2013-06 Paris

Bon Paques a tous. Though not religious I thought Notre Dame on Easter morning would be appropriate. And thus at sunrise I found myself before the 850 year-old cathedral, virtually alone as opposed to most days when the square is choc-a-bloc with tourists. France has been called a Catholic country in name only. Five minutes before the mass, less than 100 had assembled, and not a face found under middle age. It did fill up a bit as things got underway.

 

The week of gluttony has ended; the week of simple overeating has commenced.

 

Paris is in the throes of a pousette war. Baby strollars in France are elaborate affairs with deep pockets that shield young occupants from weather and the unwanted stares of clochards.  Pousettes enter city busses through double rear doors designed for egress, and there is an open area just inside for their placement. However, apparently the result of a baby boom in the French capital, a pousette explosion has developed, often resulting in 5 or 6 being jammed into and around the allotted space, rendering movement virtually impossible, resulting in plaintive cries of descende, s’il vous plait (let me the hell off this bus) at each stop.

A new rule (the other 83 are found in small print on a large placard behind the driver’s seat) limits pousettes to two per bus, but has no apparent effect on Parisian nannies and mamans who insist that their égalité affords them the right of entry. “If we’re all equal, why don’t you remove your pousette?”

The French understand well the national motto, liberté, égalité, fraternité. Liberté applies to me, égalité to us all, although just a tad more to me than others, and fraternité to anyone I have known for at least two decades and has treated me with unwavering liberté and égalité for that entire time.

 

"The French don’t smile” is a well-worn aphorism. In Polly Platt’s French or Foe she recounts the story (perhaps apocryphal) of the French TV anchor taking a year’s graduate study at the University of Virginia, called before the student tribunal for “not smiling.”

Incidentally, I consider the book an absolutely seminal read for anyone visiting France for the first time, or for those who have and exit disillusioned. Polly has departed the planet, but her book remains available on Amazon. It is less an apology than an explanation, and goes a long way to helping Americans understand that the French are not against them personally.

 

The sun has shown brightly for a second day in Paris and has the locals quite distressed. They walk hurriedly and look menacingly skyward as if the current conditions are some cruel celestial joke and inclemency (with perhaps a bit of brimstone thrown in for good measure) is imminent. Clearly the song “April in Paris” was written by someone ensconced in a well heated Greenwich Village apartment.

Another 5-k, on a weekday with enhanced challenge. And I have figured out why passing fellow joggers ignore me. I run in Wal-Mart sweatpants and a hoodie that marks me as more likely homeless than those decked out in 300€ multi-colored lycra running garb. And I joined a running group on-line. Got my first invitation for this weekend, a “shortened” run of but 2 hours in advance of the Paris marathon several weeks hence.  I plan to call in sick.

 

Bientot