Soixante-et-un, Le Maximum!

I knew there would be a transportation strike yesterday, but what I didn’t realize was that there would also be a huge demonstration protesting the proposed retirement age increase practically right outside my door. I’ve seen a few manifestations over the past few months, but none as big as this one. Tons and tons of civil servant unions from the greater Paris region gathered at Place de la Bastille and marched up the boulevard to Place de la Republique, right past my block, to decry working until the (hardly) “ripe, old” age of 61 – quite a laugh to an American who’s not only accustomed to the standard retirement age of 65, but also knows that even 65 is becoming more and more of a pipe dream what with the Social Security crisis and longer life expectancy. (Plus, isn't 60 the new 40?) Preconceptions aside, I went to check out the action. If attending Burning Man several times taught me anything, it was that being a spectator and not a participant is kind of lame. However, being an expat often makes you a spectator by nature, and sociological observation is a learning experience, after all.

Here are a few things I observed at the manif. Some were hardly surprising, but were a riot to see up close.

- Protests are a raucous affair (duh). San Francisco and New York can put on a mean protest, but this one, in terms of scale and effort, was formidable. Hoards of people of all ages were out for the event, from grade-school age to those who shuffled along with canes. Attendees of course had the standard flags, banners, pins, stickers, and leaflets that shouted out their respective causes, but whipped themselves up into a frenzy chanting at the top of their lungs to the point of becoming red in the face. (I think I can recite at least two of the popular chants now, being that I heard them ad nauseum: one slammed the increase of the retirement age from 60 to 61, while the other vocalized just how much Sarkozy’s disapproval rating has grown.) The unions not only had all the propaganda mentioned above, but also drove vans sporting soundtracks. Pinko parade footage blared from the Parti Communiste Française, the Rolling Stones’ “Emotional Rescue” (WTF?) blasted from the metallurgist union, and in a surprisingly pro twist, a dub-reggae remix of the maximum working years chant sounded from another van.

- Protests are a social affair. People crowded the rears of said vans in order to get down to the day’s real order of business: serious drinking. Yes, the vans sported bars in the back. If you’re going to spend your whole afternoon trudging up the boulevard and shouting your lungs out, you might as well do it with a beer or glass of wine in hand. Some protesters seemed to be taking this a bit too far. Plus, there were even some food vendors serving the crowd! It also seemed that the manif was a reunion of sorts. I saw lots of people spot each other across the crowd, prance over to each other, and perform the ritual double-kiss, proclaiming how long it had been and how good it was to see each other, etc. It all made me wonder, is this demonstration thing a social circuit? I mean, everyone and their mother and their mother’s mailman is out, they’re partying, and they’re running into each other in a manner rivaling a Phish show parking lot.
o “Man, manif tour is such a blur – did I see you last at that crazy waste management union thing, or was it the pharmacists'? Or maybe the teachers' strike – that was off the hook! All I know is, I passed out on the grass at Republique and woke up hours later plastered with Socialist Party flyers.”

- Protests are an ironic affair. People spent hours and hours revolting against reforms that would supposedly make them work harder, and created so much waste in the process – the street looked like an aftermath of a post-war victory parade. The best was when the city street cleaners’ union moved through the crowd. One of their entourage threw his beer can on the ground, crushed it underfoot, and kept on walking. In the end, someone would have to work hard at this anti-work affair - busting ass cleaning it all up.