Posts from — January 2009

I now know what it’s like to be caught in the middle of a huge demonstration, and be unable to move. Well, almost. I was walking along the rue du Faubourg St Antoine early this afternoon, on my way to BHV when groups of demonstrators, in support of the national strike, began marching past. They were all converging on the Place de la Bastille of course, and I was headed that way too. I was so intent on taking photos that it was too late by the time I realised I was caught in the middle of the Place, surrounded on all sides by the demonstrators, almost unable to move.

But what a peaceful, amicable affair it seemed to be. Sure, there was chanting and speeches (several simultaneously), but I saw nothing unruly, no pushing or shoving. It took me about an hour to cross the Place de la Bastille. There were no cars anywhere, just a dense throng of people, vans selling food and drink, balloons, people climbing on the Bastille column itself, television trucks, families with children, babies, and dogs.

The General Confederation of Workers (CGT) estimated the crowd at 300,000, and I wouldn’t be surprised, although the police claim the figure to be 65,000 (the unions claim a total of 1.5 million demonstrated all over France).

What struck me especially when I was in the middle of the throng was the atmosphere of calm solidarity, and the passion for social justice, that today’s strike was all about. We don’t see this sort of thing in Australia any more. We’ve long given up any hope that a strike will make any difference to anything. Today’s strike is to protest against the erosion of the standard of living, and also the so-callled ‘workplace reforms’ that we ‘enjoy’ in the Anglophone countries.

I was surprised, though, to hear that what had been reported on UK television, and probably elsewhere, was the conflict and car-torching that happened much later in the day near the Opera, and linked to the ‘dispersion of the demonstrators’. These could not have been the people I saw, and are much more likely to have been professional agitors, or disaffected troublemakers cashing in on the publicity.

I’m very glad I was right in the thick of it for an hour. It gave me a good insight into the passion of ordinary workers for social justice, and the calm and reasonable way in which they express it.

Australian musicians Tristan Lee and Douglas Rutherford at the Musee de la Vie Romantique, Paris, January 27 2009.

I’ve never been a big fan of Australia Day. It’s supposed to mark the day in 1788 when Captain Arthur Phillip, who was the commander of the first fleet of British convict ships, arrived in Sydney. This was the start of the British invasion and occupation of what later came to be known as Australia.

Here in Paris, the Chamber Strings of Melbourne are in town to perform Australia Day concerts, one of which is being hosted by Université Paris Diderot, where I spent my sabbatical semester in 2007 teaching and researching in the department of Etudes Interculturelles et Langues Appliques.

It was a colleague from there who alerted me to the Melbourne group’s performance. By happy coincidence, my son—also a musician, studying in England—is staying with me for a few days, and has a very good friend among the visiting orchestra. The performance was in the elegant College Franco-Brittanique at the Cité Universitaire.

And where does one take two young musicians on the day after Australia Day ? To the Musée de la Vie Romantique of course, where they can imagine themselves as Liszt and Chopin, together with George Sand, visiting the Romantic artist Ary Scheffer who owned the house at the time and for thirty years ran his studio there, as well as his salon to which he welcomed artists and intellectuals.

All day I’ve watched from my huge windows overlooking the Place d’Aligre the torrential rain come down in ropes, and the blustering gale make life very difficult for the people who earn their living running stalls in the market below me. I ventured out briefly after breakfast as I needed fruit and vegetables, and also some fish for dinner. But for the rest of the day I’ve worked at my desk, although constantly distracted by the changing colour of the sky, and the dramatic movements of the clouds. I think I’ve been influenced by Brecht’s Lucky John, star of the play I went to see last night at the Theatre of the Bastille, who loved to look at the clouds.

I must admit that my image above, about the rain coming down in ropes, is from the French idiom I learned yesterday, ‘Il pleut des cordes,’ which I was told was the equivalent of ‘It’s raining cats and dogs.’ Personally, I find ropes the more evocative image.

The other idiom I learned at the same time (this was all while buying a skirt in Lyon), was ‘Avez-vous trouvez votre bonheur ?’ which was asked of me by the young male shop assistant as his elder female colleague was wrapping up my purchase. While I understood his question literally, I had no idea of precisely what he meant in that context. Fortunately, his colleague came to my rescue, saying to him, ‘She won’t be able to understand that because it’s idiomatic,’ and then proceeded to explain to me that this is what one is often asked after making a purchase, or finding something one wants in a library, and so on.  With another customer, who also knew a little  English, we then started searching for idioms in the two languages, with and without equivalents. This was how I learned ‘Il pleut des cordes’. We decided there really isnt an equivalent for ‘Have you found your happiness ?’

But, quand meme, despite the rain coming down in ropes, I can’t think of many happier moments than sitting by this window watching the changing sky.

I’ve escaped to Lyon, my second favourite city in France. In the old part of town, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, or on one of the bridges of the snaking river Saone, I could be in a calmer, quieter version of Paris. At the same time, when viewed from an apartment on one of the surrounding hills, where I am at the moment, the Italian influence can be discerned in the pale pastel-coloured walls of some of the buildings, and the very idiosyncratic architecture of Notre-Dame de Fourvière basilica perched on the Fourviere, the ‘hill that prays’. I am on the other hill, the Croix-Rousse, the ‘hill that works’, as many of the silk-workers, for which Lyon was world-famous, lived here. And indeed I am here to work, as I am giving a seminar tomorrow on the Australian press at Université Lyon 2.

Counting its suburbs, Lyon is the second largest city in France (although I’ve often heard people claim that Marseille is bigger!), and is a little smaller than my hometown of Melbourne. Lyon is the capital city of its department, Rhone, as well as of the region, Rhone-Alpes.

The Lumiere brothers, who invented cinema, lived here, and their house is now an excellent museum. One of my favourite things about Lyon is its famous mur peints, or painted walls, several with trompe l’oeil scenes.

We took the picture above at one of the walls a few months ago. See if you can work out which figures are me and my friends, and which are the painted people!

I’ve ESCAPED Australia just in time—before my hometown of Melbourne experienced its first bout of real summer heat. It’s been in the high thirties (that’s Celsius) for days. Too hot to do anything. Even the trains refuse to work in this weather since their metal tracks have expanded in the extreme heat, and also many of their air-conditioning units have broken down.

Is it any wonder I gather up my January work (a grant application, a new first year subject to write, several thesis chapters to supervise) and escape to Paris? From my sixth floor flat I can see the market below, the rain-slicked streets all around, and off to the west the top third of the Eiffel Tower. Once darkness descends the tower sparkles all evening, periodically arcing its powerful beam of light around the sky. Over the rooftops, to the front of my view is the golden spirit of liberty, poised on one foot atop the Bastille column, only a ten-minute walk away.

And the weather forecast? A minimum of 3 degrees and a maximum of 4. What could be nicer? Of course, the interiors of buildings are all heated, and shops and apartments are very warm inside. It’s quite a challenge dressing for this sort of thing. Layers have to be whipped off in an instant if you don’t want to roast as soon as you walk into a department store (BHV, my nearest, is positively a sauna!). I’ll deal with this topic in my next post…