Le Quatorze Juillet

July 4th came and went in France without even a whimper, but the 14th (aka Bastille Day) went out with a bang.


There was a grand parade and air show on the Champs-Elysées. N and I missed the fanfare due to a late morning and leisurely lunch, but we caught some of the daytime revelry. We walked two miles from our home to la place de la Concorde, catching a military expo of sorts along the way, in a small square between the Louvre and the Palais Royal. There was an army camper showing military footage (it was so crowded we couldn’t get close enough to see any), but we had fun checking out the mannequins of legionnaires throughout the ages – particularly the prominently featured WWI soldiers. There was also a tent showcasing military-branded wine (where else would you see that but in France?), which was also thronged. We squeezed past an endless torrent of tourists by the Louvre and in the Tuileries to get to Concorde, the endpoint of the parade, where we witnessed hordes and hordes of decorated soldiers and navy sailors in their dandy outfits posing for pictures and savoring ice cream cones in the heat.

In the evening, we went to N’s family friend’s rooftop dinner party in the swanky 16th arrondisement. This sport afforded us a perfect view of La Tour Eiffel and the annual spectacle des feus d’artifice (fireworks show) right beside it. Let’s just say that the French know how to do fireworks, and seeing them streaking through the skyline beside La Tour Eiffel was magical. Overheard on the rooftop was the poignant quip, “Here are our tax dollars at work, people!” Ha. We took an insane amount of pictures, so I’ll let the ones I’ve included do the rest of the talking.






It was nice to be in a secluded spot for the occasion. Tons of locals and tourists pack themselves onto the Champ de Mars in front of La Tour Eiffel. Apparently the crowd was enormous and the gendarmerie were checking people’s bags and confiscating alcohol (only to drink it themselves, I’m sure).

After being nestled in the serene cocoon of the rooftop party, we eventually had to rejoin the masses, which were pouring out of every street—people partying, strolling, eating ice cream on their way to the Metro from the nearby Champ de Mars. Uh oh. The Metro ride started out semi-comfortably, but got more and more crowded as we made our way across town, eventually reaching a crisis point of transport strike-levels of suffocation about halfway home. The crowds waiting on the platforms were mind-bogglingly huge. At one point, we couldn’t take it anymore and instantaneously bolted off the train, although it took quite a while to wade through the dense thicket of people packed onto the platform and staircases until we finally made it outside—at Concorde, the exact point where we ended our daytime walk.

And so we did the same walk twice in one day, as there were no Velibs to be found anywhere. We caught the mini-carnival festivities in the Tuileries, which were even livelier at night than during the day, what with all the flashing neon and people high on booze and/or cotton candy. We topped off the day with a great late-night walk, with the sounds of revelry carrying all the way into the Marais.

Of Cantaloupes and Chameleons

On a recent gorgeous Sunday, I saw the legendary Herbie Hancock play at a free jazz festival in the business district outside Paris. I was pretty far from the stage, although I managed to capture some short footage of show highlights. The audio far outweighs the video quality, but you can still enjoy:

Cantaloupe Island
(while you can barely see the stage, you can observe one of the foremost French social rituals: people schmoozing over cigarettes)


Chameleon
(better view of Herbie and his HAWT electric keyboard; note the super enthusiastic chick in the bottom right corner)

Music Fête-ish

It’s wonderful living in a country where the government truly puts the arts on a pedestal. There are numerous annual country- and city-wide festivals that offer up cultural events and attractions FOR FREE. Numerous. Free. Amazing! Did I say free? (Quite a worthwhile offshoot of paying such high taxes.)

