Black Panther Party - Algiers, Third World capital: Black Panthers, freedom fighters, revolutionaries

Paris was not a war-scarred city: it hadnt been bombed out. It was fixed in time, stationary and visibly weary, a city of past grandeur on display in urban castles, monuments, churches, royal estates and bridges, all under gray skies. There was no modern edge. The contrasts with the United States were striking, often chilling, and I was immediately taken. People were small or of medium height, somewhat drab and old-fashioned in look; if high fashion and couture were Parisian, they were not visible on the citys streets. There, women were appareled in straight or, at most, pleated skirts, stockings and sensible shoes. They projected an overall hue of gray or brown. Men wore hats or berets and ties, and everybody shook hands whether they knew you or not; friends and relatives kissed on both cheeks every time they met, which could be several times a day. The masculine working population mostly wore ill-shaped royal-blue cotton jackets and pants. No one spoke English, nor were we foreigners much appreciated for our attempts at their language: Thats not French, was the comment, meaning Youre killing our language and thats inadmissible. On the whole, people were not outgoing or especially friendly. There was a degree of mistrust, even defiance, behind their unsmiling demeanor. On the other hand, the food was great and for me unconventional, daring. I was soon indulging in shellfish, marrow, spices, herbs, game, innards, and an amazing array of desserts, aperitifs and wine. The whole of France closed down from twelve to two for the main meal, always wine-accompanied, either at home or in canteens or restaurants, then went back to work until seven. If you became a regular at a particular restaurant, you were assigned your own red-and-white napkin, kept in storage for you in a pigeonhole along the wall; the same might apply to unfinished bottles of wine. On descending onto the platform of a subway station, ladies in uniform, mostly war widows I learned, punched your ticket. City buses had open-air back platforms that agile travelers hopped onto by lifting a lightly attached chain. Cars were miniature and few; large American cars drew immediate attention, people gathering and commenting in detail on the trappings: the dashboards, logos, hubcaps, upholstery and the rest. Miles per liter was a never-ending subject of conversation.

There were exceptions to similarity and they were notable. My first night in Paris, I sat at a table in a restaurant near the toile with my friends Bill Friedlander and Naseem Beg. Imprinted on my memory in indelible ink is the image of a tall, fancifully-dressed woman who strolled by in a long, flowing winter coat and a broad-brimmed hat, all black. As I watched from the enclosed terrace of the restaurant, she lifted her gloved hand to drag on a cigarette through a holder; then, head held high, she released the smoke. She was laughing, detached from the man at her side. I had never seen anyone like her, the epitome of worldliness.

The second unforgettable image I encountered when out walking the following morning. On the Left Bank, in the doorway of a building near Notre Dame, I came across two older women enclosed in shawls and long dark skirts, round-shouldered, their graying hair swept up into loose buns. They were talking under their breath with barely a gesture, immobile. It was my first encounter with the French concierges, lodged in practically every Parisian building at the time, who carried out the duties of American building superintendents, but also acted as quasi-official informants for the police.