening sky.

the darker side of Saint Denis

Still, as I said before, many of the problems at Saint Denis exist elsewhere throughout France. Aside from them, the suburb has so much that’s positive, things you’ll never hear about on the 7pm news.

rain or shine, there's a lot to love about Saint Denis

For one thing, they have Peggy, a beautiful soul who’s passionate about art, kids and the place she calls home. After thanking her for giving us a deeper insight into another side of Saint Denis, Coco and I hit the metro and headed back to Paris. A whole different place indeed.

back to the maddening crowds

The Wrap

Will Saint Denis ever make it onto the average tourist’s ‘Must See’ list? I doubt it when there is so much on offer in Paris proper. But then, as much as I’d like to see the place prosper, I wouldn’t want it to be. A whole load of tourists roaming rue de la République would ruin it for sure.

prayers for Saint Denis

On the ‘home front’

I feel like I’ve walked more than I have in my entire life since I posted last. After turning many corners, I’ve turned my own corner – I like Paris! I don’t know, maybe it was the macarons from Laduree (disinterested until I popped one in ma bouche). Or the metro (you could spend a year doing that as a project in itself). Or the people – I get them now – they’re quirky in an entirely new and fascinating way. Or maybe just having some time to myself and then a break from the uber-urban in Saint Denis.

Whatever it was, I’m starting to understand what all the fuss is about. Paris, and its suburbs (well, the one I’ve visited anyway) are indeed tres bien. Or is that tres bon?

—

This suburb has been brought to you by Richard Hawson and Gerry Roubin

—

A favour to ask before I go. One of our cats, Jinx, has gone missing from our friend’s place in Maroubra. I haven’t told Coco yet as I know she’ll be devastated. I don’t usually go in for this sort of thing but I’m so sad about it, I’ll try anything: Could I ask you to just close your eyes and say to yourself, ‘Go home Jinx’. I know, kooky, but maybe, just maybe the power of positive thinking will drive the little guy home. Merci beaucoup.

See you next Friday.

Welcome to Paris, the city that pretty much inspired this entire project. Why? Because – Francophiles, avert your gaze – I’ve never really ‘got’ Paris. On the two times I’ve visited, the last one 10 years ago, I’ve just never fallen under its spell. I thought perhaps if I left the tourist trail, explored the neighbourhoods and met the locals, maybe I’d feel differently.

As to the choice of our first Paris neighbourhood, I assumed I’d have to hit the real suburbs of Paris, the banlieue beyond the arrondissements, to find the non-touristy. But turns out that ‘Paris proper’ inside the périphérique has a handful of pockets that aren’t on the typical tourist trail. One such pocket exists in the 10th arrondissement, around Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis. After much deliberation and flâneur-ing, that’s where I ended up.

Which was lucky because last week I hit a wall and just didn’t have it in me to venture far. Three months into the project with no break, I found myself exhausted and overwhelmed. Having just got my head around Istanbul, suddenly we were in Paris. Each time we land in a new city it’s a steep learning curve, one that this project doesn’t allow time for. As soon as we hit the tarmac, I need to be out there, exploring and photographing, but instead I’m inevitably held up just trying to orientate myself at the same time as sussing out the nearest supermarket/chemist/laundry.

It doesn’t help that we’re staying in what must be the noisiest apartment block in town and I haven’t been sleeping. Nothing like tossing and turning at 3am worrying about, well, you name it – the blog running late, money, Coco’s (lack of) home schooling.

And while I’m on a roll, sorry to confirm the rumour, but Parisians by and large are not a friendly bunch. Elegant, tick. Polite, tick. But friendly, non! As a consequence, I’ve found them the toughest so far to photograph. They’re not curious or interested, just wary and mildly irritated.

All this ‘blah’ reached a climax mid-week when, struggling to settle on my first neighbourhood, feeling the pressure to produce and so exhausted I was kind of swaying as I walked, I wondered if this was ‘it’ – the point at which I broke and said, very sorry but no more. It’s gonna just have to be 12 Suburbs Around the World.

But like a bloody-minded chien with a bone, I just kept putting one foot in front of the other and waited for something to change.

Thankfully it did…

Part 1: From old French to new

Okay, so we’re in the 10th arrondissement, in an area that was once outside Paris’s walls, marked today by a grand arch called Porte Saint Denis (on the right in the first image below). Not that I knew that – in fact, until I turned a corner to walk down rue du Faubourg Saint Denis and saw the 25 metre high beauty, I thought the only arch in Paris was the Arc de Triomphe. Which makes it my kind of arch, the one you stumble upon, sans guide-book or anorak-clad tourist queue.

