The other night, I was jolted out of sleep by yelling. It wasn’t your regular garden variety of yelling. This was organized chanting through a megaphone, followed by chaotic screaming. I finally went back to sleep, as there was no way I was heading out to investigate. It has been going on for weeks. That night protesters were tear gassed in Victor Hugo square, and 6 policemen were injured.
Today, the protests continue, with transportation shutting down and riot gear police lining the streets. There is also a formidable military presence, since November and the attacks in Paris. The state of emergency hasn’t been lifted, and it promises to continue indefinitely, even as suspects of the attacks are being extradited from Belgium. It is chokingly reminiscent of after 9/11. Muslims are on edge. In fact, everyone is on edge. Including me. Being an American, not used to relentless protesting, this isn’t a way of life I know.
I’ve been comparing notes with French friends, and particularly with the lady who cleans my house. She pointed out that businesses are being damaged, and that it is interrupting everyone’s way of life. My friend in Geneva has the opinion that people will stop protesting once summer arrives and classes end. They’re surprised when I say I respect these protesters somewhat, they are doing something we’ve mostly been terrorized out of doing in the US; defending our rights to fair labor practices.
Turns out, people are not happy at all about the new labor law that was pushed through by an illegal referendum in Paris. President Hollande initially backed down on this referendum, but allowed others to pass it.“This is really an authoritarian government,” said Jean-Claude Mailly, head of the Force Ouvrière trade union. “If it was really a bill for social progress … the majority [vote] would be found.” This bill makes it much easier for employers to hire and fire workers, as well as relaxing compensation for job loss.
This is how it looks in Grenoble, night time protests, day time protests. Banks appear to be a particularly favorite target. There are no ATM’s, and all of the windows are boarded up. Upside, I’m not spending any money. McDonalds appears to be a favorite as well, red paint being the preferred color to splatter it with. Every time they go to repaint the sign, it returns to splattered red. Two days ago, 122 cities had marches with over 2000 people each. In Paris, night protests have put things on edge and nocturnal havoc has ensued. Protesters were tear gassed in front of the palace of justice just yesterday.
It is a strange time to be living in France, and one that I will never forget. There is a reason and a rhyme behind a government fearing its people, and history is not forgotten. I would be proud to be a citizen of such a nation, and wonder what the future holds for French equality, liberty and brotherhood.
You know you’ve lived in France for a while when…….
Women in hijab don’t make you do a double take anymore.
Every conversation, even with a cashier, ends with three courteous types of goodbye and thank you.
Making eye contact and smiling at a stranger means you want to talk to them.
Most of the time your eyes are scanning the ground for piles of dog doo anyway.
The world’s best behaved dogs live in France, it’s no wonder they’ve been legally declared sentient beings.
I’ve rarely seen a leash on a dog, and nary a snarl.
French mothers are the strictest on the planet, and their children rarely cry.
I haven’t seen one whining child.
Little old French women are quite possibly the cutest doddering, wrinkled grandma types.
Man purses are a thing here. Yes, they really are. So are man buns.
French fathers dote on their children, and are seen everywhere with them.
French men travel in packs, literally.
Everyone smokes, wherever and whenever they feel the urge.
People don’t make out or hug in public here.
The death glare of a cashier at the store for not weighing your veggies is unlike any other death glare I’ve ever seen.
The gas guy sniffs around your house like a scent detective, declaring everything All Right! Even when you know it’s not.
People yell when they fight, really loud, but with a polite tone of voice.
French replaced Spanish as your favorite language,
Many conversations are about cheese and cheese odors.
No one talks about money in public, it’s rude.
Waiters are busy, not angry. They don’t like it when you don’t finish your drink, though. The glare comes close to a cashier glare, but is usually followed with a quick smile.
Even if someone can tell you’re a foreigner, if you speak in French, you’re held up to the same standards as a local.
The panhandlers are the most polite ones I’ve ever met. They sweetly wish you a good morning and query softly if you could maybe help them (and usually their dog) out a little bit. They follow up with three goodbyes.
Chawing down on a baguette with a few spare under your arm is acceptable behavior on any street, at any time of the day.
Drinking espresso is an all day affair.
The only fast food in France is salads and kebabs.
Bikes and pedestrians rule the streets. People driving cars look guilty.
