Rue Rude

Getting ready for Bastille Day

Paris is full of cops and soldiers at the moment, as the city gets ready to celebrate the Quatorze Juillet. ("Bastille Day" is one of those expressions, like "Chunnel," that the French themselves never use.) There are soldiers in camouflage riding camouflage-painted jeeps marked "Circulation"-- which in the middle of a city are very far from blending into the scenery; buff bicycle cops, always in pairs, dressed in dark blue and cycling leisurely along; cops at lots of major intersections pulling people over (woe to you if you are not wearing your seat belt or do a queue-de-poisson as you turn the corner); soldiers with machine guns walking down the streets; groups of cops with cameras and radar on the Périphérique and on the airport access roads. The Assemblée Nationale has an enormous bleu-blanc-rouge sash tied diagonally across it, and the bleachers have been set up under the annual bleu-blanc-rouge sun-tent in the Place de la Concorde, ready for the Président de la République to watch the parade down the Champs-Elysées.

George Bush is in Europe. I can't help wondering if all the unusually strict security this year isn't because he is planning on a surprise visit.

But this morning I was on my way to the airport in a taxi driven by a friendly Algerian who grew up in France. He took one look at the jammed Périphérique and disappeared down an alternate route to the airport that I had never tried. It got us there in excellent time.

"You should go to Algeria. It is a beautiful country. It is safe now. The airport in Algiers has more security than you will see anywhere: you must go through four controls. Lots of tourists are starting to come. Not just French, but Americans."

"Americans?" I said, surprised.

"Ah oui! You know that even during the bloodiest years of the 1990s, they never touched the Americans. Histoire de commerce."

The long summer begins

Almost all my neighbors have left Paris for the summer. There are no more children in this neighborhood, no more old people or retirees. The grand old French tradition of long summer vacations is still going strong. Children are sent off to the country, the beach or the mountains for the whole summer, preferably with Mamie (Grannie). The Parisians who are still here working have slowed their pace and changed their way of dress, and anyone in formal clothes or with lots of makeup on is certainly a tourist.

Our almost empty building, though, is not quiet, but noisy with drilling and hammering from morning to night, because everyone tries to have repairs done in the summer when the weather is nice and the neighbors are not there to complain. The concierge is cross because she has to stay all during the month of August to surveiller the workmen.

It is easy to park again. In August, it's even free because the meter maids are on vacation. All the small local stores close in August. Since the weekend when the last schools got out, the summer emptiness has started in Paris.

 

Why everyone wants to be a fonctionnaire: the office

Play-by-play, France-Italy World Cup final

Yes, the game was at 20h, not 21h-- I took an informal poll at a gas station halfway between Paris and Amiens and there was a lot of confusion on that point, since the last two French games were at 21h. Luckily I turned on the radio and got home twenty minutes before the game started.

"Who would be driving into Paris at this time of a Sunday afternoon?" said H on the cell phone.

"Everyone in France and Belgium, it looks like," I said. People were honking just for fun as they waited in long queues in the tunnels on the way into Paris.

As I drove by the Stade de France at about 6:30 p.m., a crowd of people outside it was singing along to "We are the champions!" coming from huge speakers on a stage. Most of the people on the autoroute rolled down their windows to hear.

I saw a lot of cars with French flags stuck out their windows. In England they sell these suction-cup flags to stick on your car windows, but the French have to make do with an ordinary flag wedged into the window crack.

We drank champagne as we watched Zinédine Zidane score a goal on a penalty kick for France. Then Italy scored and our visitor from New York City said, "Good thing we drank the champagne at the beginning!"

"Zinédine means 'servant of religion,'" said N, who grew up in Lebanon, as we watched the captain of the French team heroically fight through his pain to go back onto the field even though his shoulder was causing him agonies.

"NOOOON! Zizouuuuu!" yelled everyone in France as Zidane furiously headbutted the Italian Materazzi after the two exchanged words. Zidane was sent off the pitch in disgrace in his last game ever. His face was tragic.

"C’est à pleurer. C’est à pleurer," said the French announcer, stammering. I had turned away at the moment of the incident and I waited for the instant replay. And waited. And waited. No replay. The very fact that French television did not want to show Zidane's faute told me that it was bad.

"It was blatant! How could he péter les plombs like that with a billion and a half people watching!" said N.

