One of the perks to having the EAMA program run through the month of July is that we get to experience the French equivalent of the 4th of July.  This day is known as Bastille Day for most of the world, though the formal French name is Fête Nationale (National Celebration), though, much like the United States Independence Day, the majority of people refer to it as Le Quatorze Juillet (the 14th of July).  Unlike the United States, however, this was not a battle for independence, but a true revolution (many forget that the U.S. Revolution was not much of a revolution at all in the grand scheme of things) where the people rose up against their own rulers in their own country, storming the Bastille, then a prison that detained various sorts of political criminals and others that probably were just not liked by the French Nobility.  On top of being a prison, the Bastille also held a variety of ammunition and weaponry that would be essential for the success of the upcoming revolution.  This all started in 1789.

Now, over 200 years later, the celebration of the birth of the First Republic is going strong.  What were my plans for this day?  Not much.  Having experienced one Sunday prior to Bastille Day, I was not looking forward to sitting in my room by myself attempting to write a string quartet.  Again, the issue with the EAMA program is that it is not designed so that the students can find each other and hang out after classes are done, and if you do not have a working phone, it’s even more difficult.  I posted a comment about this not too long ago on my Facebook account, just trying to let out some frustration with the whole thing, and one of the most unexpected things happen shortly there after.

When I was a sophomore back at UO, I was in the Oregon Marching Band where I met many of my close friends that I have today, as well as a variety of acquaintances.  One such acquaintance was a marimba player named Carmen Nelson, a beautiful young lady with a very relaxed persona that will suddenly give way to a refreshing burst of energy when in the correct context.  Because the front ensemble of the OMB always tended to be rather disconnected from the rest of the band, conversations with her were minimal, and I usually only saw her at the School of Music.  This time was short-lived though, because Carmen discovered her love for the French language and changed her major to develop that relationship.  So, on and off throughout our undergrads we would occasionally run into each other, acknowledge that we knew one another, and go on our merry ways.  Since I graduated, I had not heard from or seen her for probably two or three years.  Now, six years later from our first introduction, on a completely different continent, I receive a message that basically states, “I’m here, too!  I love this city, and it pains me to see people here not having fun.  Can I offer you anything to make your stay better?”

Notre Dame Cathedral

This was extremely unexpected on all levels!  I wrote her back immediately, explaining that it wasn’t really the city, but I don’t travel well by myself, I don’t speak French, and the program is not conducive to people hanging out once school concludes.  We sent a few messages back and forth and agreed to meet up at Notre Dame (one of the only places I could get by myself), and we would wander around Paris together.  Our first attempt at meeting up, however, was not exactly successful.  Carmen works as a bar tender from 8pm to about 5am, and thus sleeps until about 3pm the days after she works.  The first day we tried to meet up was no exception to her sleeping schedule.  So, I waited around Notre Dame for about an hour, watching tourists of all sorts wander in and out of the Cathedral.  I was also approached by the same Gypsy about eight times asking me if I speak English (the answer is always no).

So, after that exciting time, I received a message from her explaining what happened (no hard feelings, I completely understand), and we set up a time to meet on Bastille Day.  This worked out beautifully!  I met up with her and her friend, Erin, and the journey across Paris began.  We started by attempting to catch part of the parade, which was rather hazardous to get to.  Basically, all of the metro lines going to the parade were open, but all of them leaving were closed.  It was around this time that Carmen explained to me that the French don’t do lines, so if you’re going to get anywhere, you need to basically cut and weave around the crowd (this includes getting on and off the train, and in and out of buildings), as she quickly demonstrated to get out of the metro station.

Champs-Élysées on Bastille Day

The Champs-Élysées area was packed with a brilliant mix of French and tourists, none really knowing what was going on, but poised with anticipation for the beginning of the parade.  The three of us took refuge next to a tree.  A military brass band on horseback made its way down the parade route, then there was silence.  On a different street, not part of what was the designated parade route, some military units of India marched, then there was silence.  Eventually a small band came down the route and stopped right in front of us, not playing.  All we could see were red plumes.  Though Carmen had been told that tanks were to be part of the parade and she really wanted to see one, we collectively agreed to head away from the parade and find a spot to have a picnic.  It was around this time that we discovered the metro stops leading away from the parade were closed, so we had to figure out how to escape on foot.  We headed towards the river, making our way to a metro stop further from the route, only to find that we were being passed by the same India military unit, now going down a street that wasn’t patrolled by police, nor blocked off to prevent pedestrians from getting in the way.  Were they lost?  Regardless, there they were, marching away.  A few blocks later and we were back on the metro heading to Montemarte.

Basilica of the Sacré Cœur

Leaving the train, we slipped into a small grocery store to buy two bottles of red wine, and some beets and carrots (for Erin), as well as a liter of water.  Our picnic supplies almost entirely acquired, we headed up the stairs to Basilica of the Sacré Cœur, a Byzantine-style church at the summit of Montmarte.  Here, there is apparently the longest staircase in the country, though you do not have to ascend them to get to the top.  You can go up the winding path, which takes a little longer, but is much easier.  The challenge on this path, however, is there are a bunch of men that walk up to you and say, “hello” repeatedly, all the while trying to tie a bracelet to your arm and then demand that you pay for it.  They were quite annoying, and there were a ton of them, but we pushed through them to get a fantastic view of the city.  You could see very clearly the spires of Notre Dame, some modern art building that was built inside out, and some of the few skyscrapers within the city limits.  Tired by our climb, Carmen and I went to go get lunch (Erin ate her beets and carrots), and the three of us settled in a small courtyard area near a market place and had our picnic.