Named after Saint Denis, a Bishop of Paris in the third century, the neighbourhood has had many lives, from Turkish/Jewish/Armenian clothes manufacturing to the dot com crowd. And just 10 years ago it was super dodgy. A no-go zone filled with drugs, crime, etc.

It still has an edge about it, with Asian sex workers draped over motorbikes at one end and a vibrant African community who run the hair and beauty salons at the other.

I found the vibe quite full on around these salons. African guys dressed New York style hang outside the shops, waiting to swoop on potential customers to get them in the door.

But I’ve long been a little obsessed with African braiding and wanted to document it. Forget it. Aside from a few who agreed, most of the time when I asked a woman on the street if I could photograph her ‘do, one of the guys would suddenly appear and quite aggressively say ‘Non!’. Even when I was outside a wig shop taking a shot of a mannequin in the window, a guy threw himself at me – same thing – ‘Non!’

A wig. Vraiment?

the old guard of Fauborg Saint Denis

the new guard

Paris, past and present

it's still all about the clothes and the hair

nice job but it ain't no wig honey

cool vs classic

Part 2: A mixed neighbourhood

As I said, the neighbourhood still isn’t squeaky clean but it’s undergone an enormous change and is now quite bobo, bourgeois-bohemian. Artists, architects and ad types have all moved in, either working in former warehouses or moving into the apartments with their young families.

It’s an interesting mix of white well-dressed French families walking cute apartment-sized dogs, alongside New York style Africans and the myriad other cultures that exist around the area.

now and then

different crowds :: 1

different crowds :: 2

ha! you call those curls!

Eva, urban explorer

people mover, Paris style

French kids really do wear stripes

she's a dish

what have you got on your feet child?

Part 3: The built stuff

It’s not hard to see the attraction for the bobo crowd. The neighbourhood is filled with characterful industrial bits from its former life as a manufacturing quarter and charming old apartment blocks.

light

ooh la la, you look good madam

curves

distribution systems

how the French can eat so many pastries and yet stay so slim

Paris ‘proper’ is actually quite small but there’s so much life crammed in that you can turn a corner and there’s an entirely different vibe and neighbourhood. Five minutes walk from rue du Faubourg Saint Denis but still within the 10th arrondissement is the Canal Saint-Martin. Too picturesque for my camera but I found it interesting how much chic-er and ‘shinier’ everything suddenly became.

just around the corner, a shinier world

 The same goes for one of Paris’s Chinatowns, in Belleville. Although it’s in the 20th arrondissement, it’s actually right next door to the Faubourg Saint Denis area. One moment you’re in Africa land, the next, in Asia.

right next door to the Asian arrondissement, le 20th

Part 4: Cafe life

Rue du Faubourg Saint Denis is lined with cafes and shops that reveal the layers of this neighbourhood – Turkish, Armenian, Algerian, Indian and the latest incarnation, bobo.

catching up on the news, in whatever language

from Armenia

from Algeria

Chez Jeanette, the coolest cafe on the rue

50 years young

pray you don't drink too much at Chez Jeanette's

On one of my visits to Chez Jeanette, I met an artist called Laurent and a friend of his. I can’t fully explain what they’re into but it had something to do with starting a revolution and involved eyeglasses with one square and one round. Anyone?

Laurent Godard, revolutionary or just too much caffeine?

Laurent's creations

delicious shapes

And my second to last image, reserved for the friendliest Parisian Coco and I met in the neighbourhood, Sophie. She speaks French with an Indian accent, thanks to spending eight years in India studying graphic design, before hopping on a boat to sail around the world.

sailor Sophie's swallow

The Wrap

As someone on rue du Faubourg Saint Denis said, this is a typical Paris neighbourhood. While I don’t know if that’s true or not – there seem to be so many different Paris’s in this intense city – I did enjoy seeing such a mix in such a small area.

And has my experiment worked? Have I become a Paris fan? Too early to tell but I’m warming to the place for sure. And I’m hitting the French dictionary to see if I can come up with a better response to those irritating ‘Non!’s.

R is for reflection

On the ‘home front’

My ‘hitting the wall’ last week made me reflect on this project and what it’s all about.

As with my first project, 52 Suburbs in Sydney, you, as in you as well as the collective you, are ever present in my mind. I’m not just saying it. I get excited when I see something interesting and can’t wait to show and tell. But I also feel the pressure to reward you for taking the time to peruse these posts every week with good, strong work.

So, if you feel like it, please spill. Tell me what you like, don’t like or want to see more of. Either here or via an email. Hopefully I can oblige.

Other than that, breaking news on the home front is that I got Coco into a Montessori school here for two days a week. Kid time for her, solo time for me. Things are looking easier already.

—

This suburb has been brought to you by Guy, Kalinda, April and Gina

—

I really want to get back to my Friday post days – so hopefully see you at the end of the week.

