Les Invalides

Planet Chez Patrice by boltron-

At the base of the hill, the conmen swarmed. On the steps of the church, the homeless begged. In the midst of the market, kitsch was king.

*

THE last time I was in Paris, I was small. It rained. It thundered. The queue for the Eiffel Tower was too long. The Sacre Coeur was a dazzling white, and not knowing my Parisian geography, seemingly far away from every other landmark. We walked along the Seine, we talked of hunchbacks in the Notre Dame, and then we left again to head back to our campsite, close to Disneyland, which had a fishing lake and a river along which we canoed, narrowly avoiding collision with a local fisherman’s line. I wasn’t allowed on the monstrous loop-de-loop rollercoaster at Parc Astérix, so we went on the rickety wooden coaster Tonnerre de Zeus lots of times instead. In the campsite, for the first time, I ate anchovies.

Fast forward to the present day. Now a grown up, I was excited to revisit Paris, to see how accurate my fractured memories had been and to add new experiences, new observations and new opinions. I was no longer small and the queue for the Eiffel Tower was significantly shorter. On the first evening it rained, but it did not thunder.

I liked Paris. It was refreshing. It confounded all of my preconceptions: it was neither shabby nor pretentious, it was clean and, though busy, never hustling. It didn't matter that a demonstration cut short our bus tour, nor did it matter that we had insufficient time to see all the sights, for it was the perfect city to roam, to browse, to feel safe. We ate in the cafe featured in Intouchables. In the Passage des Panoramas we stepped back into a forgotten world, a world of stamps, old photographs and postcards. And, thanks to Helmut Newcake, we found a solution to our gluten-free patisserie needs.

But there was one thing I did not like, one thing that I did worry about: in Paris, poverty is heart-achingly apparent.

*

Having zigzagged up a maze of small streets, packed with faux-artisan boutiques and overabundant opportunities for a painted portrait of varying quality — as expected of a hill renowned for its artistic history — we arrived atop Montmartre disorientated and out of breath, hoping to walk straight into the iconic basilica before being pounced upon by a caricature artist. The main square was heaving, for the Christmas market had arrived, with stalls identical to every German market throughout Europe lining the churchyard thoroughfare. Parisians were parting easily with their Euros for their own slice of the kitsch, knick knacks and confectionery on offer.

Diverted from the Sacre Coeur entrance by the market hubbub we entered what we thought to be a side entrance of the church, only to find it to be an entirely different neighbouring church, a smaller, quieter affair but no less of a haven of serenity. As we made our swift departure a homeless man stood, bedraggled, at the door, his hand partially unfurled in the hope it might make contact with food, money or some sign of security. His other hand was positioned underneath, propping up the first. He said nothing, nor did he stand in our way. He merely leant in the corner by the door, seeking a shadow in which he felt he belonged. I fished out the only coins I had on me, totalling not much more than one Euro, placed them in his hand and moved on, feeling sad for him but disgusted that up here, with so much money spent superfluously on art and tacky Christmas trinkets and on the doorstep of a church, he was allowed to live in such a state. I was wrong to be so affected so prematurely, however, for he was not alone.

When we eventually found the entrance to the Sacre Coeur we found we shared it with hundreds of tourists, all taking the same photograph of the view across the Paris cityscape. We were all treated to a dire rendition of Rihanna’s Umbrella by a wannabe troubadour amongst the crowd. Pigeons weaved bravely among the people in search of crumbs. And, at the door of one of the most famous churches in the world, which is so lovingly preserved outside and lavishly adorned inside — even with a shiny disco Jesus — two homeless women begged for crumbs like the pigeons.

“²¹Jesus looked at him and loved him. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
²²At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.
²³Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it is for the rich to enter the kingdom of God!””
Mark 10:21-23

I find rich churches uncomfortable places to visit. I find rich churches surrounded by poverty distressing. Now, let us be fair, the Sacre Coeur may be working tirelessly with the local community and poor, as it should be, but it is just so hard to tell. I tried to contact the church upon my return but they have yet to address my concerns, months later. It is time to be frank: a church must be the moral lynch pin of a community. As long as there are people in need on its doorstep its work is not complete. If it is not seeking to fix these ills, then its heart is in the wrong place.

Of course, it could be that these people are not homeless at all but con artists, like the many that swarm at the foot of Montmartre. If this is true, then the church knows about it; in failing to remove them, it is supporting their deeds. Sacre Coeur: the ball is in your court. What say you?

We left, despondent.

*

The Metro, somewhere between Richelieu Drouot and République. A scruffy, dishevelled man boards the train and begins to sing. He is evidently homeless. His song is a lonely song, a simple melody without adornment or flourish but strong in sentiment. I do not understand any of the words, but I do not need to. He passes, silently but obviously, through the carriage, chipped cup held aloft, hoping for donations. The passengers ignore him and he receives none, and at the next station he bids a forlorn farewell.

"Bonne journée à tout le monde"

And with that, he is gone.

