Paris, Normalcy and Lolabelle the Dog

Near the start of Laurie Anderson’s documentary, “Heart of a Dog,” the performance artist recounts the gloom that blanketed New York City after 9/11. To escape, she takes her beloved rat terrier, Lolabelle, to the mountainous coast of Northern California. On a stroll down to the beach, she looks up and notices that hawks are circling above her dog, as if to size up the big-eared creature as a potential tasty snack. Lolabelle herself gives a worried look up at the sunny sky and Anderson captures that gaze, realizing it’s the same one she has seen etched on the faces of New Yorkers: A sudden revelation that danger lurks not only in the expected places — at street or path level — but that it can also strike randomly out of a clear, blue sky.

Like New York City, Paris is a symbol that resonates far beyond its buildings and streets. It’s where we go on honeymoons, where young people travel to study, where artists and writers voyage — even if only in their imagination. It’s been occupied and terrorized many times over the centuries, from violent attempts to assassinate Napoleon in the 18th century, to Nazi occupation, to more recent subway and railway bombings in the 80s and 90s. So when attackers randomly killed dozens of Parisians on a cool, November evening before blowing themselves up, it was less a surprise than a shocking reminder. The world seemed to light up in solidarity almost instantly as world leaders and ordinary people around the world spoke out in anger and indignation.

As broad and swift as it was, the reaction was also intensely personal, with many sharing vacation selfies snapped in front of the Eiffel Tower and turning their social media profile pictures into French flags. This was not abstract, as so much of the daily carnage pictured in the media has sadly become to many of us, mainly because we’ve been to Paris and know people who live there. Just like when planes hit New York City, many of us reacted to the Paris attacks just like Lolabelle, remembering that deadly attacks can come when and where you least expect them. Murder and terror happen far away, but also close to home. They circle and wait to strike like hawks in a balmy sky.

Like so many Francophiles, I changed my Facebook profile because the attacks struck a personal chord. I lived in that city for 10 years, studied as a college and grad student, worked as a reporter there, had my first son there, learned the neighborhoods and streets until they felt like my own, sat in cafes, worried about life and felt blue and lonely at times. But I also felt amazed and lucky that I could live in such a place.

What I love about Paris, in addition to the glorious monuments and the city’s beauty, is how it taught me to appreciate small things: the quotidian rhythm of the city, the coffee in the cafes on almost every street corner, the daily baguette, the outdoor markets, a stroll around the neighborhood, the shared spirit of conviviality.

On Nov. 13, it was exactly that normalcy that was shattered for Parisians. Instead of attacking well-known monuments and tourist destinations, the terrorists took aim at that day-to-day rhythm, at young people out enjoying a Friday night, sitting in cafes and listening to music, enjoying that quotidian conviviality, as Parisians do.

This past summer, my family went back to the city we loved and hadn’t visited in several years. I thought about getting tickets to the Eiffel Tower, but stopped short because we’ve been there, it’s expensive, and I decided against it also in part because I feel like it’s the ultimate target for terrorism.

Instead, we mainly wandered the streets, meandering and stopping into museums, parks and cafes, getting in sync with the city’s rhythm and routine. We spent one warm summers’ eve strolling through the hip 10th arrondissement, along the Canal St. Martin and beside the bars and cafes that were the targets of Friday’s attack. The neighborhood felt gritty, vibrant, young and diverse. We tried to get a table at Le Carillon, one of the bars that was attacked, but it was jammed with young people. The same night we were there, my Parisian-born son returned to the area later, met friends separately and stayed out until 3 am, but I remember feeling that this was somehow so much safer than our SF Bay Area home. “What is very shocking to me with this terror attack,” a friend wrote from Paris, “ is that the neighborhood chosen for the attacks is where my children, and their friends, go out, spend their time and for some of them, it’s where they live.”

My friend is glad that her two teen-aged children are studying in London and Montreal. And she fears that the Paris attacks, hitting in the middle of France’s ongoing national debate over openness and xenophobia, will provide an opportunity for some to try to further close borders and minds. Under pressure to respond, France’s unpopular left-wing president Francois Hollande declared the attacks “an act of war,” launched retaliatory airstrikes and imposed a state of emergency on the nation. Meanwhile, his right-wing political opponents sharpen their talons.

France, known for its Declaration for the Rights of Man, also has a long history of anti-semitism, racism and exclusion. It has the largest Muslim and Jewish populations of any European country, and far-right, anti-immigrant politicians are gaining a foothold in local and state elections around the country. A generation of Muslim young people has grown up in desolate suburbs, where unemployment and desperation have pushed some to extremism.

At street level, in the neighborhoods around the Canal St Martin, these divisions are not so clear. Indeed, many of the young people who lost their lives were of North African origin and reflected France’s vibrant, diverse population. Hodda Saadi, 19, a French-born daughter of Tunisian immigrants, was killed during the attack on the Belle Equipe restaurant, a trendy spot near the Canal St Martin. She was shot along with several of her friends, who included a Mexican woman, a Congolese man and the Muslim partner of the restaurant’s Jewish owner.

Paris is at once a self-contained, shining capital of culture, but has also been, at times, an open and welcoming place to many born abroad, whether they arrive from colonial lands, European neighbors or from across the Atlantic. I felt that as a young student at the political science university, Sciences Po, where I studied alongside classmates from Mali, China, Germany, Holland and several other countries and regions. There in that multicultural group I met Emmanuela Tsarouchas from Greece, still a close friend after 25 years. “The horror in Paris — that city we love like it was our home,” she wrote in an email after the attacks.

Getting back to Lolabelle the dog — she escaped the birds of prey — apparently they realized as they got closer that she was larger than your average rabbit. She goes back to New York, faces setbacks including later going blind, but she perseveres, and is even taught by her trainer to play the piano.

Parisians are now out and about again, looking over their shoulders with that worried look that Laurie Anderson describes so well. But many are crowding into bars and bistros to comfort themselves with the routines they don’t want to abandon. “What can I say,” Emmanuela continued in her email. “It’s like war. It’s terrible. But we’ll see each other again, next time we’re in Paris.”