I’m posting this from Paris, having failed to meet my Friday deadline once again. However, although my body has arrived in the City of Light, my mind is still tramping up the hills of Istanbul. And I have to say, I miss it already.

So I’m glad I chose the neighbourhood that I did – Eyup – because it seems a fitting way to pay my respects to such an amazing city, and to end the Turkish chapter of this project.

Eyup is Istanbul’s Mecca. In fact, after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, it’s the fourth holiest Islamic site in the world.

This is because it contains the türbe (tomb) of the Standard-bearer and companion of the Prophet Mohammed no less, Eyüp Sultan, and the adjacent mosque, the Eyüp Sultan Mosque, which was built in his honour in 1458. As a result, every other Ottoman bigwig wanted to be buried there too. Hence the place is spilling over with a number of other mosques, countless tombs and one enormous hill-covering cemetery.

Given that Istanbul is so deeply Muslim despite its glitzy bits, and bursting at the seams with history, I thought it sounded like a good place to finish.

By the way, this week’s installment is a little leaner than others – a combination of the choice of neighbourhood and not quite enough time thanks to a rigid exit date.

Right, scarves on, shoes off, let’s go Eyup!

Part 1: The women

As a modern Western chick, I can’t help feeling a little cranky that women have to stick to a prescribed section in a mosque. But after hanging out in the ladies area at Eyup Mosque, I kind of enjoyed the enforced segregation. There is a real sense of companionship up there, behind the screens, and the women do seem more relaxed. And not that anyone uses them anymore, but I was intrigued by the little windows in the latticed screen. It’s easy to imagine the women of Ottoman times, resplendent in velvet riches, gingerly opening them to snatch a look at the men downstairs.

rush hour at Eyup Mosque

a sunny corner

men down, women up

dreaming of places far far away?

prayer time

a veiled life

the prettiness of it

climbing the walls - Iznik tiles and kids at prayer time

Part 2: The men

Revered as it is, Eyup is the place to be if you’re about to get part of your willy chopped off.

I’d read that it was common to see a family turn up with a young son dressed in a white satin costume just prior to their circumcision ceremony (sünnet). Hat, cape, staff, the full bit. But I was still surprised by the grand outfit when I saw it for real. Of course the kids, anywhere from three or four onwards, are far from regal, tearing around the place, enjoying the attention. But I did wonder, given what they’re about to experience, wouldn’t it turn them off dress-up for life?

dress-up for a very serious occasion

Some time later we met another circumcision candidate, five year old Yusef. Having witnessed Yusef on the threshold to manhood, Coco and I walked up through the cemetery, passing by a group of men silhouetted on the hill as a burial was taking place. One enters, one leaves. That’s life as they say.

at the beginning and end of a man's life :: 1

at the beginning and end of a man's life :: 2

On the next visit to Eyup we met a group of school boys, praying outside the mosque in front of the tomb. Just as with the Sufi saint’s shrine in Nizamuddin West, New Delhi, this is where you make your wish and pray it comes true.

I pray I meet a wild haired girl

round and round

Of course it isn’t all about the young at Eyup.

focused

a riot of fawn

turbans in tombs

Part 3: Religion makes you hungry

A street full of cafes, restaurants and seemingly endless bread, biscuit and sweetie shops serves the local Eyup community as well as those visiting the mosque complex.

yum

the waiter with the gorgeous green

golden softness

Seeing as we’re in a religious mode, I should let you know – I have been converted, to the almighty Turkish Delight. Double Pistachio straight up with a chaser of same. Reason being, I discovered that the gluey, gelatinous substance doesn’t have any gluten in it. It’s been five years without sweeties – most have wheat – so I’ve been out of control.

Just as I was ready to kick my new habit, Coco and I had a box of the stuff shoved in our faces on exiting the mosque. I don’t know why but we noticed it several times – women offering either sugar cubes or Turkish Delight to anyone who walked past. What was I to do? It would’ve been rude to refuse.

there should be a warning on the box

Part 4: Coco in Eyup

Speaking of dress-up…

written on the face

floating worlds

whirling like a dervish

Having seen the women at the mosque hand out Turkish Delight, Coco decided she wanted to do it too, as a parting gesture to both Eyup and Istanbul. We must have looked a sight – Western girl dressed in old fashioned Turkish gear handing out sweeties while her sugared up mother looked on feverishly, desperate for them to be gone.

warning - Turkish Delight is addictive and may result in an enlarged torso

The Wrap

Aside from an overabundance of the sweet stuff at Eyup, I enjoyed it. While the mosques and tombs are the main draw card, I loved getting lost around their back alleys, trying to imagine what it would’ve been like in Ottoman times. Made easier when you have a richly attired Whirling Dervish-like daughter by your side.

