Extraordinaire et Plénipotentiaire

The 16^th arrondissement is home to a concentration of embassies, delegations and consulates. Suspended from art nouveau facades hang the flags of the resident nations. I recognize easily Germany and Quebec; others are mysterious. I have become better educated in les tricolores, which seem as many as the varieties of roses. Bleu, jaune et rouge stand for Chad on Rue des Belles Feuilles. Orange, white and green are for Ivory Coast, easily mistaken at a hasty glance for Ireland.

The Ivorian embassy is in an impressive hotel particulier set back from the sidewalk on Avenue Raymond Poincaré. On a Saturday afternoon, a small crowd gathered by a high wrought-iron gate. Tall young men and hunched women in black bandanas strained their heads toward a soldier on duty. Seen even from across the street, the soldier wore a weary scowl.

Cynically, I have wondered whether an inverse relation exists between the opulence of an embassy and the wealth of a nation. Are the fleets of black Mercedes keeping families from feeding themselves and educating their children?

The Embassy of Iraq is just a minute’s walk away. The principal address is Avenue Foch, while the entrance for consular services is around the corner on Rue Pergolèse quite near me. One morning, I passed a family waiting there on the sidewalk. Several women watched shyly as a young man kissed another warmly, then put his hand to push him forward to the door.

Embassies are physical expressions of national power, meant to be imposing and even inspiring. Les ambassadeurs flaunt grand titles for the same purpose – Ambassadeur extraordinaire et plénipotentiaire de la République. The prominent diplomatic presence in this quarter of Paris similarly elevates the area and lends mystique and prestige. Why otherwise name a fragrance Rue Pergolèse?

In Paris, the great and the good must share the city with the not so great or the not so good. On my walk home one afternoon, a young woman in jeans and t-shirt stood in the middle of Rue Pergolèse across from the Iraqis. I heard another woman screaming from somewhere above, then watched a glistening shower hurtling down at the pavement. The intended victim stepped away to avoid a good drenching, though the splash reached as far as my feet. Next, an empty plastic bottle followed the same arc. I saw it was a cleaning detergent. On Rue Pergolèse, the spurned woman wore a fresh scent. It was no perfume, but it was the soul of Paris.