It was only a hop, skip, and a jump from May to June to July. July, of course, meant everything France to everyone French. It was the month of French pride. It was the month of the Bastille.
The spring lilies had lost their bloom, but the fields were verdant and green. Cyclists sped through the towns and rode up and down French Alps and the Pyrenees as they raced in the Tour de France. When they passed through Meaux on their way to Paris, the end of the race was near.
“Mother, can we go to see the cyclists?”
“I am busy, but maybe your Uncle can take you.”
“Uncle Rupert?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Uncle Rupert and Anton hopped into the little yellow hatchback and found a place along the tour route. Rupert parked the car alongside the country road and they waited.
And they waited.
And they waited.
Finally, motorcycles and tour cars sped along, leading the way for the cyclists. Crowds gathered along the roadside, waving their French flags. There were, of course, Swiss and German and Italian flags, too, but mostly it was the familiar French tricolor: red, white, and blue.
Even Anton and his Uncle held tiny flags in their hands, waving them rapidly back and forth. The cyclists were just as colorful, in their bright jerseys and helmets. Sprockets whooshed and wheels whirred as the cyclists rode by Anton and his Uncle. Another group of tour cars and motorcycles followed the cyclists.
Soon after that, the road was empty again.
“That’s it?” sighed Anton.
“That’s it.”
They got back into the little yellow hatchback and returned home.
“How was it?” asked mother.
“They were there and then they were gone.”
“All good things happen too quickly and are finished too soon,” said mother, “but at least we have Bastille Day.”
“What are we doing for the Bastille?”
“What would you like to do?”
“Can we go to Paris?”
“I think we could do that,” said mother, “What do you think, Rupert?”
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve been to Paris to celebrate Bastille Day.”
The next day was Bastille Day, also known as ‘La Fete Nacional’. Early in the morning, Madame Marchant went through her ‘things-to-do’ list.
The first thing she did was make small tricolor ribbons of red, white, and blue. She tied the first ribbon in her hair, fastening it into a ponytail.
Afterwards, she woke the boys and began cooking breakfast.
Anton started his day with a festive shirt while his mother pinned tricolor ribbons on everyone’s shirts during breakfast. Anton’s plate was heaped with strawberry-topped crepes and whipped cream. The crepes, which were like light pancakes, filled the empty spots in everyone’s tummy. After that, the next thing to do was to go to Paris.
The trip to Paris was quick, but not short. The streets of Paris were crowded. Uncle Rupert put the car into a parking garage downtown. He and Monsieur Marchant carried an ice cooler. Madame Marchant had a handful of blankets.
They found their place in the grand mall, near the Champs-Élysées. The avenue led through the center of Paris, connecting the Arc de Triomphe with the Place de la Concorde. Anton went to the curb and peered down the hectic avenue.
Flags and soldiers from many countries surrounded the Arc. French police rode up and down the avenue, clearing traffic. Anton stepped out onto the Champs-Élysées. A shrill horn buzzed, startling Anton. It was one of the motorcycling policemen, making sure Anton did not wander into the path of traffic.
He found his place on Madame Marchant’s blanket, which covered the curb. He pulled his legs to his chest, careful not to dangle his feet in the street.
Soon, the traffic and police subsided. Madame Marchant stretched her legs out onto the street. Anton copied her.
Marching bands began to play near the Arc. It was a familiar song – the French National Anthem. A rank and file of soldiers marched from the far end of the avenue.
First were the French cadets, teenagers who attended the area military schools. After that, visiting military troops marched. First came the British, then the Italian, and then several other armies followed. There were troops from many African countries, like Burkina Faso, Egypt, Morocco, and Ghana. There were also troops from overseas countries, like Cameroon and Brazil. There was even a troop from Japan, almost halfway around the world from France.
Each group of soldiers carried their own flag and wore their own uniforms. Some were green; some were red, and some were brown.
Soldiers from one nation wore robes.
“How do they fight in those outfits?”
“They don’t,” whispered mother, “those are marching uniforms, made especially for parades.”
They held their rifles just like any of their other soldiers, but their long flowing robes, clad in blue and white, like the colors of the sky, made them stand apart. Anton liked them the best.
“Look this way,” encouraged Uncle Rupert.
At the other end of the Avenue stood a large tricolor pavilion. People gathered in stands, including the French President. Soldiers marched in formation, turning one way and then the other. They presented arms and shouldered them again. Some turned left and some turned right.