Coco whirled her way right over to the Bosphorus

On the ‘home front’

Last week’s neighbourhood was tough going for Coco especially. So I loved that this week she had a couple of opportunities to let loose and do pretty much her favourite thing – dancing. Both in the back alleys of Eyup and alongside the Bosphorus, in front of the beautiful Ciragan Palace (excellent if you’re like me and don’t like crowds – there was barely a soul there).

So goodbye Istanbul, I really do miss you already. The warmth of your people (but not your cranky taxi-drivers). Your east-west mix. The beautiful Bosphorus. And how could you not miss a city where you can dance wild and free in the midst of history? Now if I can just kick this sugar problem…

—

 This suburb has been brought to you by Julie Phillis

—

 See you on Friday with the first Paris installment.

Last week we wandered down one side of the hill from Taksim to hip and happening Cihangir. This week I thought we’d head down the other side of the hill, to Tarlabasi (Tar-luh-BAH-shuh).

A mere ten minute walk separates these two neighbourhoods, but they may as well be on different planets. While Cihangir is Istanbul’s boho darling, Tarlabasi is the black sheep. No hotel concierge is about to recommend you take a stroll through the place. Quite the opposite – he’d give you a funny look if you asked about it and tell you to steer clear. Drugs, crime, you name it, it was all there.

But I was curious to explore it, intrigued by its history and current circumstances. So I decided, one quick glance – and if it seemed really dodgy, retreat.

Ready?

Part 1: From Greek to grotty

Tarlabasi is within spitting distance of glamourous Istiklal street, upmarket hotels and some of Istanbul’s major cultural institutions. So it’s definitely a shock when you step off the main road and descend into the neighbourhood.

Like Balat and Fener it was once happily Greek with charming row houses but is now poor and struggling, a mixed community of Kurds, Roma and Africans. However, Tarlabasi is much closer to ruin than its friends across the Golden Horn. The government has started to demolish large chunks in a so called ‘renovation’ plan that will see old replaced by faux old. Yuck in other words.

Only they seem to have got half way through that process and downed tools. They’ve gutted entire streets of buildings then just left them completely exposed, a windfall for desperate scavengers who have ripped out everything they can to burn or sell. Floorboards, windows, doors, security bars, all gone. What were once lovely bay fronted homes are now devoured, rubbish filled, stinky wrecks.

In the midst of the mess, however, is the neighbourhood’s original Greek Orthodox Church that still stands tall and proud.

So that’s the first impression you get. Pristine Greek church in the middle of an area that wouldn’t look out of place in a war zone. A war zone with lots of clothes hanging out to dry that is.

next door neighbours

death row

oh dear

not quite what Ataturk had pictured

we will say a prayer for you little ones

Apparently 400,000 people arrive in Istanbul each year in search of work. Kurds from eastern Turkey, Armenians as well as those from further afield, Africa. We met Abdul from Nigeria catching his breath on the side of a road in Tarlabasi. His impressions of Istanbul are a million miles from any tourist’s. While they are busy marvelling at the views and the mosques, he’s scratching around desperately trying to make a living. A uni graduate, he’s now in the recycling trade, collecting valuable trash to sell. I call it garbage and he says, no, go take a look in his cart. I open it to see a muddle of used plastic bags – gold not garbage.

Abdul from Nigeria, graduate turned garbage scavenger

Part 2: Next impressions

Holding Coco’s hand more tightly than usual, we continued to explore the streets of Tarlabasi. And slowly, things seemed to improve. There are large areas of the neighbourhood where the houses are still intact and occupied, where life seems pretty normal. Women putting out the washing (I finally discovered how they get their clothes across those lines, using a pulley system), men playing cards and kids playing on the streets.

the washing line explained

the rug seller

grandeur amongst the rubble

a little lace goes a long way

home comforts, no matter what state your home is in

they're fed, clothed, loved - what more?

In fact, Tarlabasi, the much maligned neighbourhood of Istanbul, is where Coco had her first play with local kids. The delightful soccer mad Sait, his little sister Semanur and a couple of mates.

they all speak soccer

Serhat and Sait, soccer stars of tomorrow?

Sait's sister, Semanur - did her future just walk right by her?

happiness is his No 53

taking Semanur for a spin

Part 3: Men at work, not

Many of the men in Tarlabasi are very busy sitting inside the local cafes playing cards or a game called ‘Okey’. Unusually they were welcoming when they saw us with noses pressed up on the window, trying to peer in. Come, sit, have some cay (tea). Perhaps they miss female company as the women seem to hang out at home, where I assume they do their socialising as well as domestic chores.

poker face

a couple of hearts

cay and cards

a good day at the card table?

the men play, the boy works

welcome, come play our game, 'Okey'

men's and women's business

Part 3: But then…

After the uplifting soccer game and cafe hopping the day grew colder and more grey, both literally and metaphorically.

