Traipsing up to the Bastille

When I emailed a friend back home to say that I would be celebrating Bastille Day on Monday, the response was, “going to watch some beheadings?” Indeed, this was the trend of humorous comebacks at the mention of France’s Fête Nationale. It's also the kind of remark that really (pardon my pun) cuts to the heart of the issue. As Americans, French independence conjures up images of heads on pikes, a rowdy rabble crowned with red caps, and of course Madame la Guillotine. And maybe, if you’re well-read, crazy knitting ladies.

Which, I suppose, is all true…of Paris, in 1789 (with the possible exception of the knitting). Nowadays, it seems to me that the Quatorze Juillet isn’t much different from our Fourth of July. And true, the signing of the Declaration of Independence is slightly less bloody than a riot of prisoners, but – and please forgive my heresy – the eight-year war following that signing could easily be argued as more brutal than the nine-month Reign of Terror. I guess civil wars are messy, no matter how you (ugh) slice it.

Anyway, I woke up late in the morning to the sound of sporadic snapping and cracking in the street that would continue through the day. I didn’t manage to figure out whether French firecrackers have legal status in the States, but I didn’t see – or hear – anything substantially bigger than the Hail To The Nation! I purchased a year ten days ago. Isabelle had left me a note saying she was obligated to go to her mother’s for the day, so I sat down with Veronique, Romain (at least, I hope that’s his name), and a jar of Nutella to watch the parade in Paris. My primary thought during this event was that the French flag seems a lot classier than the American one.

The living room slowly emptied, and I spent the rest of the morning reading and idly thinking about whether it would be worth it to try and get my hands on some bottle rockets…around noon, Veronique poked her head around the corner and asked me if I wanted to go to a restaurant with Romain, as she had been planning on going, but then other plans had come up. I agreed, he came back around the apartment to put away his lime-green longboard, and we left. Before you start getting any ideas (Alyssa. Mom. Bess.), he did end up paying for my lunch, but just because all I’d ordered was a glass of wine and a Perrier. He’s a linguist and had some interesting things to say about education systems and socialism in Europe which I won’t summarize here.

It’s unusual for me to have articles I’ve read in school be quoted back nearly word for word during the course of normal conversation, but Romain’s views on France and French patriotism lined up neatly with a piece I read for 201 (although, to be fair, that article was making a point about the contrariness of the French, so nearly any view would). Apparently a good number of the French – including my flatmate – scoff at Bastille Day because it’s all reminiscence. He spoke about the parades and the soldiers standing at attention and all the pomp and pretension, and yet how France’s military and economic domination is really a thing of the past. An interesting viewpoint, I thought, but said that really, all such holidays are for remembering the past. Then I recalled that I don’t like the July 4th so well: all the rushing around and scrambling for a good place to…stand and peer at the sky for ten minutes…and then more crowd fighting. Also, it’s really hard to debate in French.

After lunch, I spent some time walking around Aix. I was surprised to see that most of the businesses were open, as if it were a normal Monday. I suppose this was startling because on your average Sunday, holidays aside, it’s difficult to find even a café or patisserie that’s open for early breakfast (as I keep forgetting). I stopped by a liquor store and shopped for some souvenirs for people back home.

By dinnertime, festivities were just starting to pick up. I heated up some cold chicken Isabelle had set by for me and ate some chocolate icecream while watching a group of men playing guitars and dancing in the courtyard below the large windows of the apartment. Just before ten, as the sun started to set, I headed out into a decidedly carnival atmosphere.

As anticipated, the streets were blocked off, full of pressing crowds of adults and children grabbing each others hands and kissing exuberantly. The streets were again filled with music: a group of African drummers, the ubiquitous oom pah pah patriot band, and several people armed with instruments who seemed to be trying to make as much random dissonant noise as possible. I pushed my way to the central square, which afforded a good view of the sky, and which was roped off and swarming. After hanging back for thirty seconds bracing myself, I turned around and headed for plan B: the rooftops. There’s a good roof with a view of the city I’d heard about, and I made my way towards the opposite end of town. Of course, this location was crowded, too. I hung back from the edge, reluctant to shove to the front of the wall and stake out a spot, until I nearly lost the place I had been surreptitiously hanging about. I was trying not to get too impatient and antsy when, at last, the fireworks started.

French fireworks – at least the ones in Aix – are not as varied as the ones shot off at Three Rivers in Pittsburgh. They don’t make your heart rattle in your chest when they explode, and they don’t leave afterimages on your retinas. The sounds they make are more like dogs barking than cannons going off. They do, however, create a whole lot of smoke that gets caught up in the not-quite-Mistral winds, and they’re launched, with true European flare, from the center of the roped-off square I’d passed on my way to the roofs. Coming to class on Tuesday, I found that a classmate of mine had a medium-sized gash on her forehead from one of several pieces of burning shrapnel that had rained down on the onlookers. So perhaps not so far away from beheading after all.

Although…I don’t think it would have necessarily been a good idea to flee the country (contrary to 1789); another classmate from 201 was conspicuously absent today, the reason for her absence being that she got violently ill while in Venice. Apparently it was food poisoning that lead to the intensive care unit…I’m a bit surprised no canals were involved…nonetheless. Overall, a fairly tranquil family holiday. Maybe if I had been in Paris, there would have been more violence, as my American friend had warned in that email. Still, standing away from the peril and crowded in on all sides by the gasping and pointing French, I enjoyed the commemoration of long-ago bloody idealism as well as any Aixoise.