Cher Paris. You are imbedded in the minds of people worldwide. Your heart, your beauty, your demonstration of art for all humanity. We worship you, we follow you in our minds. I dream of secret rooms in the Eiffel Tower, and eating one dainty macron in Arrondissement 2. Just that. Even pretty Japanese ladies decorate you, their flowery parasols in hand. We all dress our best for you and use our best table manners when we slurp oysters at the Grand Cafe. We know you, even if we don’t know you. We long to fit perfectly into your arms, even when our tongue can’t perfectly sound out your language.
When you were attacked today, all of France, all of the world was with you. I think you may be the last place where free speech is a virtue, where champagne is served with a smile, no matter what time of the day you order it. I hurt inside that you have been hurt. Why were you chosen, Paris? Why were you chosen, France? You, who fought so bravely and saved us all so many times? Where a friendly soccer match was chosen to terrorize the friendliest, most polite people on earth? Where a rock concert full of happy fans became the place to say, “Lay down” and then keep shooting? My heart hurts with you tonight Paris. I know that deep inside Notre Dame and Sacre Coeur, old spirits watch. Deep inside the Catacombs, bones shift as they listen to their city crying. To their nation at grief.
I am hundreds of miles away, but the dogs have been crying all afternoon. Emergency vehicles are everywhere, and sad military men are posted in every alleyway. No one is smiling today, a soft ‘bonne soiree’ is all I hear. I hear people passionately arguing, voices strained and trying to make sense of this. Worse yet, the muslims I have seen stare at the ground. What will you show us Paris, about our human nature? What will the world learn from this?
Why were those gunmen so young? Why does extreme love drive us to extreme hate? Perhaps someday we will know. You are the heart of Europe, they cast their stone at your kind heart. Perhaps tolerance will now be repaid with hatred. Perhaps we don’t deserve you, France, smiling and untouchable in the sun. Perhaps you will stand, gloriously, casting off the shadows of the subjugation. Until then, it was an act of war. The borders are closed, we all cling to each other tonight, darkest night. Darkest of nights.
“Let’s go look at the caves”, smiled my new landlord. An odd tingling sensation, yet also some curiosity drove me forth.
I followed him down the side door stairs into a very dark passage, where a tremulous light glimmered. Wine cellars were below my home. But there was more.
“Grenoble used to be a series of interconnected passageways”, he informed me. “But, they’ve all been sealed off now.” Down in this dark place was the water key, a place to stop any clogged up drains.
Wait, what? Grenoble had a subterranean passageway. Intrigued, I began digging for information. It turns out that this was the place where Jews were protected, even up to the plague in the early 1300’s. Protection was offered in Grenoble, the Dauphine allowed them favorable privileges even while the rest of the Jewish population was driven out of France. Eventually, because of prejudices of the era, 74 Jews were burned at the stake. It was widely accepted that Jewish people were the cause of the plague, as they were somehow ‘different’. To be in a place with such deep history required me to look further. To imagine the burning of citizens in the main square was a horrific vision indeed.
Musee de la Resistance
The Musee de la Resistance turned up some interesting artifacts; Grenoble was a stronghold against the Nazi forces in WWII. They were occupied by the Italians, and later by the Germans. During this time, Jews fleeing Germany and the occupied areas took refuge in Grenoble. Children were the first to take refuge in the passageways below my home. Many others eventually took to hiding below, while the Nazi forces bombed the city. I almost curl up within myself to feel this straight below my feet. My privileged feet, that live in a world where I can’t just disappear or have to hide from assassins coming for me.
I feel a strong urge to have a ceremony, for those who hid and lived below the city, who cried silently during raids. Who were these people? What is the story of each of these persons? I will never know…That is all the history I found. There is nothing else, just a little museum to tell me it happened. Today, an Ashkenazi and a Sephardi synagogue, maintaining a range of institutions, including kosher butchers, a talmud torah, various youth groups, and a community center is here..A Jewish radio station, Kol Hachalom (Voice of Peace), has been in operation in Grenoble since 1983.
I am still haunted by the passageways.
I was buying bottled water, again…many years in Latin America had versed me in the knowledge of the clean water. Boiled or bottled, let it be! It was a heavy load, chilled yeah, but strangely unsavory. Evian..hmmm. Bottled where? I’d heard the scams, the heavyweight tap water stories. God, I was thirsty. It was 93 degrees every day and I was moving my jumbled boxes of memories from the USA.
