S has had a week of late days at the office, rough for him but coming to a thankful end soon. Last night he got in about 10:30, and just as he sat down on the couch and eased off his shoes the dog started to do a desperate little dance.“I’ll take her,” I said. If I’m awake enough, I like to take Lucy on her last walk – it’s a little time alone in the world after the kids are asleep. I fetched up the leash and little plastic carry-bag (I take my responsibility seriously as a citoyenne propre), and hooked her up to go.
S half-rose up from the sofa. “Take a longer walk, if you’re up for it, and go all the way to Champs-Elysées. Then you can tell me if I was hallucinating on my way home. There’s something strange going on up there.”
It was a gorgeous, cool, clear night after a day of storms, with a brisk breeze blowing away the last of the rain clouds. Lucy and I hustled up the avenue, past all the buildings lit up exactly like the houses in those familiar Magritte paintings (it turns out those are the only ones that aren’t surreal – the light just looks like that in early summer). As per usual, the street was empty until we got about a block from the Arc de Triomphe, where little clumps of people start to trickle down and around.
When we got around the circle to the Champs-Elysées, it was just as S had described it – hundreds of people, dressed entirely in white, were sitting down to dinner at makeshift camp tables and folding chairs. The tables were fully set with white linens, china, crystal, candles and flowers, and yet it was all clearly a bring-your-own occasion – every table had different china, crystal, and flowers, and behind at least one chair at every table was stowed a rolling grocery cart that had recently held all the provisions. Everywhere you looked there were people toasting and laughing and the sound of clinking silver on china. Other than the monochromatic dress code, it appeared to be an aggressively ordinary crowd – French people of all ages, but mostly the middle, who looked as if they would be equally at home hosting a tasteful soirée before the symphony.
I found a quiet spot and stood with Lucy to watch, along with the other passersby. Lots of snapping of pictures and video, some appreciative honking from the street, but very few people seemed to be approaching the crowd – it was their party, after all, and we were just along for the ride. A few minutes before eleven, a tall, slim gentleman with salt and pepper hair, wearing a white guayabera, made his way through the set of tables nearest us, saying, “A vingt-trois heures, n’oubliez pas d’allumer les feus.” So of course at that point, we had to stay to see.
Things went on as they were for a few more minutes, and then suddenly, as the clock struck eleven, the people at every table started lighting holiday sparklers tip to tip, until the entire Champs-Elysées was sparkling from the Arc De Triomphe all the way down to the Place de la Concorde. It was a wildly beautiful moment that took the whole event from something you were simply pleased to have walked past to something permanently imprinted on your brain. I think I actually applauded. The diners stood up and waved their sparklers in the air, shouting at their friends across the street and hooting back at the passing cars, until the last of the fire went out.
I didn’t want to wait around to see things start to disassemble, so I turned Lucy toward home, only to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, just visible over the rooftops. It was sparkling, too.
I don’t really want to know what they were doing out there, though I’m sure within the next couple of days someone will explain it to me, and then I’ll have another piece of my Parisian cultural lexicon in place. I like that for now there aren’t any extra words or layers of meaning, just the memory of all those fizzing lights, lifting all the petty grievances of the day away on the night air in a few minutes of pure delight.
