MYOB

Bonjour! A beautiful day, cool, alternately drizzly, then with the magnificent clouds parting to let the sun shine, and all the while the wind blowing, blowing—I suppose ushering in some front that by Thursday night is supposed to have the low down to zero (C.; i.e., freezing). Sidewalk cafes have their vinyl sheeting in place unless the sun’s out, to shelter patrons. Everyone is considerably more bundled up. WHAT a change from one week ago!

I went back out about mid-afternoon, close to 4:00, meaning to wander through the Marais as I’d said I would, “sometime” being now. There was nothing I was interested in at the Cinémathèque Française today (except the ongoing exhibition, but I could kill that bird with a shared stone). I’d watched the live feed online, with reports from around the country on the strikes and demonstrations. The big Paris march had left from Place de la République around 2:30 headed toward Place de la Nation, according to the feed, delayed a little by rain. I have no stake in the whole—discussion, so felt no need to become involved. Then, as I was walking, I decided spontaneously to walk over to Place de la Bastille.

Ahem. Yes, it would seem there’s still something in my blood that responds to the gravitational pull of any demonstration or protest march. I wasn’t quite to the square when I could tell something was very much going on, from the noise, the crowds, the banners, and the stickers people were wearing (my favorite of the day being a big red one a lot of them wore, that said “gouverne/MENT” on two lines (ment=lies). Sooo, Bastille it was, not Nation.

Ah, nostalgia. The large march was still, extremely slowly, creeping in over to the left (north) of the square, so slowed and compacted that the mass of people waved their signs and did their chants crammed in place. There were sound trucks with banners inching in the midst. There was music, there were dogs, there were people gradually bleeding away from the edges of the demonstration and leaving over time, there were people plastered with stickers, people making music, just—everything you can imagine. One young man who passed right in front of me, in the open space of the square, was carrying a two-sided sign, part of which suggested killing old people to get their jobs, à la a sort of Modest Proposal.

So, about that poster in my bedroom . . . my apartment here is now enhanced by a rather rumpled, fresh-off-the-demonstration poster, all in blues and grays except for the red “PCF” square at the bottom. That would be the French Communist Party . . . Other than that, it says “Enough, let’s struggle for a popular front/Let’s Win,” and small, below the red square (no pun really intended) (much), “With the Left Front/Let’s Combine Forces.”

After watching all that for quite a while, I tore myself away to resume wandering. I thought maybe I’d head back toward the beautiful Place des Vosges, sure to be serene and inviting on a fall Saturday afternoon. As I was passing under the massive arched colonnade to enter, though, once again it became clear that something—something—was happening. The entire street there before me, the square itself, the arcade, were crawling with—zombies. Yes. It was a Zombie Walk. Zombies of all shapes and sizes, zombies with doll legs protruding from their mouths, scantily-clad zombies, zombies leading other zombies on leashes, zombies making zombie music, zombies carrying skateboards while talking on cellphones. Grinning madly, laughing out loud, I snapped photos. Zombies were happy to pose. It was Mardi Gras in the neighborhood. It was absolutely hilarious.