watching a rescue from above

Maybe it just has something to do with being in a big city, or maybe it is just all in my head, but I have noticed that in Paris it seems as though no one acknowledges their neighbors. Granted living in an apartment building makes it particularly tough, it would be nice to have some interaction every once in a while with someone from the same quartier. I would like the 9arrondissement, or at least the Place de Clichy, to give me some sign that she is aware of my temporary existence—most likely she does not really care.

The best picture I could get from my balcony,
it didn't feel appropriate to disturb him

There is one resident, however, that everyone seems to know. On the Rue de Clichy, just down from the newly renovated Place de Clichy, there is a homeless man who has created a kind of abode out of blankets, clothes, and paper. He spends his days sleeping under a tarp and his nights wandering around, reading the day old papers littered on the sidewalks. Over the past few weeks, I have often seen baguettes neatly placed next to his mat by the local Boulanger, and leftovers on paper plates taken down by tenants in the surrounding buildings. He has, in a way, been adopted by the people of my quartier.

When I first looked over my balcony and saw his dirty pile of fabric—his home—I was a bit suspicious. What this strange man? What my neighborhood, a neighborhood notorious for drug deals and whores? A few days ago, I found out just why he calls this place home.

From my bedroom window, I saw a man around twenty pull up on a motorcycle, park next to the mat, and start tearing it apart. In the homeless man’s absence, the man on the bike began to pull the tarp off and spread the clothes, food and blankets out onto the sidewalk. It was truly a horrific act of human behavior.

Upon seeing this, a woman, who must have been about sixty, ran out from across the street and took to the absent street dweller’s defense. She pushed the lowlife aside and started places her unnamed friend’s belongings back on his mat. She was protecting a man most people would look down upon. She did not care that the man was homeless; she was doing what she knew was right.

After an exchange of inaudible words, the man remounted his bike and drove away. A crowd had formed and several people began to help the older woman reassemble man’s only version of a home. At this moment, I knew why the man chose to stay on the Rue de Clichy, and my in humanity slightly increased. Though I knew nothing of these neighbors, I felt comforted in the possibility that if they were willing to help him, maybe they would be willing to help me too. Maybe people were actually inherently good?

He starts reading the day old paper

Later that night, as I stood on my balcony once more with a glass of Bordeaux and a Gauloise, I watched as the man walked back and saw for the first time the remnants of what has taken place earlier that day. I watched as he stopped, looked, and without any expression whatsoever, started to carefully rearrange everything he had come to collect. He did not even acknowledge anything had happened. After this, he sat down and read a dirty newspaper. As I watched him, all I could think of was how much I wished the boulangerie was still open so that I could go and buy him a sandwich.