View from Montmarte

Lunch for two of us were crepes.  I had never had one before, but these were awesome!  Cheese, chicken, and tomatoes!  Basically, a pizza in a wrap.  Carmen had egg, cheese, and mushrooms.  Apparently both of them were ridiculously huge from Carmen’s past experiences with them, but I wasn’t complaining.  We sat and took lunch, all the while talking about movies, books, and various French things.  I realized pretty quickly that I knew very little about the French culture, so I decided to ask a fair amount of questions to get a handle on what type of country I was in, which my fine company was more than willing to answer and discuss with me.

The Legendary Moulin Rouge

Around the time when the wine was gone (despite it being not very good, we still finished off both bottles) and Erin decided it was a good time to fall asleep on the sidewalk, we decided to wander around a bit more.  We headed through the markets, down the massive hill in the middle of the city, and ended up in middle of one of the largest sex shop strips in Paris.  This was the location of the famous Moulin Rouge, which I’m told is quite extravagant inside, but is quite small on the outside.  This street was also full of people trying to coax all of the men to step into their shops.  I was left alone for some reason, probably because of the company I was keeping at that particular moment.

Slipping into another metro, we headed east and landed in the gay district of Paris.  Unlike San Francisco or Vancouver, where you would see the streets lined rainbow flags, and all the men on the street would become overwhelmingly well-dressed, the gay district in Paris basically just meant that instead of a man and woman sitting outside smoking, it was a guy and a guy.  We eventually found a small Cafe, and settled down for an afternoon pick-me-up.  Compared to what I’m used to, the coffee was not good, but it was nice to chat a little bit more.  Carmen explained that what were were doing is basically what the entirety of France does every Sunday:  go out, have lunch, drink, get coffee, drink more, have dinner, go home.  Having that agenda run down for me, the next stop was another grocery store to get better wine and a bag of peanuts.

We settled in a park that was filled with people smoking and drinking (very typical), and proceeded to open our wine and talk some more.  I was informed of Carmen’s intent on auditioning for the Paris Conservatory (she was a pretty rocking marimba player back when I first met her) to get back into music and keep her student visa, as well as Erin’s quickly concluding Parisian experience.  We started to talk about music, which is always a problem for me, simply because if you are willing to listen, I will talk about music and my love for it until the end of time.  The good thing was that I was with two trained musicians:  Carmen the percussionist, and Erin the violinist, so the conversation flowed easily, and it was all around a good time.  Noting that yet another bottle of wine had been consumed, we headed to Carmen’s apartment to make soup for dinner and watch the fireworks.

View from Carmen's Apartment (Eiffel Tower at the end of the street)

By French standards, her apartment is a pretty good size, on the top floor of a six-story building, and has an excellent view of the Eiffel Tower.  I was impressed with how compact and efficient it all was, despite looking mildly like it had been under construction, just because she had just moved in.  The kitchen was a different story, however.  In past experiences, if you heat the oven to the highest temperature, it shuts off the power in the kitchen.  The icebox in the fridge also does not close entirely, making it so that freezing anything is nearly impossible.  This was remedied by something that looked like a piece of wood and a cork to hold the door in place.  Basically, her place was very much like a college student apartment, but very cool none the less.  We proceeded to make my famous potato, corn, cheese chowder, but without dill (couldn’t find any), and with gouda instead of cheddar cheese (again, couldn’t find any).  Shortly before this process began, Carmen’s roommate, Tom, made an appearance.  Actually, he was there when we got to the apartment, but it’s important to mention him now just to not leave him out of the story.  Tom is a web designer that Carmen met at a bar (or something like that) while she was taking classes while in her au pair position, and has been described to me as “the least French French person” anyone will ever meet.  This seems quite true, actually.  Tom is extremely pleasant, fluent in English with an accent that I initially placed as a very mild North Dakota, but ended up being upstate New York, and has some pretty hilarious stories regarding one of his brothers, Pierre, and the things that had been stolen outside their apartment because his brothers were drunk.  He also has a great story regarding a burning trash can in England, but that’s a story for Tom to tell, and not me.

After soup and bread, we all moved outside to watch the fireworks, which Erin described as “always starting out lame, but ending pretty cool by the end.”  This was pretty close to the truth, as one firework would go off about every ten seconds for the first minute or so, and then it eventually moved to fireworks being shot off of the Eiffel Tower in all directions.  Very cool!  As with all festivities, the night came to a close in a rather anticlimactic way.  Carmen and I made plans to meet up again the following day, and she escorted me to the nearest metro stop to get home.  My trip back was actually rather extravagant, but that is a story for another post.

Carmen and Erin

My hat is off to you, Carmen Nelson.  If more people were like you, the world would be a much better place!