It is Saturday night. I am on my way home. As I walk along what has now become my ritualistic route, I see an Arab youth, no more than eighteen years of age, coming out of one of the buildings that house the activities of the women on Rue St. Denis. He just got laid with a hooker. Come to think about it, on many different occasions, on many different nights, I have seen a lot of these youths, both black and Arab, wondering the narrow streets of Rue St. Denis, propositioning hookers for sex. These are young kids. Les Halles is their playground. I see them everyday, hanging around the space, smoking “hashish,” drinking alcohol, and telling stories. They are also young business entrepreneurs, with a product to trade in the market place. Hip hop is the soundtrack to their open surroundings. On some nights, I have seen some these kids outside the doors of some Parisian night clubs, on a hip hop night. They are never allowed inside. They are always kept waiting. I guess they are not the right social type. They do not belong inside the club space.
These youths spend their lives hanging out on the outside, on the open streets of Les Halles. Les Halles is a commercial center. On a Saturday night, whilst other social identities are accommodated inside bars and clubs, one can find these young kids hanging around Les Halles, parked by the Fountain des Innocents, smoking joints, drinking alcohol, listening to music, and exchanging stories. One night I happened to be chilling around the fountain, munching on a sandwich grec. To my right, there was a group of youths rolling a joint. A tourist, looking lost, walks cautiously around the fountain space. He approaches the youths and propositions them for some “hashish.” The language is a barrier. They ask me to mediate. The Arab dealer would like me to convince the tourist to buy a FF 500 block of “hashish.” He draws me close and seeks my confidence. He really needs this sale. Life is hard knock he says. He could really use the money. I do my best with the tourist, but the tourist will not budge. He is willing to spend as much as FF 200 on this deal. The Arab youth concedes. He breaks the block of “hashish” into a FF 200 package. Money changes hands. The tourist pockets the product, and leaves. The youths continue smoking their joint, listening to their music, and sharing stories.
Some people say Les Halles is “kinda sketchy.” There is an aura of danger engulfing the surroundings. I walk through Les Halles everyday, mostly late at night coming back from school, or a late night movie. I see these youths littered all over the space, smoking, drinking, and exchanging stories. I wonder what it is that makes them dangerous. Is it the color? Is it the history of the race? Is it the drugs or the alcohol? On a given weekend night, most social identities are accommodated inside bars, and clubs, getting intoxicated. I have been inside many cosy private homes, where the activities of the night have been smoking joints, drinking alcohol, listening to music, and exchanging stories. Somehow there is nothing dangerous or sketchy about this social patterns of behavior. It is all in the name of social fun. A group of friends passing time together, hanging out, having a great time. For the youths parked around Les Halles, this is their playground. Les Halles is also a commercial centre, where consumables may be traded. Even tourists know about this space and the products to be found here. It is not a secret, but a seal of fact: 