It’s 6.30 a.m. on a late summer morning in Paris. Amid the rumbling coming from the Stalingrad Métro station, in the northeast of the French capital, hundreds of migrants, mostly men, sleep crammed under an overpass. Some rest on pieces of cardboard and old mattresses behind a urine-doused fence, others lie awake by the side of the street.
I was living in Vancouver at the time, it was kind of surreal. Now I’m living in one of the northern towns they shipped them to… it’s surreal in a different way.
I’m from Vancouver, and the way the homeless were treated pre Olympics was, if you’ll pardon the language, a goddamn fucking disgrace. Only a bit worse than the rest of the time, to be fair, but it really solidified my dislike of the systems in place there.
I was living in Vancouver at the time, it was kind of surreal. Now I’m living in one of the northern towns they shipped them to… it’s surreal in a different way.
I’m from Vancouver, and the way the homeless were treated pre Olympics was, if you’ll pardon the language, a goddamn fucking disgrace. Only a bit worse than the rest of the time, to be fair, but it really solidified my dislike of the systems in place there.