So, let’s continue our multiple-part series about the infamous Paris suburbs with many incredible twists and turns. I understand there’s a lot of interest about these neighborhoods. Gennevilliers an interesting one, because reportedly there’s now a cemetery there with an unmarked grave. It contains a terrorist who grew up there: one with whom I’d say my relationship is a bit too personal, since — a few weeks — ago I stumbled over his handiwork. I’m curious about this terrorist, given that the act of terrorism he committed made major headline news recently. So I’m curious about this suburb:

[Gennevilliers is] a Paris suburb is the final resting place of one of the two brothers who launched the deadly attack on the offices of the magazine, Charlie Hebdo.

Cherif Kouachi was buried in an unmarked grave in the cemetery of Gennevilliers, his home town [emphasis added].

The burial took place amid tight security. No relatives were present. Earlier in the week his brother, Said was laid to rest in the town of Rheims. Initially the mayor had wanted to refuse the burial but French law dictates residents have a right to a burial in their home town. The Mosque in Gennevilliers refused to conduct Cherif Kouachi’s final rites within its walls for fear of angering members of the community.

From what’s been reported, you’d think this terrorist was the product of a dangerous war zone, wouldn’t you? One into which even the cops dare not enter and Sharia is the law of the land?

But this is truly preposterous. Of course you can walk through Gennevilliers. It’s much nicer than Clichy-sous-Bois, and I certainly didn’t need to waste an afternoon proving that to myself, either. I knew it, and basically, had to do it only because I knew if I didn’t, someone would tell me that it’s impossible. Now I can say “Well, clearly not. Here I am.”

And yet: Something did happen that resulted in the Kouachi brothers thinking it would be a good idea to go on a massive killing spree in my heart-of-central Paris neighborhood. So you’d think people would be curious about whether this place is really a no-go zone.

It’s not. Forget that idea.

What’s in fact there? A drab suburb that’s very well-served by public transportation. I saw a single banner that said “Gennevilliers is united against barbarity and for freedom of expression,” and that’s the only hint I saw that something odd had happened recently. There’s a lovely cultural center dedicated to a French Caribbean writer I’d never really given much thought to. I had a nice chat with the woman there about all the activities coming up at the cultural center: an artisanal chocolate tasting, manicure classes, and lots of other things nice, middle-class people might like. She may be a Muslim, for all I know, but she looked like your typical, old-fashioned stereotype of a young French woman: pretty, nicely-dressed, and eager to talk about a French writer you’ve never heard of and artisanal chocolate. She sure wasn’t living in fear of the local war lords. Looks like there’s an excellent library there. I’d guess the medical care is first-rate, judging from the number of well-stocked pharmacies I saw.

I bet some of the guys hanging out at that cultural center were Muslims. It’s entirely possible that if I sat down to talk to them, I’d find out that they hold views I find objectionable. But I’d bet very good money that they and I could exchange our views without killing each other. If anyone doubts this, I’m happy to perform that experiment, but it’s a waste of my time and yours. That’s what would happen.

Sure, I saw distinct signs of “suspicious Muslim activity” — as in, “a few halal butcher shops” — but, trust me, that really isn’t suspicious unless you’re a vegetarian (I am, but that’s another story). It’s clean and orderly. There’s a street named after Lenin, but I can walk down a street named after Lenin without dying, even if I’m offended by that. There are also streets there named after Beethoven and Mozart, of which I approve. It doesn’t remotely look like a terrifying no-go zone. If I can wander around there saying, “Hi, where do I find a bathroom,” and be directed to one by polite and helpful people, it’s really not a no-go zone. While I didn’t personally examine the men’s room — there is some journalism I’m unwilling to do — I’m given to understand that it’s entirely satisfactory.

It’s no problem — I can say with confidence — for an American woman to walk around that neighborhood on a normal Saturday, in normal garb, and say, “Hey, what’s this neighborhood like?” It’s a place so lawful that the mayor couldn’t even say, “We don’t want him buried here,” because there’s a law, on the books, that says residents have the right to be buried in their home town. It’s a place where the mosque sure isn’t conducting his funeral rites, although they’re holding effigies for him in other parts of the world (Including in neighborhoods I’ve gone to, and no, that wasn’t a spectacular act of brave journalism, either: just the normal thing you’d do if you live there and want to know what’s going on).

What’s especially baffling to me is that the US does actually have spectacularly brave journalists who really do know what a dangerous war zone looks like, and know damned well when you need a flak jacket. So what’s up with this?

That suburb is normal, prosperous, and developed, except for the mystery no one talks about: the banal ugliness. The total destruction of the genius that made Paris a beautiful city. That strikes me as interesting and worth more than a few questions, but I reckon the street named after Lenin holds a hint–though not more.

What does it say that I had to waste a day, only to learn that “This debate isn’t even ‘in the right direction?'” Why are talking heads on television having feuds about the stuff anyone could tell you? Gennevilliers is perfectly safe for journalists. They should be going there, and they shouldn’t be confusing “black people” or “Muslim people” with “Muslim people who kill journalists and Jews in Paris”; if such people were in a majority in the neighborhoods I’ve visited, I’d be long since dead. Simple as that. I’ve got private health insurance. The people who issue it to me are in the business of making actuarial tables and calculating the odds for expats. Their questions about my lifestyle and the risks to my health are grounded firmly in reality, and they’re not charging me a warzone premium.

