Montmartre Mugging and Hackney Riots

My Father on Montmartre

View From Our Flat

My father had asked me, "Do you want to go to Paris and show me around since you seem to know it?". I could not refuse an offer like this and so two months later we were on the Eurostar and ready to stay in a cheap apartment that we found for 27 euros a night on Air B'n'B; an attic studio in Montmartre looking over the roof tops of the city. Last time I was here, I stayed in the adjacent street in a similar flat overlooking a similar scene of snow covered roofs that puffed small grey clouds from their chimneys - that time, I was there for three weeks with Sara, and she taught me the Parisian lifestyle that I now passed on to my father.

View From Our Flat

On our first day, we walked the streets to the centre of the city, through the shadows cast by 'rues' that little dogs pulled their owners through and that tables lined from Tabacs, men angling their cigarettes to the floor and flicking them away into the cobbled streets.

After this I persuaded my father to hire a bike from the Boris bikes of Paris,  Vélib'. And so we used the roads to map out the Louvre, the Jewish Quarters, the Sorbonne and so forth. Dad trailed behind, slower than me and I grew fairly impatient. 

In the evening, I left Dad to meet a friend. I think we were both happy to have some time on our own. My plan was to meet a friend from Brighton, Emma, and so I met her at Pigalle station. We spoke of the past, whilst a bar tender offered us free shots in exchange for leaving a balloon that was attached to my chair - a little confusing as my French is poor but the shots were gratefully accepted. We continued to another bar where an elderly host, crouched like Igor, showed us to our seats.

After parting, at Place de Clichey, the romantic life turned to a peculiar experience - my first experience of being mugged - sort of...

Since I was tipsy, I stupidly decided to walk home through the streets of Pigalle, through the sex shops where I turned down a Caribbean hooker who asked, "You and I, we get namked, I take my clothes off, you take your clothes off, and we make love - 100 euros?" An exciting prospect but not for me.

Watching a game of Bowls

And so I continued in the centre of the dark boulevard  and this time encountered a bench of seven young men. The mugging began. "Tu as une cigarette?" one asked as he stood up. He smiled and so I became unguarded.

"Moi? Oui, oui. Il y a." I felt this could either be a friendly exchange or a potentially bad situation but it was hard to get out now. I smiled and put on a Larry David voice. This was my solution.

"Et moi!" another said.

"Et moi aussi." Said another.

"Et moi, Et moi, Et moi!" And now I was surrounded by all of them, each with a smile on his face and in extreme motion. I had so far parted with at least twelve cigarettes, from a packet that was too big for me anyway.

Eventually, still smiling and almost laughing, I said "Non, Non! Vous etes like pigeons!" but still they demanded and so I continued, "Non c'est mes cigarettes, vous avez beaucoup! Je suis gentille, vous etes gentilles, non?" And at this point I felt a hand on my wallet in my trouser pocket. "Non! I feel you hand on mes pocket!" And I heard the most serious one whisper, "Police, police." Still they swarmed as a police car passed by, but now they asked,

"Where are you from?"

"Je suis Anglais. And you?"

"We are from Tunisia"

"I like Tunisians!" I said.

"And I like the English!" the fattest one replied. "Do you like Paris?"

"Yes its very nice."

"Je deteste Paris," still smiling, "Paris est merde." He spat to the floor. I accepted this. My wallet was now safe though I was still surrounded. I touched them on the shoulder gently and in a friendly way as their hands were still all over me. Eventually they grew bored of me and I shook each of their hands, and the serious one clearly wanted me to leave - "I am wasting your time!" I said as I left.

I was very lucky...

But now my thoughts turned to something Emma had said that night - there had been riots in England the day we left - apparently some one was shot in Tottenham, a few miles from Hackney. And so the next day, after watching a game of bowls by the canal and a visit to the Arc de Triumphe and the Eiffel Tower, I left Dad to visit an internet cafe. I checked my emails. I checked my Facebook. I checked the news...

'HACKNEY RIOTS' I read. A picture of Hackney showed Mare St in a scene of violence between youths and police, minutes from my home. Live footage of the police with shields in the street parallel to mine with cars ablaze, trolleys a light and more violence, pure violence. Dianne Abbot, our MP, was on the scene, her voice drowned out by helicopters over head. twenty seconds, if not ten, from my bedroom window.If I were there I would have the best view of the scene in Hackney. The bulletins read that the Prime minister was on his was back from holidays, over two hundred arrests have been made already and there were more riots emerging in Peckham, Lewisham and Croydon. And then cut to Croydon where a live fire was shown starting. Fifteen minutes later one fireman arrived and the fire had spread to a whole block.

My Flat in the middle of the London Riots

Now I worried - my flat! My flat! How was it? I emailed my friends to ask. The area was blocked off and no one could say how the situation was. And now the riots had spread to Leeds, Birmingham, Manchester and Bristol. I was powerless. And then the internet cafe closed.

That night I could not sleep - I used my father's phone turning the data roaming on and off every minute. I checked Twitter and managed to find a picture of my flat - fumes emerging from behind. Oh no my flat!!

The next day I was still worried, but I decided that if anything happened to the place, I had not lost much. I was renting and it would be the landlord who would lose his home, not I. This thought helped me. And so by the evening, the riots had become a dinner conversation at Joachim's flat in 10e.

Neat the Eiffel Tower

And the next day it seemed that London was no longer under attack but Birmingham and Manchester took the brunt of the riots - that was a relief for me - maybe not to the North. I still expected that on my return, I would need to run from Hackney Central station to my house and imagined my wheely bag to draw attention to myself and to slow me down. When it came to leaving the next day, it felt like a relief. Paris had started to become a relentless city of tourism (mid August) and my mind was focused on my home and the stories that I heard from the news. And after two hours of waiting outside Gare de Nord (my father asleep on a bench), we were watching the French countryside flick past, then darkness and then the English countryside, much rounder, darker and closer.

Dad in 18e

I parted with my father outside St Pancras. He hurled himself into a taxi and waved goodbye through the back window, on his way to Victoria and then to Arundel. I took the bus to Clapton and could see to my surprise that London was calm. Restaurants were open, people walked home alone, everything was normal. And when I walked from the bus stop, I was not mugged, I was not chased and I was not a witness to any violence.  However, there were much less cars parked on our street than normal, whether they had been burnt out or too scared to park.

Over the next few days Hackney was still the same as ever and I appreciated the Georgian architecture and the parks and the trees. The Police were in their numbers, on bikes, standing on the high street or in large vans, but they all seemed happy and in good spirits. One Policeman had Shaft sunglasses on, whilst another had a lipstick mark on his cheek, perhaps from his wife kissing him goodbye or from an appreciative member of the public.