Les Flics

We had a lovely morning, walking around the Saint Germaine area, having an Ina Garten kind of day. The Grand Épicierie, Poulâine, lots of shoe shops. Stopping for lunch at the Café Saint Germaine, we had escargot and poulet, avec vin rouge et Coca Lite. Chatting and eating, looking at the people passing by, relaxing. When suddenly, eight police vans pull up and out jump 30 French swat team guys in full riot gear. Streets are blocked off. Armed men are pacing here and there. And god are they good looking. But I digress.

It seems the recent arguments about the CPE, that silly law about French labor for young people, had been settled and the young people actually won. The government gave in. Everyone, including the young, can have a job for life. The police expected a riotous celebration. Pacing. Waiting. Standing. Finally they all got back in their vans and went away. That was that. No riot. No celebration. It was if a movie scene ended in mid-stream.

Then I read "A Year in the Merde" by Stephen Clarke, who saw the same thing:

"You see them all over the city practicing their unique skills. You'll walk into a street and find it jammed solid with traffic because the police have decided to double-park two of their buses there. Inside, whole brigades of riot police will be sitting, apparently having got prior warning of a riot about to break out on that very street. They might spend a morning there, getting out occassionally to stretch their legs, nip off to the boulangerie, or compare body armor, and then when the riot doesn't occur (of course not, too many police about) they go and sit in another street."

It's as if Les Miz is being re-created several times a day. Liberté. Egalité. Get outta my way.

Then you remember that there is always some kind of disturbance or strike in Paris. When you arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport, you had to sit on the runway for 30 minutes, as the baggage handlers were having a 30-minute strike. You hear about 1 hour taxi strikes. Prostitute strikes. Thank heavens there was not a bakery strike, or the whole city would shut down. And everytime you've been there, there have been policement pooling around intersections or guarding streets with serious-looking guns, or just looking mean. Les flics. Less Clouseau. More Dirty Harry. Duck and cover. C'est la vie.