We passed by Sait again who was now busy doing chores with his older sister, Bahar. I don’t know, it was something about the way they were clumsily wielding axes and other tools around, trying desperately to break up the floorboards that lay scattered on the road that disturbed me.

Bahar, chopping up floorboards

around the corner from struggle street, opulent furniture is being made

Sait, in particular, seems like such a good kid. But weighed down by a long list of responsibilities I imagine.

Sait has many crosses to bear

Saying goodbye to them, we made our way back up the steep street, passing by other locals doing the same thing -  it was floorboard chopping time in Tarlabasi.

the kebab seller and the wood choppers

'recycling'

just trying to keep warm

Part 4: Kid’s playground

The next day we visited the sun had finally decided to make an appearance – and all the energy the kids of Tarlabasi had stored for the last few days stuck inside their tiny homes seemed to explode onto the streets. They ran wild, darting in and out of all the gutted houses, kicking, throwing, screaming. Sure, there are no swings or brightly coloured plastic play equipment in this kid’s playground but I suspect it’s more fun. Especially when there doesn’t seem to be a single parent around to rein you in.

it's a kid's playground now

kids rule

play equipment

until that grandma comes down with her stick

is that a Pythagorean triangle?

learning life lessons - but not Greek

But of course the crumbling environment also poses many hazards, especially for the younger kids. If the thick smoke from the coal burning doesn’t get them, the half demolished buildings with exposed staircases and windows just might.

child proofing required

There’s so much that’s wrong about the government’s ‘renovation’ plans in Tarlabasi.

They’re not just getting rid of the old buildings – they’re getting rid of a community, one that seems to function well despite the challenges they face. How do you rebuild that?

It felt as if Tarlabasi was disappearing as we walked, that if I looked back there’d be nothing – or worse, fake ‘old’ buildings filled with new shiny people. I know it’s more expensive to restore old buildings than build new ones, but at what cost? The loss of a city’s history, its communities, the things that make it ‘it’.

Getting late, I decided it was time to leave so we said goodbye to Sait and his sisters and made our way out. Of all the kids I’ve met so far on this project, I warmed to them the most. Almost zero conversation but such a strong connection. So it felt wrong to just up and go, leaving them to such an uncertain future.

goodbye Sait and Semanur

goodbye Bahar, another bright spark amongst the grey

The Wrap

It would be naive to think that nothing bad happens in Tarlabasi. And in its current state, much of the neighbourhood looks as desperate as some of its people. But once you get over the initial shock, the place grows on you – largely thanks to the kids. Years into the future I may not remember the stench of rotting garbage or coal burning. Or the gutted wood and plaster carcases. But I will remember the mad energy of those boys chasing their shadows down the hills. And I doubt I’ll forget Sait and his sisters. I’m not religious but I pray they grow into happy, healthy adults. With maybe a soccer star between them for good measure.

what hand will they be dealt next?

It’s taken me a while to get a bigger picture of what’s happening in Istanbul but at week three, I’ve got some idea. While all the tourists are oohing and ahhing over the Top Ten sights, the rest of old Istanbul is crumbling - especially if an earthquake strikes. The fear of that happening combined with the current real estate boom is proving disastrous for neighbourhoods such as Tarlabasi – the government is gloves off with the whole heritage thing and is demolishing large chunks of historic areas all under the guise of ‘renovation’ and building ‘new old’. Now that is what I call scary – dodgy – dangerous.

smoke and rubble but at least the washing's done

seeing Tarlabasi in a good light

On the ‘home front

Coco’s not a huge fan of exploring and photographing, something she calls ‘blogging’. She puts up with it at the best of times. But this week was a doozy. Sure, the soccer bit was fun but then it all got a little hairy. To be fair, the mood in Tarlabasi was at times pretty dark. But it was the jerk who kept finding us and honing in on Coco that was the real deal breaker. He was harmless enough but on the last visit he freaked Coco out and we had to leave. And yet today I asked her:

‘Coco, did you enjoy Tarlabasi?’

‘Well, I liked the soccer boys. But the buildings and that guy, they were not good.’

But when I asked Coco if she thought it would be a good place to live she said absolutely, yes. Why? Because there was lots of kids to play with and lots of things to do.

So the poorest, most desperate neighbourhood we’ve explored so far is apparently the best, even with that evil jerk guy thrown in. Sometimes I think kids really should rule the world.

