PANTIN, France — I live just outside Paris, beyond the Périphérique, the eternally clogged ring road that separates the City of Light from its suburban areas of darkness. My neighborhood is in Pantin, where the infamous northeastern suburbs — the banlieues — begin. When I told one Parisian where I lived during casual chatter at a dinner party in the chic Marais quarter, he actually stepped away from me and blurted: “Quelle horreur!” But it isn’t a horrible place. And it’s where, for better or worse, a new France is being forged.
On the noisy sidewalks of the boulevard near my apartment, there are no Hemingway-besotted expats in search of their own “Midnight in Paris.” My local farmers’ market does not sell kale, the latest trendy American import, and the bakery on the corner features round flat loaves of sesame-studded bread for a largely North African clientele.
La suite : New York Times
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