Susan Buckland: Small chance of raising eyebrows

Furtive I felt as I hung out the washing over Rue de la Forge Royale. First there was an embarrassing tussle with the clothes line. My attempts to hook it through the wrought-iron railings clearly branded me an outsider to the locals as they watched keenly from their windows across the street.

Then there were the clothes themselves. A whole week's worth of smalls. A quick scan of the laundry suspended from other windows revealed tea towels, shirts, trousers, pillow cases, socks. But of underclothes, not a sign. As I hung out my drooping Bendon collection it felt like stepping naked on to the street.

But the feeling didn't last. I'd been long enough in Paris to observe how Parisians take unusual sights in their stride.

In the Latin Quarter, they are relished. For example, the yurt. There it was in the nearby Luxembourg Gardens among the serenity of trees, gardens, fountains and marble, sculptured nymphs. A Mongolian tent house with its thick, sheep's felt cladding. It was a perfect yurt, attracting the attention it deserved. Not just because it looked as much at home in the beautiful 17th-century gardens as an igloo in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.

Welcoming Parisians were peering through its door with a sophisticated interest. Inside, a PhD student from the nearby Sorbonne University was explaining to approving listeners how Mongolians went about their daily lives on the windblown steppes of their country, far from the trappings of French civilisation.

I had come to the Luxembourg Gardens on the Left Bank in preference to the famous and more tourist-frequented Tuileries.

The leafy Luxembourg was laid out for Maria de Medici who was queen of France from 1600 to 1610 and it is where Parisians love to go.

I found children racing their hired yachts in the large pond as they have for hundreds of years. And men in cloth caps playing petanque under the shade of a ginkgo tree. Lovers entwined on seats in quiet corners. Older couples strolled arm in arm. Parents led their children on ponies through the gardens. But never on the grass. Manicured to the last blade, it's for looking at - unless you want a hefty fine.

As I watched this quintessentially French scene I was also aware of change. Of tall young men from the Ivory Coast leaping like gazelles around the basketball court. Of dark-skinned girls from Africa wheeling pale skinned babies beside beds of blooming flowers. They spiced the ambience. The new face of Paris.

Regrettably an ambience that is too spicy for the likes of France's extreme right National Front leader, Jean-Marie Le Pen, and aspiring politician daughter Marine.

It's doubtful that they would have accepted the photos of Third World people exhibited on the fence around the Luxembourg Gardens.

One of them, an eye-catching portrayal of a woman and baby bundled on her back, bore a caption expressing her gratitude to her adopted country. "Far from the bars of political prisons, racism and intolerance," it said, "this France is my foster country in exile."

I left the photos to give myself another hour of Parisian colour down the road at the Place de la Sorbonne.

One more hour and the washing I'd dangled over Rue de la Forge Royale would be dry.

I ordered a coffee and, with one ear tuned to music students busking their way through Vivaldi, I speculated on the prospects of the ardent anti-immigration campaigner Marine Le Pen. She hopes to run for presidency of the greater Paris regional council in March.

Support may emerge from the city's conservative quarters. But her votes are unlikely to come from the liberal-minded crowds packing the bars in the Place de la Sorbonne.

And I thought, too, of Maria de Medici living close by 400 years ago in the Luxembourg palace surrounded by her lovely gardens.

I fancied she would have looked down her royal nose at Monsieur and Mademoiselle Le Pen. After all, born in Italy, here she was an immigrant herself.