 —

This suburb was brought to you by Fiona Ryan-Clark

 —

We’re leaving for Paris on Saturday so the next and last post from Istanbul will be on Friday. See you then – hopefully…

For week two in Istanbul we’re ducking over the Golden Horn to a distinctly different world than the one we last visited. Cihangir (pronounced Gee-hang-ish), located in the Beyoğlu district, is the home of happy hipsters, intellectuals, Turkish celebrities and artists – well-off artists that is, who can afford the not inconsiderable rents.

Ten years ago the place was cheap. Then suddenly everyone realised that this was the perfect place to live – at one end, the entertainment district of Taksim, at the other, a ridiculously impressive view, stretching over the Bosphorus, across to Sultanahmet and down to the Sea of Mamara and beyond.

When the Istanbul Modern Art Museum sprouted at the bottom of the hill in 2004, it was a done deal. Cihangir was pronounced the ‘it’ suburb, rents sky-rocketed and the hipsters moved in.

A few facts before we roam. Named after a mosque that looks out over the incredible view which was in turn named after the son of Suleiman the Magnificent. It also means place of much stencil graffiti and cats, lots and lots of cats.

Part 1: ‘It’s where everyone wants to live’

So said someone we met on one of ours walk around the neighbourhood. While I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the statement, I suspect it’s quite true. Take Seval, for example, a woman we met while walking her English Setter at the local park last Sunday afternoon. While waiting to pick up doggie do, this is what she looks at…

just walking the dog :: 1

She lives just around the corner too. With a musician boyfriend. What more does a girl need?

just walking the dog :: 2

the Turkish mosque and the English Setter

In Sydney terms, Cihangir is Potts Point glam mixed with Newtown grunge. While some of the European style apartment blocks are quite lovely, some are plain Janes. But all have nice steel framed doors. Who, I wondered, lives behind them?

definitely on the European side

she would probably live here

surely he would live here

he definitely lives here

before I made it big and moved to Nisantasi

Aside from great views and charming apartment blocks, the neighbourhood is blessed with some interesting second-hand shops, looking their best in the recent sunshine.

sun's out

girlie

written by Goethe

As with most of Istanbul, the women in Cihangir are a combination of bare-headed and scarfed. Aside from the lovely Tuba (pink scarf, second image below), those that cover their heads have been completely unwilling to be photographed. A reminder that as modern and western as Istanbul can feel, Turkey is still a thoroughly Muslim country.

living side by side

you're scaring me

Part 2: Cats

I’m a cat lover but the street cats of Cihangir are out of control. They are everywhere. But far from being treated as a nuisance, the local community looks after them, leaving bowls of water and food all around the place.

Still, I was really taken aback when I met Gulsum, a woman who runs a great local cafe called Kaktus. Not only can any cat wander into Kaktus and curl up wherever they wish, she has 60 of them living at her home. Sixty.

What’s also unusual about Gulsum are her facial tattoos. I keep my eye out for interesting tattoos but I’ve never seen any like these.

cat crazy Cihangir

open door policy for any cat

Gulsum lives with 60 cats - yes, sixty

all the other blasted cats in this hood would disappear and I get all the fish

the winds of change are in Cihangir

Part 3: And yet

For all its alternative-ness and modern hipster ways, Cihangir hasn’t changed entirely. The call to prayer still bellows down the streets, summoning young and old to the local mosques five times a day. And the old fellas still hang out together, drinking strong tea out of tulip shaped glasses and chugging on endless cigarettes.

you must only wear socks when visiting a mosque

neighbours - the hip apartments and the mosques

There’s even an ancient Ottoman graveyard nestled between apartment blocks with the most interesting tombstones: you can tell the gender and rank of the deceased by the headdress. For example, men of high standing have turbans, lesser mortals, the fez. There weren’t any female tombstones but apparently you can tell how many children women had by the number of flowers decorating their graves.

tombstone hats

nice turban

280 year old flowers at Tophane Fountain vs day old

We met Mr Handsome in the image below one morning and then ran into him again later that day. I call him that because I think he is handsome – but also because I have no idea of his name. I keep meaning to write a translation down, asking people for their name.

I'm sure he has, many times

hanging out :: 1

hanging out :: 2

the old man and the ballerina

Part 4: Down to the water

I have two rules with this project. Stick to one suburb a week and avoid anything remotely touristy or iconic.

This week I broke both. Couldn’t help it. I started out as usual, documenting ordinary life in Cihangir. Then before I knew it I was drawn down the hill to the water’s edge, ending up at the Galata Bridge in Karakoy, a ten minute walk away.

I knew I was in dangerous territory when every second person seemed to be wearing a camera around their neck. Tourists. Eew.

I blame those views from the dog park in Cihangir – they made me hungry for more – as well as famous Turkish photographer, Ara Guler. I’ve been pouring over Guler’s images ever since we arrived in Istanbul and I particularly like his black and whites of life around the Golden Horn in the 1950s and 60s.