The silence in the dark Paris streets was heavy after the game, so different from the joyous honking and singing on Wednesday night. I don't think anyone really begrudged the Italians their world cup. They played well.

As I said goodbye to my guests, I saw my Italian neighbor coming up the stairs with her French husband. "You must be happy!" I said.

"I wish I could be happy," she said. "But I would like to know what the Italian player said to make Zizou so angry."

Saturday night, small English hotel

Sorry to have been blank for a few days. There was a storm Wednesday night and my ISP couldn't deal with it, and I left for England on Friday. I was sorry not to be able to put in "en colere" how the employees of Sogerma had invaded the runways of the Toulouse airport and that the public transport employees of Mulhouse (pronounced Mullooze) are on strike too.

On the other hand, the English don't complain enough. I am in a small English hotel. Does that say anything to you? Perhaps it sounds charming? Okay, then how about: small English hotel plumbing?

Back to Paris tomorrow in time for the Big Game at 21h. We have a French flag and are ready to march on the Champs-Elysees in case when the French win.

Happy Fourth of July! Jefferson arrives in Paris

Here in Paris, the Fourth of July is just an ordinary day. So ordinary that one July 4th, I actually showed up at the American consulate to get something done and was surprised to find it closed. (The embassy employees take all American and all French holidays.)

The U.S. ambassador marks the Fourth of July by a huge annual party in his gorgeous big garden, with the Marine Band playing. Very few of us Paris Americans, though, are ever invited to this party, even though as (unrepresented) taxpayers we are paying for it. No, the party is mostly for important French people and foreigners, embassy employees, and Americans who live here a few days a year. I wouldn't even know about it except that my British neighbors get invited every year.

I was complaining about this to my Australian friend Jenny and she said, "I used to work for the Australian embassy and people would write in all the time to ask to be invited to things. Why don't you just ask?" So I did, and sure enough, the next year I was invited. The band played, the champagne poured freely, and I went and chatted to the Brits and the once-a-year expats. There was a huge crowd, mostly French as I could see from the guest book, and I didn't even see the ambassador. Of course, there were no fireworks. It was kind of boring. My thirst for fairness was quenched.

Today I attended the dedication of a new statue of Thomas Jefferson on the quai d'Orsay, next to the Passerelle Solférino [a pedestrian bridge across the Seine] and across the street from the Palais de la Légion d'Honneur.
I ran into Kate, a woman I know. She is a Southerner and a passionnée of Jefferson. "I was actually born on the same day he was," she said. "It's perfect for his statue to be here. You know, he modelled Monticello on the Palais."

It was very hot and people actually had brought umbrellas as parasols. You could easily tell the Americans from the French: Americans know how to dress comfortably and yet formally in the heat. There were a lot of elegant Virginians. I retreated out of the sweltering invitation-only enclosure into the shade where the hoi polloi were gawking. The white-jacketed band sweated in the blazing sun on the bridge. The statue stood looking very cool, like a rolled-up mummy. The donor Guy Wildenstein, the Mayor of Washington (who very inappropriately asked the audience to applaud his wife's presence), and then Paris Mayor Delanoë all gave speeches. The U.S. ambassador Craig Stapleton was supposed to speak but he didn't-- I didn't see him either. Delanoë was eloquent. He talked about how the United States and France have stood together in all the important wars and questions, and how Thomas Jefferson was a President who understood other countries (was that a snide reference?) and loved France. It was a good speech-- I like him at times like this.

Feeling the heat in Paris

Today is the day Paris teenagers found out if they passed their baccalaureate exams. It's very, very public. Everyone can see if your name is there on the list of "Admitted." Or not.

I arrived back in Paris last night and was met by an ovenlike heat that reminded me of much-unmissed summers in New York City. Paris is under an Alerte Orange for the canicule [heat wave] and we are all being advised to keep our curtains, windows and shutters shut during the day. They don't have to tell me-- I grew up in the South in darkened summer rooms.

Being out of the country didn't keep me from celebrating when France gave a magnificent performance in the World Cup Saturday, putting Brazil out of the game! I sneaked out of a concert and dinner early to go watch the beautiful teamwork that demoralized the most talented players in the world. I would like to have been in Paris that night.

Off to drink my mint ice tea!

*Photo from Indeepdark on Flickr