Late at night, I would wake up…thirsty thirsty. A chug from the old plastic bottle, a grimace and the mental confusion of my non-New Seasons triple filtered bliss met my tongue. Gross, but palatable. My daily quest was becoming water, especially because wine is more abundant than water. 3 euros for a bottle of chilled Bordeaux was just seeming better at this point. I was flashing back to my medieval days of brews and vines. I hadn’t even directly experienced those days, yet I could feel them. The row of perfect glass, yet unfilled bottles on my counter at home was confusing. How did the previous renter of this home fill glass from plastic just to thirstily sip? Contemplating those bottles, I almost thought of filling them with tap water, just to feel the coolness of a fresh drink running down my throat. It became me against the rock, Sampson and Delilah, a dream of a fresh mountain spring…Wait.
Then the email came. It was Jocelyn, the previous tenant. It was as if he was suddenly reading my mind, thinking of the sweaty plastic bottle hauling that was occurring. My pain apparently found itself traveling far away.
“The water in Grenoble is cleaner than anywhere,” he stated. “You can fill the glass bottles, and chill them”. Turns out I live in the Alps, and my American mind just couldn’t…Where does Evian come from? The Alps. I began a bit of research, ever the paranoid American…People told me Portland water was clean too, much to my disgust I once tried it. My water of my youth, the Mckenzie was just too pertinent in my plans.
Calcium..So much calcium! Apparently the water here is so calcium rich and so completely free of fluoride, you can drink it straight from the tap. It is so laden with calcium and minerals that the rivers run white over gurgling blue. So much that I need to decalcify all machines (dishwasher, washer, and coffee maker) monthly with sodium bicarbonate. Otherwise, they will freeze. The rivers run blue with a creamy white surface, the dishes come out spotty.
Water! French water is mandated free and accessible to all. If you are homeless, poor, or just thirsty (like me) you can approach any café or bar in France and have a free half carafe of fresh clean TAP water.
So, I finally made peace with water. In France. Damn if that first glass didn’t run down my throat like a blend of luxury and peace. Chilled bottles now await me, smiling, saying, “We know Pylaar. You’ve been waiting for this.” And the Bordeaux ain’t half bad either.
SACRE COEUR
meditations on peace
Non stop prayer and singing is occurring on the highest hill in Paris. 130 years of it to be exact. 130 years of prayers for world peace, something near and dear to my heart as a devout pacifist. I’ve always thought of this place as one of the great wonders of the world, and only glimpsed it in postcards and cliché tour guides of Paris. The building itself is fascinating, pale white stones are travertine, a self cleaning stone that retains whiteness from the rain.
200 something steps in the heat of August, we stand on the top of the Mont Martre hill, the hill of the martyrs. It’s been a place of worship since the Gauls performed pagan rituals here. It was dedicated to the gods of Mars and Mercury by the invading Romans, and is a central piece of life in Paris. Many people were sacrificed on this hilltop in subsequent centuries, during wars and conflicts. Finally, the first patron saint of Paris, St. Denis was said to survive a beheading only to descend the hill carrying his severed head for all of Paris to see. The dedication of this holy place to peace is monumental, it is a reach towards a better place for all.
Still outside, We try to take an iconic picture along with several other tourists, only to be battered by a random sprinkler that seems to have its’ eye on getting everyone wet. It’s refreshing though, and I can’t help but laugh along with the other victims of the playful water. Some children dance around near the sprinkler, taunting it in the heat. Inside, I show my girls how to bless themselves with holy water, they seem impressed I know these things. I say a silent prayer for the pagans.
The original temple is of course, gone. Louis the VI started the construction of what would become the sanctuary of the heart of Jesus, or the sacred heart. A crypt of unknowns was discovered during this process, and furthered the frenzy of faith. But today, a priest awaits at confession, smiling benignly as prayers seem to boom from the walls. I am tempted to confess something! But, not being a Catholic I just smile politely at him. No bonjours here!