So to start with, three black and white images of my own…

the fisherman in the pinstripe suit

and his mate, throwing a line

catching a taxi home

fishing on Galata Bridge

kiss me you fool

three men

soaking up the sun

Salmon or Sea Bass?

nuts for the ferry ride home

sky alive

eyes the colour of the heavens

the sacred and the suburban - minarets and street lights

saying prayers to get closer to God - or just not miss the ferry

The Wrap

It was so interesting to see a neighbourhood like Cihangir after last week’s living museum. Yet as modern-western and alternative as it is, the place is still so old Istanbul. I hope it continues to retain the old, especially those amazing tombstones.

And look, I apologise for sneaking in a little of the famous stuff. This project is all about capturing the ‘unphotographed’ but that view over the Golden Horn must have been snapped a zillion times. Hopefully I’ve got it out of my system and I’ll be back to my usual suburban self next week.

Coco's fifth hug for the day

On the ‘home front’

It’s been an intense few weeks, the first time on the journey that it’s just been Coco and I; in Hong Kong we had friends and a ‘babysitter’, in India, family and a slew of home help.

Now it’s just us.

But it’s not the 24/7 glued-at-the-hip part that’s challenging. It’s the fact that I have no option but to take Coco with me every time I go out photographing.

It’s tough for both of us. I vacillate between thinking, what a great experience for Coco and, poor Coco, being dragged around for hours on end (and constantly hugged and cheek-pinched by well-meaning Turkish men!).

And for me, it can be very frustrating. I can’t move around so quickly. And I can’t stand still for too long either; sometimes photography is all about waiting, hanging on a street corner for an hour because the light is good or you like a particular background. You can’t do that when you’re with someone, especially a child.

It’s something I thought long and hard about of course when I was planning the trip. But until now I haven’t had to deal with it. All credit to Coco, she’s incredibly flexible and patient, but it’s definitely an issue that I need to find a solution for sooner rather than later.

Of course the upside is that yes, we are sharing a wonderful adventure. I just hope Coco remembers it like that.

—

This suburb has been brought to you by Karla Headon

—

See you next week.

Hoş geldiniz! Welcome to Istanbul. A sprawling metropolis of 13+ million and the only city in the world to have one Turkish slippered foot in Europe and the other in Asia.

As the song goes, Istanbul was Constantinople, now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople. In actual fact, the history is way more complicated than that, with a zillion name changes just to keep things interesting. Definitely not something I can do justice to here. But in warp speed it goes something like this: began as Greek in 7th century BC (Byzantium), then Roman (Constantinople), then Ottoman in the 15th century (Istanbul) and finally became a Republic in 1923.

I’ve been to Istanbul twice before. But only as a typical tourist, visiting the usual suspects in the tourist precinct of Sultanahmet – Topkapi Palace, the Blue Mosque, Basilica Cistern and Haghia Sophia. They are all insanely good – and I don’t usually warm to the big stuff – but that’s really all I knew about the place.

What was Istanbul like beyond the postcard cliches I wondered? And so here we are.

The suburb I’ve chosen for week one is Balat, recommended to me by a 52 Suburbs follower who knows Istanbul intimately (thanks Angelo). Well, Balat and neighbouring Fener actually. It’s hard to know when you leave one and enter the other. And their tales are so similar; both populated by non-Muslims and filled with fine mansions once upon a time, but now poor-ish and run-down with many buildings close to ruin.

On the map they’re located on the European side, alongside the Golden Horn. While they’re actually not that far from scrubbed up Sultanahmet, they are rarely visited. My kind of place! Let’s go Balat and Fener…

Part 1: What happens when you wander without a map

So as I said, way back the area was largely non-Muslim – Greek, Armenian, Jewish. Hence the presence of churches and synagogues, including the big cheese of the Greek Orthodox Christians, the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate in Fener. While trying to find said church, Coco (yes, she’s back out ‘blogging’) and I got a little lost and stumbled across two beautiful mosques, the Sultan Selim Camii and the Fatih Camii.

Head spins all round really. Given this city’s history, I think it’s going to be hard to avoid amazing monuments even when trying to.

beret and domes

and then the sun came out

down the hill to the Golden Horn

the call to food

Realising, eventually, that we’d strayed out of Fener and Balat, we made our way down the hill, through a very conservative Muslim area. Most people refused my camera but luckily a few obliged…

protected by the Evil Eye

flower power

eyes the colour of the Sea of Mamara

Ali

mates

Finally we found the Greek church. (Note to self: map. Getting lost is good but not when it’s two degrees and your young companion is hungry/thirsty/tired.)

the Greeks were here first

the church and the mosque

On the way to the church we passed by a hill-top Greek school that was on my list – even I couldn’t miss it given its size and colour.

the Greek school at the top of the hill

Part 2: A neighbourhood under threat

As impressive as the mosques, church and school were, I was more interested in finding some of the old mansions and homes I’d read about.

