We each had to write a report on our arrondissement, or neighborhood, in Paris. I was given the 14th arrondissement, so I reported on a fire there.

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By Andrea James

A fire broke out in an apartment at 114 Rue Raymond Losserand in Paris on Sept. 18., injuring one resident and drawing a large crowd as the smoke billowed into the sky.

Four fire trucks, a police car and ambulance arrived shortly after the fire began. One fireman slapped the wrists of a team of six others in helmets before the men ran inside with hoses.



The narrow, one-way street remained blocked to cars for about three hours.



Butchers and shop keepers poked their heads out to watch the action. Two people on the third floor flung open their shudders and peered down at the spectacle below. The woman, still in her apron, and the man gazed at the street, chins in hands.

The smoking apartment, above Pizza Nellie Restaurante, was on the fifth floor, according to Kane Diafara, an immigrant from Senegal wearing an “I love New York” baseball cap.

The injured person suffered smoke inhalation, said one French lady in a white coat, as translated by Diafara. The French lady wanted to tell more, but upon looking through a French phrase book, she realized that “I need a spare tire,” and “Is breakfast included?” wouldn’t be much help in describing the fire.

“I love New York, I love your country,” said Diafara when asked to translate into English what the firemen were saying. “The American way of life – very spiritual people. I want to come to your country.”

When questioned on what was happening, the firemen in their limited English responded, “a fire.”

Another spectator, who was chewing on a baguette, offered some advice.

“If you want to be a good journalist, you have to learn French,” said the grey-haired man, baguette in hand.

Then he paused, and said, “For an American, you are very beautiful.”

That spectator, Claude Penaranda de Bracamonte, offered to translate an interview with the firemen.

“The Paris firemen are the best in the world,” he said proudly pointing to them, without translating a thing. “Isn’t he beautiful? Do you want to have dinner with this guy?”

Then he talked with the firemen for a few minutes. After much talk and gesturing, Penaranda de Bracamonte turned and said, “He says he can’t tell you, you must talk to the chief.”

The chief apparently didn’t speak English either. A local city council woman spoke English, but said she was too busy to talk to reporters.

Penaranda de Bracamonte soon grew bored with the lack of matchmaking between the reporter and firemen, so he left to walk his dog.

Meanwhile, the firemen took out the hook and ladder and disappeared into the building. No one could see what was happening from the street, and the crowd dispersed as people started to go home.

Minutes later, Penaranda de Bracamonte appeared with his chocolate-brown Labrador named Orson. He had a very important message to bring to the reporter.

“Asseis” he commanded the dog, and the dog sat down.

Moments later, the dog stood up again and Penaranda de Bracamonte told the dog, “Sit down.”

The dog sat.

When the dog stood up again, he said in Spanish, “Sientate.”

The dog sat down again.

“You see?” Penaranda de Bracamonte said with glee. “The dog speaks more languages than you!”



The reporter assured the French man that she appreciated the demonstration.

Penaranda de Bracamonte thought then would be a good time to ask the reporter out on a date. But then he thought better of it.

“I would ask you out to dinner, but in America, if a man asks a woman out, he goes to jail,” he said. “America is beautiful but there are too many Americans.”

He left with his dog, no doubt to let it poop on the sidewalk.