Yesterday was the solstice, the first day of summer, and the weather arrived accordingly. It was thus the perfect day for the annual Fête de la Musique. Musicians of all kinds play all over France throughout the day. In Paris, there were hundreds of performances alone to choose from. But rather than strategize, I just wanted to roam and see what I’d find. I headed out at 6:00 to meet friends and do a lazy crawl around the Marais and Bastille area. Here’s the musical collage I experienced:

Down Boulevard Beaumarchais – There are tons of people out! It’s well over 80 degrees F and Parisians have abandoned the scarves and layers of clothes they usually wear, even when it’s in the 70’s. People of all ages are Velib’ing, strolling, smiling. It’s infectious. Some French-Indian guy stops me and asks me to be a sari model for his photography project (it took three times before I fully understood). No, sorry, got people to meet and music to see! I pass a Nirvana cover band (no audible French accent, but not gritty enough to sound like Kurt Cobain). I find my friends and we happen upon a funk-soul cover band. They’re fun and we stop for a while to bob our heads to Stevie Wonder and Finley Quaye, but bolt when we hear the opening bars of a Doobie Bros. tune.

At Place de la Bastille – We pause at the large stage and catch the tail end of Pascale Picard, a popular French-Canadian chanteuse. She’s a tad Lilith Fair but with slightly more edge. The crowd is big, and keeps getting bigger. I’m pleased to notice that Parisians of all ages are out and taking part in the festivities. A couple people are illegally selling beers and keeping an eye out for the cops. Then Mademoiselle K comes on and proceeds to rawk! They have a Le Tigre-esque sound with more dissonant guitar thrown in. I like it. Eventually it’s time to meet up with some other friends. The couple I’m with want to Velib to our destination, but I choose to walk as it’s not far and I want to take in the unexpected musical surprises along the way.

Around Place des Vosges – I pass six extremely different musical arts within ONE BLOCK. Yet, oddly enough, they are spaced out enough so as to not interfere with the others’ sound. I see:
1. I don’t know how else to describe it other than, clowns-meet-marching band. They have the horns. They have the marching drum. They have the right sound. But they are dressed really eccentrically; the band leader is sporting a row of broom bristles on his head. The crowd is loving them, at any rate—Parisians are not so disaffected that they won’t to clap to the beat!
2. African drumming circle. Always great.
3. Bagpipes and traditional Breton dancing.
4. Organist playing a requiem.
5. Chorus belting out a traditional French song. Lyrics had been handed out to the crowd, so anyone could join in.
6. Young rock band. Harmonic guitars, perfect on a warm summer evening.

Past Parc Royal – A French solo-artist tries his best with “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” but he’s no match for Nancy Sinatra. Young girls slowly amble with guitars, just strumming and softly singing folk songs.

On the wide expanse of rue des Quatre Fils – A barbeque! And a DJ spinning some rather fabulous Brazilian-sounding stuff. Kids are dancing. Adults are dancing. Note to self: come back here in a little while.

Up rue des Haudriettes – A not-so-good 90’s cover band. I don’t think I’ve heard “Losing My Religion” and the Four Non-Blondes since the 90’s, and this is the last place I expected to do so. I reach my destination of the teeny Place Vivien, find my friends, settle in with a pint, and enjoy some traditional Irish music. The musicians teach some volunteers a dance (no jig, bummer) and it’s a soothing spot for une petite pause from the crowds.

But we get restless eventually so we wander back to the dance party/barbeque, which is raging with lots of young people, but also a considerable amount of families. It’s almost dark at 10:45, but not quite. (It is solstice, after all, and Paris is on higher longitude than you might think.) We grab beers and grilled merguez sandwiches, and enjoy the DJ’s offerings, which evolve past Latin beats into stranger, very eclectic territory—some hip-hop, some funk, a large helping of 80’s, and my personal highlight, a kind of 60’s dancefloor cover of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of.” Must find this track. We while away a couple hours here and eventually bed calls.

Thankfully I’m a five-minute walk from home. People are still going full force! I wish I had their stamina. I laugh a little as I come across a band playing “Under the Bridge” in front of (of all places) my bank. (More 90’s covers? More American music?) Some twentysomethings zoom by on Velibs and sing along: “It’s the city I live in…” Oh happy night.

I wish they had this festival more than once a year.

Corporate Extravagance

Company holiday parties. If you work in the private sector, they can merit getting dressed up for the open bar, decent cocktail food, and funny memories of coworkers getting trashed and embarrassing themselves. Or, if you work for a public school, they’re mediocre luncheons that you have to pay $20 to partake in (yes, I speak from experience). Basically, they’re usually fun but nothing to really write home about—with the exception of the famously cool Yahoo! holiday functions featuring performances by of-the-moment bands. (A friend once somehow worked an invite to one of said parties and got to bop around on stage in an animal suit with The Flaming Lips, as part of their customary stage theatrics.)

However, my previous perceptions of holiday parties were completely bowled over last week. N’s company’s French office was rumored to pull out all the stops for their Christmas (read: NOT US-style politically correct “holiday”) soiree. We’d heard bits and pieces of these parties’ former greatness from both French and American employees, but nothing prepared us for what amounted to the most impressive corporate holiday affair either of us has ever attended.

We entered the nightclub located on a quai of the Seine right underneath the Pont Alexandre III (a stellar location—the most beautiful bridge in Paris). Immediately we had two choices—enter via Paradis (Heaven) or via Enfer (Hell). This was the party’s theme, after all. Partygoers roamed about with champagne flutes in hand (sometimes as many as 3), wearing halos and angel wings or sporting horns and carrying pitchforks. Apparently costumes and props were being doled out by the door. We balked at the blinding white light emanating from Heaven and went straight into the fiery depths of Hell (well, more like the faux flames that are actually red Mylar strips being blown about by a fan…but still, A for effort).

Hell was dark, decadent, and pumpin’, with a hint of S&M. Not only was the DJ set up in that room, but there were also several cages (replete with cage dancers—not hired “help,” but actual employees giving it a go-go), several people roaming around with whips ready to give anyone willing a licking, and, I kid you not, a mechanical bull. The dance floor was packed and it was cool to see people dancing salsa and swing steps with each other regardless of gender (more proof that the French are so not uptight).

On the brighter side of the party, in the Heaven wing, everything gleamed white and silver. The diversions were just a tad less kinky. First, there was an acrobatic harness that one could climb up into and dangle from the ceiling, doing their best Cirque de Soleil impressions. Second, the massage room—two massage chairs were set up with pros working their magic fingers. Third, the Garden of Eden-esque chill room decked out with an Astroturf floor and cushions, real trees, plants, and flowers…and ultimately, the token passed-out chick near the end of the night (poor girl).

Apparently one could earn massage tickets after riding the bull or getting whipped. One of N’s coworkers visiting from the US attempted the bull not once, not twice, but four times, and was thrown from the bull after a grand total of one second each time. No massage for him! The French ladies had the right call – some told me all they had to do was bat their eyelashes to procure a massage ticket, avoiding humiliation or getting tossed around on the bull to the point of regurgitating all the freely-flowing champagne.

I really like the French coworkers! People went out of their way to be friendly to me, which I attest to N’s supreme likability (as if there was any doubt). They are also no shrinking violets when it comes to the dance floor, not to mention they aren’t afraid of having a super-late school night. We left the party at 2:30am and it wasn’t necessarily still going strong, but there was still a decent crowd left (apparently it totally wound down at 3:30—not bad for a Wednesday!). Having arrived back from NYC the day before, I was jet-lagged to the point of sharp alertness, which helped me stand strong at the party but wasn’t so convenient when I had to wake up at 7:30 for work later that morning. I felt like a college student again…good times.

I don’t know what budget they were working with (they certainly didn’t need $20 contributions from the employees, unlike one of my former employers), but the company threw a fabulous fête that I can only hope they top next year.

PS-OK, I found pictures - these are not ours, but were circulated by an employee. Pretty darn good shots!