While we couldn’t find any ‘mansions’ as such, we did see endless examples of the typical Fener-Balat house – colourful with a bay window out front. While some of them have been well cared for, many are struggling to survive with a number of them close to ruin.

looking out her window

one abandoned, one just hanging on

fantasy and reality :: 1

fantasy and reality :: 2

Close to the Greek church, we found a small shop selling ceramic models of the Fener-Balat houses, pre-dilapidation. I so wanted to quiz the woman inside about the history of the houses but we couldn’t communicate at all. The only thing I could understand was that the yellow model was a mini version of the house directly next door.

a colourful past

well kept

some things never change :: 1

some things never change :: 2

curtains, out and in

On day two, I noticed a woman wearing flash gloves and a fur collared coat striding down a street in Balat. Selva, it turns out, is an architect who works in the area with her architect husband, Halim. Coco and I met them later at their office, a renovated stable, where I learned the reason why many of the houses in Fener particularly have been left to rot – around the 1950s many of the Greeks were expelled from the area, leaving their homes as they stood on the day. Unable to be sold to anyone else, they remain abandoned and unloved.

Halim and Selva explained that they are trying to revitalise some of the buildings but are constantly hampered by the ownership issues. But that there is hope – some of the homes are being restored and the area is gradually changing, with artists and small businesses moving in.

a couple of architects and the architect couple, Halim and Selva

restoration and new life

old and new

One of the new arrivals we found was a shoe and design business run by three women, again close to the Greek church.

neighbours - the Greek church and the trendy shoe shop

patterned

walking past the shoe shop on the way to the mosque

S is for circle

who will save Fener and Balat? the architects?

Part 3: Eat, drink

The staples of Turkish life – round simit bread, strong black tea and sweet treats – are all in abundance on the streets of Balat and Fener.

been around forever

rising heavenwards

religions

There wasn’t much in the way of old charm in the shops of Balat with one lovely exception. Merkez Sekercisi, a 134 year old sweet and cake shop right across the lane from the architects’ office. Halim translated my questions to the owner, Mustafa, who explained that he inherited the shop from his grandfather and has been working here ever since he was a young boy, some 50 odd years.

Forget the historic mosques, churches or charming houses – the lolly shop was the highlight for Coco.

Mustafa in front of Merkez Sekercisi

the grandfather and Mustafa

baked fresh today in the 134 year old sweet shop

just one more Turkish Delight please!

Aside from Mustafa’s sweet shop, there were a handful of coffee houses or kahvehane, all of them the domain of men.

out for coffee

secret men's business at the local kahvehane

And of course fish. Lots of fish.

silvery fish from the Golden Horn

Part 4: Walls and windows

Random beauty in the walls, windows and doors of Balat and Fener.

local colour

window decorations

green and blue, colours of the sea

long bread loaves

ancient Turks worshipped the moon and sky

The Wrap

If you squint hard you can imagine what Fener and Balat might have looked and felt like in their heyday. But despite the dilapidation, there’s still so much beauty in the area – the steep hills with colourful houses climbing up them, the impressive churches and mosques, and those ingenious washing lines that stretch across the streets. Quite what happens if you fall out with your neighbour I’ll never know – but I’d sure like to find out.

may the future be happy

On the ‘home front’

rain rain go away

Coco sees snow for the first time

As you may have noticed this post is a few days late. Why? Rain and snow. Or was it sleet? Not sure but whatever it was, it melted as soon as you looked at it and far from being picturesque just made getting around slippery and annoying. Grumble, grumble. Still, Coco had her first viewing of the white stuff and it was kind of novel.

Other news on the home front? We’re happily parked in a cosy little apartment I’ve rented for the month through Airbnb and I’m back on deck, big time. Mum, cook, cleaner, photographer, blogger and whoa, home schooler. Not sure if I’m cut out for that last one. Actually, no, that’s a lie. I’m positively, absolutely sure I’m not cut out for it. Given the weather challenges, the moment I see sunlight break through the grey I want to be out, snapping – not in, trying to explain equivalent fractions, snapping.

But there it is. It was my choice to take my child out of a perfectly good school so I could explore the globe. I’ve given myself a good talking to and hopefully from now on my attitude will improve. Depending on how things go I may even give myself a gold star.

—

This suburb was brought to you by Adelaide Perry Gallery, Presbyterian Ladies’ College, Sydney

—

See you next week, and if the rain and ‘snow’ hold off, on time.