But then something strange happens. A man with an accordion immediately begins to play, perhaps in celebration, at the far end of the carriage. And at our end, in what seems to be coincidence, a third man begins a speech. His intentions are as clear as the first, unsuccessful man. He walks through with a collection cup just the same. And this time, everyone donates.

Everyone.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year everybody. Difficult times ahead for me, but also openings. Let's all work hard, yeah?
— Simon Bishop (@srbishop) January 1, 2013

5 Songs for 2012

Brenda & Geoff

AS YOU may know I have another blog, called Longhand & Scribblings (or Simon Says a Little Bit More), which was set up for thoughts, essays and other ephemera that was cluttering up this blog. I wish to keep it general in topic, so that I can talk about all of my interests, but I intend to use it increasingly to practise my science writing as I try to improve my public engagement and outreach skills.

I've previously written there about plant ecology, Tasmanian devils, cancer, genetics and the curious seven-gendered Tetrahymena thermophila, amongst many other topics, but I recently wrote an article on that most uninteresting of topics for a story - methodology - and I have been blown away by the response. In terms of visits it is singularly the most popular thing I have ever written and I have had many compliments about it via Twitter. It's called 'But How Do They Know? | The Evolution Enigma' and is about how scientists 'know' that gorillas and humans last shared a living common ancestor 10 million years ago. It's all about genetics, human evolution and archaeology, and it's got an ape called Geoff in it.

I refuse to cross post or to post an advert here every time I contribute to that blog as it would be very irritating, but given the reaction to this new post I make a rare exception, and nudge you to take a look that way from time to time. Feedback is always welcome, as are ideas for other articles. Thanks in advance.

Simon

Of Tea Strainers and Men

“Although I have read a million words on the necessity for the cuts, I have not seen a single letter on what the exit plan is: what happens in four years’ time, when the cuts will have succeeded, and the economy gets back to “normal” again. Do we then – prosperous once more – go round and re-open all these centres, clinics and libraries, which have sat, dark and unused, for nearly half a decade? 

It’s hard to see how – it costs millions of pounds to re-open deserted buildings, and cash-strapped councils will have looked at billions of square feet of prime real estate with a coldly realistic eye. 

Unless the Government has developed an exit strategy for the cuts, and has insisted that councils not sell closed properties, by the time we get back to “normal” again, our Victorian and postwar and Sixties red-brick boxy libraries will be coffee shops, Lidls and pubs. No new libraries will be built to replace them. These libraries will be lost forever.” 

Libraries: Cathedrals of our Souls - Caitlin Moran

The Second Law of Thermodynamics – bear with me – states that, in a closed system, things tend towards a state of entropy; a state of chaos. In physics and engineering, this means that no reaction or process can ever be 100% efficient, as some energy will always be lost. Life tends towards disorder too: an abandoned building will be overrun, given time, with opportunistic vegetation, as will a brand new island, created from a volcanic eruption; an untended lawn will become quickly ravaged by weeds; dead organic matter decomposes over time, its elements redistributed by scavengers and bacteria; and, perhaps most vividly, if I decide not to look after myself for only a few days, I will have a full, bushy beard and my wife will complain.

And yet, when it comes to the human world, things often tend not towards disorder but to a state of lethargy, monopoly or lack of choice. Things stagnate. Once the libraries close, they won’t come back. Once the supermarkets outcompete the final delicatessen, all independent, specialist shops will have had their day too. Everybody will go to one place for what they need, which means they probably won’t find what it is they want, purchasing what is forced on them instead. I know this all too well, because, for neither love nor money, I cannot find a tea strainer on sale anywhere in Birmingham. A tea strainer. I have been banished to using only tea bags, despite the loose leaf tea that remains, impractically, in my tea cupboard. It sits there, begging to be drunk. No supermarket, nor Homebase, nor the TK Maxx or Debenhams in the Bullring have but a single tea strainer. Tea pots, yes; coffee percolators, yes; but no tea strainers. The practicality of the tea bag and the demise of the hardware store has led to a world without tea strainers. A WORLD WITHOUT TEA STRAINERS.

5 songs for September

Good for the soul

ON the opposite corner of the table, a group of teenagers and young adults chatted animatedly, involving anyone who might walk past. They laughed. They raised their voices in excitement. Some of them had cake.

In my corner, Rachel, myself and an elderly lady sat in silence.

It was the tea and coffee moment after church; the time when the congregation are encouraged to meet and socialise, for regulars and elders to welcome newcomers like Rachel and myself. This particular church provided something of a step up from the standard urn and paper cup setup, providing neatly laid tables in the church hall, each with their own tea and coffee making facilities, around which people could sit and enjoy a leisurely Sunday morning beverage. This encouraged an intimacy I am unaccustomed to, but one I could invest in, should I ever get over my social inhibitions of making conversation in unknown environments.

But this was not my church. These were not my peers. They weren’t even speaking English. The language of choice here was German, of which I know nichts. And yet, for all of the discomfort at being out of my depth, unable to hear and unable to communicate, there was something rather cathartic about being so exposed.