At the end of the parade came the soldiers from the French regiment. People all along the Avenue waved their flags frantically at the soldiers and cheered.
The drum corps did maneuvers while they played. They cut to the left and to the right. One file turned and walked against the parading soldiers before returning behind them. They continued weaving their groups as they paraded toward the Presidential Pavilion.
It was quite a bit of pomp and circumstance. Uniforms pressed neat. Medals fixed into place. Colorful flags from many nations parading in front of their countrymen.
And it was just the beginning of the day’s festivities. Madame Marchant gathered the blanket at parade’s end.
Uncle Rupert led the way across the river where the Eiffel Tower stood. It was even more crowded on the other side of the River Seine. The Marchants made their way to another grand mall at the Champ de Mars. Unlike the Champs-Élysées, Champ de Mars was an open park, fashioned much like the French gardens throughout Paris.
They pushed through the crowd before finding a place to stop. Madame Marchant unfurled the blanket beneath a fruit tree. Anton and his family sat upon the blanket.
Vending carts strolled through the Champ de Mars, selling whatever people would buy. Monsieur Marchant walked to a cart parked on the sidewalk and bought some food for everyone. They ate while the sun set over the horizon.
Soon after the city turned dark, Christmas lights were lit. Park workers had strung them through the fruit trees and draped them over the sidewalks.
“Is that why Paris is called the city of lights?” asked Anton.
“No, not at all,” chuckled Uncle Rupert, “It’s because of the Age of Enlightenment, when great French men with great ideas illuminated the city with their minds.”
“How can men light up the city with their minds?”
“Before the Age of Enlightenment, Paris was a bleak city. King Louis the 14th had incurred many debts. First, he helped the young American colonies declare independence from Great Britain. France was also waging war with the British on their own part. This was just before Napoleon came to command the French. France needed money so King Louis raised taxes. There were three groups of French: the royals, the priests, and the common man. The king decided to tax the common man. His taxes were so heavy and burdensome that many commoners could barely live.
People began rioting. When the King wanted to ask his army to stop the riots, he knew that many soldiers’ families were among the poor. The king locked them away and hired foreign soldiers to stop the riots.
The rioters attacked many French forts. Without the help of the king’s men, the commoners overran many of these forts, taking the weaponry inside them.”
“What did the King do?”
“It wasn’t what the King did, but what the people did. They marched into Paris and circled a very famous prison called the Bastille. The commoners had guns but no ammunition. They knew this prison held much ammunition and gunpowder.
By nightfall, over 8000 commoners surrounded the Bastille, demanding for the prisoners to be let out. The foreign guard at the prison only numbered 100. Quickly, the foreign guard surrendered. The revolutionists took over the Bastille. Soon afterwards, taxes were lifted and a French constitution was written. It ensured fair treatment to all men, whether they were nobility or the poor. This is why we celebrate Bastille Day. It was the day the commoner could be treated like a king.”
At that point, the lights of the city faded and the park turned dark.
“Look at the old Iron Lady!” spouted Uncle Rupert.
Four columns of fireworks ran along the ridges of the Eiffel Tower, from bottom to top. While everyone else looked at the fireworks, Anton looked at the people. Their faces were bright orange, illuminated in what he considered ‘heavenly light from above’.
The fireworks exploded for thirty minutes or more. It really did not matter, because the crowds oohed and ahhed for the duration. When it was over, the lights came on again, lighting everyone’s faces in a soft white glow.
“Wasn’t that something?” asked Monsieur Marchant.
“It sure was,” said Uncle Rupert.
Meanwhile, Anton was laying on the blanket beside his mother. Even among the booming fireworks, he had gotten worn out. Monsieur Marchant placed the boy over his shoulder and carried him to the car.
“It’s over already?” said Anton as he woke in the back seat.
“Already? It’s been a day full of celebration.”
“I know,” groaned Anton, “but I slept through the fireworks.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll be back again a year from now,” said his father.
“I know, but that’s so far away.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be here before you know it.”
Anton frowned as he looked out the car window. Crowds of people surrounded them. Anton felt very jealous of the people who got to watch fireworks. He really did not want to wait a whole year to see something spectacularly French.
And although he would not see fireworks for quite some time, his Uncle had a surprise that would be just as impressive – and it was only a few days away.
Until then, Anton watched the people. Hopefully, he’d return to Paris again sometime soon.
Storming the Bastille