After finishing the excursion to Gennevilliers, the guy who gave me a lift dropped me off near the flea market (otherwise he’d have been stuck in traffic). The flea market is another place people are always telling me is “completely unsafe,” but it’s obviously not. You don’t think “Hey, just drop me off here and I’ll walk back or take the metro, so you don’t get stuck in traffic,” if the place is “completely unsafe.” It’s somewhere I go all the time, because you can buy things cheaply there.

After establishing for the millionth time that it’s safe, I wandered north by accident (serves me right for mocking the French for their inability to master Cartesian coordinates). That’s the direction people who don’t really live here keep telling me that I’ll die instantly if I walk into it. I ended up walking about a half a mile there; beyond feeling a bit dumb for laughing at people who can’t figure out which way is north — and then not checking “which way is north” — it was, as usual, a lovely Saturday evening in Paris. Yes, “European people” walk there. They were, in fact, roller-blading there. The last thing I felt was worried for my safety. Nor would it have been in any way reasonable to be. The point at which I reacted — rationally — with real concern for my safety was on the Périphérique, not beyond it. That had me screaming. Rationally.

This is a safe, first-world city with great public transport (except for Clichy), water you can drink right from the tap, and well-stocked pharmacies right in what’s being described as the Heart of Darkness; and a fairly low crime rate for a big city, all considered.

And it has some dead serious problems, which are worth reporting. In a serious way. Some things happen here that are truly abnormal, and thus deserve serious journalism. Abnormal? That scene at Charlie Hebdo. I knew the second I saw it that we had “abnormal” on our hands. But that sure didn’t happen in these terrifying ‘burbs. That was actually my neighborhood.

So what actually happened in Gennevilliers — obviously a pleasant-enough ‘burb — that resulted in an “international news-level abnormal” terrorist attack a few blocks from my safe and very tourist-friendly neighborhood?  I’m frankly none the wiser for an excursion there. But I don’t think anyone is ever going to be the wiser about my much-less-normal excursion down that street in my own neighborhood, which is emphatically not a no-go zone nor even a “sensitive zone.” Not at this rate. Because no one gave me the “Please, no more media, no more questions” treatment in Gennevilliers. So I’d guess there’s been no American media there, really.

I walked into a very abnormal scene in front of Charlie Hebdo: a statistically unlikely event. But I saw few signs that the US media is really asking, “So why did that happen?” in a way that might lead to real answers. Although I’m sure that yes, French security officials are. Yes, obviously there’s a “connection to Islam,” but no, not all Muslims in France do that. No, they do not all secretly approve of it. No, it’s not because Islamic law has been imposed in Gennevilliers, or anywhere in France.

Figuring out exactly what happened is supposed to be the job of all these people who are talking about it without even looking at it. The question, “How exactly do things like this happen” might have policy implications even in far-away places like America, after all. Wouldn’t you expect every last man, woman and child in Gennevilliers to take one look at an American journalist and be afraid to talk to me, rather than lonely and eager for a chat about fondue? Shouldn’t it have taken me lot of time and patience to win the locals’ confidence and get them to tell us what’s really going on here, because they’re all-too-used to an American media who exhibit a great deal of curiosity in them?

Anyone who tells you Cherif Kouachi came from a neighborhood you can’t walk into — a place where the women are veiled, Sharia has been imposed, and the police dare not enter — is out of his mind. “Out of your mind” is no place to start when you’re thinking about things as worthy of a serious conversation as terrorism, attacks on Jews, rising anti-Semitism in Europe, freedom of expression, and Islam (or the National Front, for that matter).

Now, I have lots of theories about what produced him. I suspect the places you’d start looking — for real — are in a mosque in the 19th Arrondissement that’s long been (sensibly) razed to the ground. I’d ask about French prisons and what happens in them. I’d also like to know about the algorithms French security officials use to decide whether someone like him should be kept under surveillance, given limited police resources. But this is speculation based on local media reports, not facts. (The place Amedy Coulibaly his been discreetly deposited is reputed to be serious scum-of-the-earthville, and I’m inclined to believe that, by the way. I’ve heard from enough people that this is where you find the real racaille that I’d probably only go there in broad daylight.)

My other hunch would be that if those algorithms were involved, they’re revising them. French security officials may not have infinite resources, but they are not stupid. France is a First World place where “new data makes educated people change the algorithms.”

But that’s a hunch, not at all a fact. I’d like to know the facts. But at this point, I’ve so lost confidence in what’s being reported in the news that it looks like I’ll have to verify every fact personally with my own eyes, by which point it won’t be in the news anymore, but at least I’ll understand the story. I’m losing every bit of confidence in the media to get even the basics right, even when it concerns one of the most well-known cities in the world. I shouldn’t have to waste time proving the obvious; I should be spending it looking for what isn’t utterly obvious.

But even if I have to do every bit of the reporting myself, I know I should do it. Figuring out how that really happened is pretty important, especially if you prefer it not happen again.

But our next suburb, because I could use a break, will be Neuilly-sur-Seine, an absolutely gorgeous suburb that no real person can afford to live in:

I reckon it’s very safe to walk there, too: