Way Too Much Excitement

Last night I didn't get home until about 11pm. It always feels challenging to ride the Metro home at that time of night, and last night was no exception. It gave me some firsthand experience with the kind of fear and perplexity that might have come over Louise and Tori as they hurried home in the increasing street violence of July 1830. When I got off the Metro train at the stop where I change lines to get home, the first thing I noticed was the smell and then the visual validation of smoke. Now that's intense, to come off a subway underground in those tunnels and see (and smell) smoke. I saw a couple of people pull out handkerchiefs and cover their noses; it was that bad.

There was a junction in the tunnels ahead where I had to either go towards my transfer or exit the station. I hesitated unable to decide, the tunnel going toward the transfer looked even smokier than where I was but others were going on toward it anyway. At this point I could hear noise too, yelling and horns honking. No one in the Metro looked panicked, in spite of the smoke, people seemed pretty calm. I followed after everyone moving toward the transfer, and as the smoke increased I also realized that we were going up toward the street and remembered that this particular station is outside and above the street. (Barbès Rochechouart) As we hit street level it became obvious that the disturbance causing both the smoke and the noise was in the street, not the Metro, which was a relief, but it was extremely difficult to grasp just what was happening.

I took the steps and then the escalator up to the platform and from that vantage point could see that cars were stopped and honking and that the smoke seemed to be coming from the intersection. I thought it must be a fire but could see no flames. It didn't look like a building burning, it looked like wild people, and in fact it was—a demonstration of some sort with a lot of organized shouting. People were standing in their vehicles, their upper bodies emerging from sunroofs holding flags. Flags? I couldn't tell what was on them except that they seemed white with green writing. I wondered if it had something to do with the cyclists who take over the streets on Sundays as a protest against global warming.

They seemed to be celebrating, except that it felt aggressive and potentially explosive. The Metro was a five minute wait. The platform vibrated with the noise of street. Whatever was going on was right there, right below us, and involved a lot of people. At one point a dozen or so young men emerged on the opposite platform, one of them draped in a flag. They ran across the platform hollering and went down the stairs on the other side as five or six policemen came, rather reluctantly, after them. The noise was unnerving and loud. It was impossible to determine what it was about, but it looked and felt like a lot of people were carrying flags, that the noise was arising from some coordinated effort.

When the Metro finally arrived, a bunch of people exited the train chanting and yelling. They started running as soon as they exited. I boarded; it took the train a long time to close its doors and leave the station. Officials seemed to be walking the length of the train looking for demonstrators. Finally, we were underway and as the train passed over the intersection I could see down into it. That's where the smoke was originating, from a huge number of sparklers and bottle rockets and fireworks.

I'd heard a ton of fireworks go off the night before. I'm not sure if the two events were related. At my stop, (Pigalle, two stops to the west) as I came up onto the street, cars with people standing up through their sunroof and holding flags sped by. Lots of yelling, but no massive traffic jam. The heart of the demonstration was behind me and Rue des Martyrs was quiet. As I crossed the street, I got a clear view of the flags, finally. They were white with a green star and crescent—Islamic flags, not a comforting sight at all. Perhaps related to events in Islamabad? A military raid "that shook the heart of the Pakistani military" according to the New York Times... Seems the most likely, and most chilling explanation of both the firecrackers Saturday and the wild demonstration last night.

When I got into my apartment, I thought, "well, that gives me a lot of emotional information." I had been scared and was very glad to be home.

I'd been out since morning, had a busy and productive day. I visited Delacroix's studio and museum, walked the streets on the left bank where his studio had been during the July 1830 uprising, and worked my way back to the Academy Francaise, coming up behind it, not sure what it was, which was perfect for some of the action in my book and then crossed the Seine and went back to the Louvre because I wanted to see Antonio Canova's sculpture of Cupid and Psyche—Psyche Revived by a Kiss (1804). It's so gorgeous. I had to just sit and stare at it for awhile. It's considered neoclassical, but certainly has Romantic overtones.

I walked through the Greek and Roman sculpture realizing that the main reason I look like a tourist these days is that my mouth is always hanging open in amazement. Eventually I moved on to the Latin Quarter and bought a ticket for the Beethoven/Chopin concert that was keeping me out into the night. It didn't start until 8:30pm, but the pianist was playing both The Pathetique and the Moonlight Sonatas, plus a selection of Chopin that included his Fantasie-Impromptu in C-Sharp Minor. It was a superb concert in the tiny Church of Julien le Pauvre, which sits in the shadow of Notre Dame. I was in the second row, only about six feet from his hands. So incredible to watch someone who can really play, almost surreal.

I also spent time in the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore and basically wandered the streets around Saint Germain and through the Latin Quarter, just walking, allowing myself to be lost and wandering. I had dinner at a little Greek Trattoria, which was the least satisfying aspect of my entire day. The food wasn't that good and was mostly bread and french fried potatoes. (I ordered roasted chicken.) The other unsatisfying aspect of the area, to be honest, was that I heard more English than French. No one even bothers with "merci," or "bonjour." They just speak English like they're in America, which I find a total turnoff.

This morning (for it is morning in Paris, 8am) I'm off to my five-day writing workshop. One last picture, though, before I go. Another sculpture. This little horse was in Delacroix's studio, a piece of work by Gericault that's definitely going to become one of the "details" in my book.