No pictures! It says on the inside. A monolithic mosaic of Jesus surrounded by the waters of divinity covers the entire cupula inside. Tourists snap shots, and are shushed by sanctuary attendants while a beautiful nun sings hymns in French. There is a sanctuary behind her holding the statue of a nun and a beautiful mosaic of said nun, who must be a saint. No talking is allowed in this place, only prayers. I am content to stare in neck breaking awe at the ceiling, and light a little candle for world peace, tears misting over my vision. I believe in these things.
It feels right. My children light their own candles, which they later refuse to tell me what for. I hope it’s for world peace too. As we leave, I glimpse the statue of mother Mary holding out the sacred heart for all to see, as if to say, “Remember!”
Thoughts in Paris
Jet lag….woke up at 2:30 in the morning to open the windows and check out the street scene. Full of youth, teens and 20 somethings eating crepes, texting and generally having a loud good time.
I noticed no neighbors had opened their windows to yell at these throngs, nor did these kids seem in a hurry to go anywhere. One dapper young man in a black beret and a red striped shirt flirted with the girls, opening his arms and gesticulating as they walked away. The happy tone in his voice could’ve been heard all over Paris.
I went to drink some water and returned to my window perch. The crowd had changed a little and a number of African youth had lined one side of the street, one of them had long hair that he had carefully slicked back for full late night effect. I saw the French kid in the beret, and wondered how he would interact with them as he walked over with another white friend. My knee jerk American reaction was one of slight fear that there would be a fight. My instantaneous thought was that there may be trouble or an argument. No such thing! They began a rather animated conversation about the girls who had just left and continued standing around. Completely comfortable, completely at ease.
My heart began pounding when I saw a police car round the corner, it was now 3:30 am. Another policeman on a motorcycle followed. Would there be trouble? Uhmm. No. They drove by, waved to the blended group and drove on.
This simple observation was so culturally different from my own country, and I have been so conditioned to expect violence and police brutality towards people of color, particularly of African descent. I have been so accustomed to expecting police to ‘break up’ parties and gatherings, to penalize people out too late for their liking. In fact, I was pretty disappointed in myself that I expected an argument or conflict. Suddenly, my own perceptions were under an internal microscope. It was like some greater force was turning a little clock around inside of me.
It’s a whole new world, and culture shock sometimes creeps in at 3 am. It made my heart pound gleefully; no one was being punished for simply being young and alive. There weren’t any angry adults either, they must have all been asleep.
I went back to bed with a happy heart. And left the window open. And dreamt of better times ahead.
I can already taste the salt of the Atlantic in my mouth, in my airways…like a voyage I am returning to. A place I haven’t seen in 25 years, yet has clung to me like the palpable odors of saffron, fresh bread, and olive oil.
France. France, France, France. It has been in my dreams, dare I say, all of our dreams. The single memory that hangs sweetly there is a meal on my singular trip to France. It was Bordeaux, circa 1991. Fresh salmon roasted in butter and herbs with a huge salad, followed by cheese trays and 2 glasses of regional wine. Slightly sweet, tangy on the tongue. Remembering these flavors is like a delectable piece of late summer fruit.
Now I beg, no I DARE to return to across the pond. Over the puddle. Away from the land of loud cars and freeways. Far from the boring hamburgers of my youth. When I lived near Barcelona, Spain in high school it was an easy one time trip to Bordeaux.
Well, 25 years have gone by.
2015, and I teach Spanish to young adults. It’s an exhausting/exhilarating job, 8 hours on my feet daily and incredibly high energy. Thousands of unlogged hours go into translating documents. I’m in so deep it’s hard to see the sky anymore.
When I am home, my two amazing daughters and I see each other. I’m one of the lucky ones, I was able to stay home half time until my girls were in school. Now, as a single parent, it was a stretch with them everyday. I constantly thought about ways we could spend some more precious time together. Generally, I came up with Ecuador.
My kid’s dad is Ecuadorian, from a small village near Quito. We have family there and it began to make sense as both girls got older to travel. As an educator, I know how important it is to be multilingual, particularly in today’s media driven society. Both have a fine grasp of Spanish, and when I proposed the idea to them in 2013, they resoundingly said NO!
They wanted to go to Europe. Italy, France. They didn’t care. It was very odd how they just ‘knew’ what the other wanted. I was willing to ride this one out. We have been through a lot together. Both of my children are old souls, as a parent I have never been the master or commander of this ship. So, we sail out into the night….
Baguettes and Bikes 