NEEDLING

Here comes the door to my old neighborhood, mixed people of all kinds talking a thousand different languages simultaneously reverberating in my head right now... sitting at my favorite cafe having a beer watching and listening to life walking by. My favorite activity. Where, do I ask, can I partake in such an activity around here? There is no such place like a place where the populations of the world walks by in the time you can watch five minutes go around the clock. All seven continents, every mixture of ethnic soup you can imagine, all skin color schemes, every dress code, religious restriction you can think of, all this humanity passing by your eyes in a few instant... where... where can I find such a place here in Texas that I can sit on the sidewalk, order a beer for a couple of bucks, listen to the server talk in at least two languages depending on which customers he’s talking to, have him remember you and your friends... where... where other than in Paris in those neighborhoods, as few as they are, not yet pushed out of the city limits by the ever dominant yuppies and their fears? Those most wonderful places where music is in the mixture of languages being spoken. From sub-Saharan African multitude of linguistic music to the inexorable sources of China, from the old world of Jewish Poland to the old ports of Algeria, and the mountains of Kabylie, I used to sit there drinking beers all day long dreaming about nothing much. The beauty which comes out of the sweat, rage, and mere human existence of having to be forced to live together, to breath together, to do business together. The fellows from whom I bought my beer before going home were Indian, the store where I went to buy my beans, sweet potatoes, garlic – among other things – were Chinese who served a mostly Black African clientele, most of my bars and cafes were run by Kabylies – such as the hotel where I worked where I was one of the only two “white French” employees, the rest where either Algerian Arab or Algerian Kabyl. I loved this diversity of people. Recently the new arrivals to the neighborhood were from ex-Yugoslavia, like my concierges who were Serbs, many more people on the streets where from Croatia. Loads of Russians hung out in the cheap cafes as well. As long as the beer stayed cheap, I didn’t care. I loved it all... but here, I don’t see any of this kind of thing, this being together through united poverty. I don‘t see it anywhere here. I miss these sidewalks multi-laced with all these languages. I miss this being able to hang out and drink beer from morning till night hanging out on a terrace without being judged. Doing nothing but looking at the world stroll down the sidewalk. This doing nothing more than drinking beer or wine and just simply being. I miss this about Paris. (Though I realize my memory is romanticizing... and that’s a dirty trick, there’s many reasons why I had to come back to Austin, but let’s not ruin these happy thoughts...)