'Lympics

AND then it was all over. Seventeen days of competition, seventeen days in which the world marvelled at dedication and achievement, have come to an end; seventeen days in which a country, so comfortable with a default attitude of cynicism and discontent, figured out how to be happy, and how to be proud. I have no idea how the outside world has received London 2012, but to that world I say: these three weeks have transformed a nation ruing its own decline into a proud, defiant population of disparate, diverse cultures that knows it can punch above its weight. Thanks for giving us that opportunity.

As a nation we were never universally excited about hosting the Games. Up until the very start we picked holes and predicted gloom. I attended the rowing at Eton Dorney on day 1 and, despite the most efficient transport system and event management I have ever seen in this country, people around me were picking holes from the moment the gates opened: there were not enough food and drink outlets or enough bins; it was too far to walk and so on. All of this, in spite of where they were.  I began to wish I was Australian, their default attitude summed up by a fan interviewed on Simon Mayo's drivetime show on BBC Radio 2 the previous evening, just prior to the opening ceremony: "I don't know what all the whining is about, it all seems pretty incredible to me," the wise Australian declared, without prompting.

But it didn't take long for the whining to stop. The Opening Ceremony showed the world what this nation is: a hodgepodge of cultures and nationalities united by a history of progress and revolution, of social mobility and pioneering enterprise. Suddenly the nation had found what it had been looking for for so long: a modern definition of itself. With that established, it was time to cheer. And then Team GB won their very first race on the rowing lake.

Return of the Mullet Hunter

I'M pleased to announce that I've been helping out Simon Varwell on the sequel to Up The Creek Without A Mullet, which I previously reviewed on this blog. In fact, it is because of that review that Simon and I began to work together, and I've really enjoyed being involved in the editing process.

Simon has written some very nice things about me over on his blog, which I urge you to read - not for the compliments, but for the latest news on the book. I have the final draft open at this very moment, giving it a final check through.

The whole process has inspired me to do more editing work. I've enjoyed it greatly but being a bit busy in PhDland I've not had the opportunity or spare time to do much. Certainly I would consider returning to the trade once the thesis has been submitted. The future seems a far off and scary place, but it's nice to see possibilities and ideas opening up.

Anyway, Simon's post is here. I urge you to give his first book a go too, which is available... here.

Previously in my life

HELLO! Goodness, this is a rather neglected page, isn't it? We have much to discuss, you and I, and I've much to write, and now that a rather hefty assignment that has been sapping my full concentration is out of the way, I can begin to get some things written. But just to keep you up to date, here's what I've been up to in the past few months.

An Exchange

Student: 'Are you from Ireland?'
Me: 'No I'm from Devon.'
Student: 'Oh ok, so you're a European exchange student.'

Er?

The Queen

FOR a long time as I was growing up I had no opinion about the Queen. She was neither someone I looked up to nor someone I opposed, she was simply the Queen. She was there, on the throne, and that was that. But over recent years I have come to think about the monarchy debate, brought into prominence I suppose by certain recent royal events, and I have come to a firm conclusion not about the royalty or the fact that we have a monarchical system but about the particular person who happens to be our Queen.

As with every good story, the road to this decision begins with an orphaned girl in Uganda. But not just her: a drumming band from the slums of Nairobi features too, as does a blind, left-handed guitarist from the Gumatj aboriginal mob in Australia. To make sense of this, we must talk about Gary Barlow.

Captain Barlow, of the good ship Take That, has put together a song for the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. It takes the form of a patchwork of on-location recordings of people from all over the commonwealth, including the aforementioned African Children's Choir, the Slum Drummers of Nairobi and the brilliant Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu, among many others. Each was recorded, and wished to take part, in order to make a present for a woman they had not met. What is more remarkable, however, is that many of these artists are coming to the UK, leaving their countries for the first time, to perform the song for the Queen at the Diamond Jubilee Concert tomorrow night at Buckingham Palace. Such is the effect she has.

Last month, Rachel and I, along with members of her family, attended the Windsor Diamond Jubilee Pageant in the grounds of Windsor Castle. As an addition to the annual Windsor horse show, this was a four-night event attended by members of the royal family, in which representatives from many of the countries the Queen had visited throughout her reign demonstrated or performed in whatever capacity they could in a two hour spectacle in her honour. Of course the show was largely horse based, with Karabakh horses and Cossacks and Royal Canadian Mounted Police and many others displaying their mastery, but there was also music, dancing and, in the case of the Cossacks, gravity defying acrobatics, on horseback, at full speed. Not only were the nations represented by officialdom, but indigenous people, too, were performing - Maori, Aboriginal, Solomon Islanders and Artcirq among others. Even Alan Titchmarsh was there. I felt guilty that up until the show started I had no clue as to what I was about to witness, having agreed to attend after the kind offer of tickets from my mother-in-law without any knowledge of what it was. My guilt arose because the event was a sell-out, and I was certain many who would have been eager to have attended would have missed out because of my nonchalant acceptance. I didn't know what it was so I wasn't excited, and I certainly had no clue as to how big a deal it was.