Bastille Day

Stuart Malcolm Ferguson, who runs an independent book store in Highlands and is my Facebook friend, posted this a week ago.  “Le jour de gloire est arrivé! In honor of our Parisian namesake, come celebrate Bastille Day at Shakespeare & Co. Booksellers in Highlands Village Square on Thursday, July 14, from 4 to 6pm. We'll have live music, light refreshments and rude salesclerks--just like the City of Light!”  It was a little cruel of me, but I replied, “Sorry to miss it Stuart! We’ll be in Paris on Bastille Day!”  (And by the way we never encountered any rude salesclerks.)  “Zut alors, that's rubbing it in!” he said.

We had been cautioned by more than one Parisian, beginning with our taxi driver from the airport on the first day, not to go out into the city on July 14, or if we did to wait until apres-midi (afternoon).  There were many, many people lining the Champs Elysees – at least, that’s what I saw on TV in the lobby of our hotel, where I watched some of the parade this morning, including Emmanuel Macron waving from an open car.  Pickpockets are always a problem in Paris, although we never encountered any (and our securely-zipped pockets would have foiled them), so perhaps that is why we “Innocents Abroad” had been told not to venture out.

The 17^th Arrondissement was far from the Champs Elysees, though, and we felt perfectly safe walking the shady, quiet one-mile route to the Parc Monceau, which Jean-Charles had showed us yesterday.  I should mention at this point that whenever we walked somewhere in Paris, we felt safe.  There were always other people around, and perhaps I am just naive, but I am not sure the French even have a word for “mugging.”   The sidewalks are wide and  the roads are well-maintained, and everywhere you go you see amazing architecture, iron railings and streetlights you might expect to see in a museum, and unexpected statuary.  Here is a bank we happened to see along the way.  Just an ordinary office building.

Near the entrance to the park was the museum Jean-Charles had pointed out to us yesterday (he had checked to be sure it was open on this national holiday), the Musée Cernuschi, officially the Musée des arts de l'Asie de la Ville de Paris, one of the best Asian art museums in the world.

We both love Asian art and we spent some time there, then entered the park, which today was filled with Parisians relaxing, strolling along the tranquil, shady sidewalks, and spreading out blankets on the lawn in the sun, as we would do on the Fourth of July in the US.  (A first-class fireworks display was also scheduled for later in the day – as well as military jets flying in close formation like the Blue Angels, streaming vapor trails of red, white, and blue – but still suffering from jet lag and having walked perhaps six miles by the end of the day, we did not stay up to see it.)  It was a popular place for running, too, with wide walkways and no traffic.

 

There were many children in the park, especially in the vicinity of the carousel, which was similar to ones in our country but somehow seemed different, seemed French,  Perhaps it was the Jules Verne miniature submarine, or the long-eared donkey.

Here is a video I shot of the carousel, and in the background you can see a small round building selling cappuccino, iced drinks, gelato, and pressed sandwiches, so small that it was hard to believe all of those operations were being carried out in the one building.  We ordered the sandwiches, made with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella, and sat at a tiny table out back, and it was very good.  One detriment to eating outside, however, is that smoking is allowed, a habit that is surprisingly widespread in France.  It seems like such a healthy country in so many other ways, its citizens for the most part slim and attractive – we rarely saw the obesity that is such an epidemic in our country – and Jean-Charles had commented on the smoking yesterday as well.  “It is one area where you are ahead of us!”

We wandered and wandered, up one street and down another, a little like Ulysses.  We were enjoying being in Paris on our own, and we were feeling very self-reliant.  We ended up on the wonderful Rue de Lévis, with its many food stalls and shops.  Not far from our hotel at this point, we decided to buy some wine and went into a wine shop, called a cave.  A very likeable young woman who spoke excellent English guided us to a good choice, and I mentioned that we were also looking for a pâtisserie – a bakery – for some good bread.  “The one we just passed?” I asked.  “No, no.  Go down the street that way and there is a little place on the right!”  There was indeed, and the bread was excellent.

Between there and our hotel there were plenty of ethnic restaurants  – Vietnamese, Argentina, Portuguese, Chinese – reflecting the ethnically diverse nature of this city.  I learned that Paris is considered the most diverse city in Europe; it is estimated that around 23% of the population migrated to the city sometime after they were born.  I am sure there are some problems here, but it is a rebuke to that dangerous and narrow-minded belief that one's own race happens to be the superior one.  Travel just a little and you will learn that there is always someone of another race or ethnicity who is richer, stronger, faster, smarter, and better looking than you are.