As you may imagine, the 4th of July is not especially important here. Let's face it: the building where Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay signed the treaty with Great Britain ending the Revolutionary War (right near my apartment; I walk past it every day!) is relegated to a simple sign affixed to the side of the hotel. And when I asked my coworker if she knew of any celebrations going on in the city, she responded, "What's July 4?"
Obviously, the French don't care that much about American Independence Day.
But American expatriates do! It's an amazing phenomenon that happens to people when they go overseas: suddenly their sense of patriotism is augmented tenfold, and a simple St. Louis Cardinals hat is enough to spark an instant, on-the-spot friendship--albeit, a friendship confined to the duration of time required to cross the Champs-Elysees or Rue de Rivoli without a risk of involuntary manslaughter. Suddenly, McDonald's is no longer a contemptible vehicle of Supersize Me! obesity, but a fondly-remembered place of childhood repasts and playland parties.
In my case, the 4th of July was provocation enough to break my unintentional burger-and-fries boycott and head out with a group of Princeton-in-France interns to "Breakfast in America", an American-style diner located in the Quartier Latin. This cute, if somewhat Paris-sized(meaning small!), restaurant was created by a man from the US in an effort to bring a touch of Americana to a breakfast-starved French nation. He did an admirable job. Not only does the biliingual menu list the English descriptions au-dessus (above) the French ones (rare, believe me), but the red and chrome tables come complete with Heinz ketchup bottles (which, just as in the USA, still deviously manage to squirt ketchup everywhere except on your burger--and in extreme quantities!), the chef rings one of those cute little bells when the orders are ready, and chili cheese fries are back on menu! There were about 20 or so of us, so between all the Princetonians, an American family, and the five or so guys at the counter, the restaurant was packed.
I just recently moved from the foyer where I was staying all of June into an apartment right by the Musee d'Orsay, so I invited one of my roommates and her friend (both French) to come along and experience some American culture. My roommate Loriane was unable to come, but Charley was eager to meet some Americans and practice her English, in which she certainly succeeded. By the time we had all finished our variously-smothered patties of ground beef and cheese, some of the interns had taught her all the slang and swear words they knew, though it must be said in their defense that she reciprocated, and actually asked them to do so.
After eating the very authentic meal (topped off with the partage [sharing] of a brownie drizzled with fudge sauce), we all then headed over to the apartment of one of the PIFers. Let me tell you, I felt very bourgeoise indeed after viewing Rudy's twenty-first floor furnished flat, complete with modern styling, a doorman, and an absolutely breathtaking view of the Seine and the Paris skyline from the balcony. Its price tag (very high, believe me) is definitely warranted. We then proceeded to sing all the patriotic songs we could think of, including all the hymns of all the branches of the military--and this was before we had any wine! It was a really fun time, with just about all the students in PIF (and then some) present and accounted for. Charley and I stayed until we began to fear that we would miss the last metro, then sat and talked in one of the metro stations before going our separate ways. So, if my fourth of July was devoid of fireworks, it was at least full of American spirit, and one I won't soon forget.
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Speaking of forgetting, there is one last stop on the Paris-in-a-week-with-Dad saga that I would like to relate, simply because it was so fascinating. If you ever happen to fly over Paris and see a brilliant, golden dome reminiscent of St. Peter's Basilica, you are probably seeing Les Invalides. Orginially created as a hospital for wounded soldiers by Louis XIV, it is now also a museum and mausoleum for France's war heroes. Most notably, it is the burial site of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Now, if anyone has a hankering to see a tomb that is absolutely GAG-ME gaudy and self-laudatory, you must visit this tomb. Oh, don't get me wrong, it is stunning and beautiful, a huge sarcophagus mounted within the crypt so that visitors on the floor above can look down the large circular opening and examine the incredible marble adornment. That is, of course, assuming, that they can take their eyes off of the paintings filling the inside of the dome itself. Down in the circular crypt, visitors can promenade around the sarcophagus and see the multiple representations of a quasi-divine Napoleon: Napoleon is the symbol of justice as he hands his Code to the people, Napoleon is the symbol of prosperity as Hellenic maidens recall the richness of his reign, Napoleon is the symbol of power as he triumphs over his enemies...you get the picture. In all of these representations, of course, he sports a muscled, Herculean figure that almost makes you forget all those unflattering pictures you may have seen of the 5-foot general. The whole construct of the hall is pretty spectacular; so spectacular, in fact, that Dad and I came away thinking, "Is this the same mortal, bloody, prententious, dictatorial Napoleon that we've heard about?" It is almost bordering on cultish, the amount of reverence given to this extraordinary, but very human human being.
But Les Invalides also has a museum, and one of the current exhibitions is dedicated to WWI AND WWII. Sound ambitious? It is, both for the museum and for museum-goers. It took nearly four hours for Dad and I to get through it, and this was with my prompting Dad every so often that it should take less time to read about the war than to fight it.
Nevertheless, it was extremely well done. For the Battle of the Marne, for example, an overhead projector projected moving images representing military units on a large-scale model of continental Europe, while a voice narrated about the course of the conflict. Being in France, the exhibition had legitimate and quality artifacts, including clothing, pictures, medals, weapons, full uniforms, etc., for every facet of the war. Even for D-Day, one could sit and watch film of the Normandy landing while looking at the parachutes the French paratroopers used to penetrate behind enemy lines.
I had very little idea of the role of French troops in the conflict prior to this exhibition. After their occupation in 1941, I assumed that any military role France played was confined to small-scale operations under the control of the Nazis. This exhibition, though, helped clear away that idea faster than you can say French patriotism. It is to be expected, I suppose, but the degree of Franco-centrism in the exhibit was almost comical sometimes. Nearly every paragraph describing D-day, for example, made sure the reader knew that there were indeed French paratroopers there. They may not have stormed stormed the beaches with the Americans, Canadians, and Brits, but they were there! If ever the French army was involved in a particular battle or campaign, the exhibit gave it lengthy curtain time.
Yet I don't want to ignore my own log and sound pretentious or conceited myself. The exhibit was, as I said, fascinating. I particularly enjoyed the section on the Liberation of Paris. The musuem combined actual film footage of the French Resistance with photos, radio broadcasts, and objects in such a way that you really felt like you were getting a well-rounded, accurate depiction of the series of events. It was especially interesting to look at pictures of the conflict and victory parades and recognize monuments that Dad and I had just visited, even the previous day.
And of course, one can never forget any images related to the Shoah (Holocaust). One room, almost black, was dedicated to the liberation of the concentration camps. I will never forget the film showing liberated prisoners dragging their dead comrade to a mounting pile of corpses at Auschwitz, or the awful realisation that a huge hill being pushed by a bulldozer was not composed of dirt, as I originally thought, but decomposing bodies. It is things like this that always make me question how people can believe in the innate goodness of man, and the lack of his need for salvation. And it is then that I echo the line of Horatio Spafford in a radio drama I heard as child. Spafford, after losing first all of his money in the Great Chicago Fire, lost all his daughters as well in a shipwreck, prompting him to write the lyrics to my favorite hymn, "It is Well with my Soul." In the drama, upon visiting the place where his daughters were drowned, Spafford cries out, "Oh, Jesus, come soon, come soon! Or if it not be soon, then give me the strength to bear it."
Thus, while the exhibit was, as I said, quite lengthy, I only wish that I had had the concentration and mental stamina to stay completely engaged throughout the entire thing. It was definitely one of my favorite things in Paris thus far.
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