The above photos were taken in the Old Town of Lille. There was a new installation art exhibition that I wanted to see. So we went with Soso’s sister, but not without having lunch first on the terrace. It was hot.

Back at the house, Soso’s 17-year-old brother was listening to the new PNL album. In the first sixteen hours of its release, the clip was viewed three million times on YouTube. French teenage boys and young adults idolize PNL; they wear the same clothes and haircut as the two brothers who form PNL, Tarik et Nabil Andrieu.

A new genre of rap music

In October 2016 I blogged this about them –

PNL, which stands for Peace and Lové, is two brothers, Tarik (29) and Nabil (27), who were born and raised in a tough housing estate in Corbeil-Essonnes, just south of Paris, an area notorious for crime.

Basically abandoned by their parents and growing up in the projects, Tarik and Nabil were part of an increasingly marginalized demographic. Their Algerian mother was largely absent, while their father, a Corsican pied-noir (a European who lived in Algeria under French colonial rule) is described in their songs as a gangster. Their lyrics are often peppered with Arabic. As for the rest of their biography, it’s a bit hazy although we do know that the younger brother spent time in prison for drug dealing.

Highly politicized, their earlier work was an angry diatribe of life in the projects. Today, extremely wealthy and the housing projects behind them, they have mellowed (but not entirely.) Here’s the clip from their new album, A L’Ammoniaque, just released.

This morning on the streets of Lille I was asked three times for money by three different men. They asked politely. I gave the first man a handful of centimes, all that I had left after buying my godson a bouncy ball. He said he was from Bulgaria. I had to say no to the other two men because I had no change left. My six-year-old godson, who was with me, witnessed all this. Later, when we had returned to the apartment and were playing with the bouncy ball in one of the back bedrooms, his 17 year old brother came in with a friend. “Tata Juliet,” he said, “Would you happen to have five or ten euros?”

I burst out laughing. “You’re the fourth male who has asked me for money this morning. What’s going on? Are the words “ask me for a handout” written on my forehead?”

the old town of Lille

Today, Sunday, was a heatwave all over France, 35 degrees Celsius (95F). We headed out this morning to the Musée des Beaux Arts (Fine Arts Museum) in the center of town. The interior spaces were lovely and cool, a perfect place for lingering. In France, all national museums offer free admittance on the first Sunday of every month.

We lingered over a glass of chilled apple juice at the bar. Then Soso lingered over a movie while I browsed in the adjoining gift shop. Then we went out into the searing heat and headed over to our favorite park and the Gare Saint Sauveur for lunch.

Yesterday (Saturday) was hot but tempered by a cool breeze. Two important events were taking place in towns and cities all over the country: the giant June sales, and the World Cup soccer match. You can imagine which event preoccupied my thoughts: the giant June sales, of course.

But as I meandered the streets of the Old Town popping in and out of shops, the sound of cheering crowds spilling out of bars caught my attention. Big TV screens had been installed, inside and out, and large crowds had gathered. It was 5:30 pm and the exuberance of the fans was contagious.

“Who’s playing?” I asked a group of fans. Ten heads looked at me as if I were stark raving mad, an alien from another planet. “France vs. Argentina,” was the reply. I hung around, took some photos, watched the match for ten minutes on the big screen then left. I wanted to get to Zara Home before it closed. 50% off on all items. I bought a gorgeous wool and mohair throw blanket, a Portuguese cotton bathroom rug, and some porcelain doorknobs for my new white Ikea wardrobe.

Oh, France won the soccer match 4 to 3.

More to come, but I must dash because Giant with Elizabeth Taylor, James Dean, and Rock Hudson (1956) is coming on the TV in 5 minutes.

Last night I went to a fabulous party. The friend of my friend was celebrating her 50th birthday. She’s French-Moroccan and lives with her French husband, Eric, in a house in the suburbs of Paris. White canopy tents had been erected in the garden, torches had been lit and long buffet tables groaned with platters of Moroccan food: tagines, couscous, pastilla, chicken and salads. For dessert we ate syrupy little cakes perfumed with orange flower water, stuffed dates, and orange and almond cake. All washed down with hot sweet mint tea. Towards midnight, fires were lit in metal drums and Bedouin carpets spread out on the grass. A professional Moroccan dancer performed while musicians played and guests ululated; the atmosphere was electric. I got home at 4 am. This morning my clothes still smelled of wood smoke from the fires.

Belly dancing is called la danse orientale in France. This complex and highly stylized dance is not easy to learn. Years ago I took lessons but I was hopeless at it. One of the best belly dancers is Sadie Marquardt. You’ll never guess where she’s from: Wisconsin, USA!! If you’re not familiar with this dance, here’s Sadie here, the queen of danse orientale. The music and the dancer we watched last night were similar to these videos.

Donald Trump has dragged the image and reputation of the USA into the gutter. The world no longer sees this country as great. Thank goodness we have our memories.