Paris

And at the end of a frightfully self-absorbed week, I dive back into the news, to discover that my beloved Paris is burning. There has been rioting for nine nights, in response to the deaths of two Muslim youths. And now my head echos with the assessments we made several years ago, looking at the conditions of the suburbs, at the difficulties of those of African descent and the Muslims, at the disjunct between the very rich and the very poor in one of the world's richest and most expensive cities. I remember standing an the steps of Sacré-Coeur, and seeing a horribly disfigured woman begging for alms. I remember wondering why her government was not providing for her.

I remember feeling joy and love for all the beauty in the city and for its amazing culture. But I also remember feeling frustration for a city and a country that had so many problems that it never seemed to recognise.

And through all of this, I am unsettled by this question: in a country that so fiercely protects its national culture, what becomes of the immigrants?