A wind of change is in the air.

Northern France — Normandy to be exact — is getting the apple harvest in full gear selling old, unlabeled bottles of fresh, murky hard cider in Paris’ open markets.

The trains to the sunny South are getting bloated as Parisians attempt to escape the inevitable soggy-cat coldness of the streets in fall. On the streets of the suburbs and outskirts of Paris, smells of hot oil, honey, and jasmine fragrance the air like perfume with the treats made for Ramadan’s by-the-clock, sunset break-fasting.

The city center, conversely, packs up a bit. Businessmen and women in sharp suits throw on a heavier scarf than usual to climb onto their pristine motorcycles for the commute home. More people take espressos inside, still looking with casual disinterest at the walkers-by. The metros get more crowded again. Now — instead of tourists filling the aisles shoulder-to-shoulder — the Parisians are back, flinging their briefcases between closing metro doors to get the last inch of space against the oily face-printed door window.

However, these are just my observations. There are deeper, longer seasons in Paris, and if you can imagine a tree having anxiety over changing leaves, that would be France. And the season looks to be a long one.

One could say it has gone on since the end of World War II. France — no longer the grand, colonial power, having lost much of its power overseas due to the war — plunges, along with most of Europe, into a deep recession. Paris arguably is no longer the driving force in the art world, sans the New-Wave cinema.

The Parisian, who sees the model citizen in one hand and the proud, post-colonial immigrant on the other, is forced to either assimilate the foreigner into French culture or ignore him or her. The tourist, even though there have been truly dramatic changes in French culture, has been sold the same image of Paris for 100 years.

That is a lot of reconciling to do.

However, I do not see many tourists in Bellville, far west of the popular city center. And I don’t see Middle-Eastern, African or Asian culture advertised in many Paris tour books.

That is not isolated to Paris; every city has got a point to sell. In Paris, ethnic diversity is not one of them — at least not in the streets. There is a reason for that.

Paris does not want to change its image.

The laws passed do not embrace diversity. They attempt to “correct” it. If that sounds familiar, imagine legislation brainstormed in a country that has not been branded “the melting pot of cultures.” Their word for “everyone” — even if it is just concerning those in a single room — translates to “all the world.”

So finally, I find myself changing, with no less awkwardness or tenacity than Paris itself. Though I like it more I guess, they say a location rubs off on you.

Paris is a big, big city, and sometimes it feels like a season begins on one side and ends on the other.

The line between the two Pari — just as Davi might be plural for David — is as much a mind-set as location. The violence in the suburbs last year is a clear indicator that there’s still much to resolve.

Aur revoir,

David Rauch