Three years ago, I had the very fortunate experience of living in France for the month of July. Bastille Day will forever remind me of July 14, 2013, one of the most alive, vivid, fun memories of a single day I've ever had. France is actually responsible for more of those kinds of days than any other place, so I started the day thinking about all the times I've had the true privilege of spending significant parts of my life in that wonderful country. A wedding celebration unlike any other in the history of time with the best collection of humans I know. Weeks in a chateau in Provence's farmland. Bonfire barbecues on the beach of the Mediterranean. A roadtrip with best friends up and down the country. Weeks living in Paris by myself. Visits to small towns, markets, homes, landmarks.
Every trip to France was such an escape. It is such its own place, its own culture, its own time and speed. Early yesterday morning, I considered why I haven't just moved there. Each visit -- framed as a vacation -- helped me wrestle through life in unexpected ways: how I was doing, how to be happy, where to be happy. Each day and night spent in France either made me feel confidently like I was more than I am or pushed me outside of myself with discomfort, seemingly encouraging me to do a lot more or a lot less in life... but either way, igniting the desire to change something in the current framework. In both cases, the place envelops its visitors with equal aspiration and inspiration.
Nights in Paris last forever -- no, nights in France last forever. Nights in France last forever, because the beauty is everywhere. Though its history may not be, I find the country -- cities, towns, villages, countryside -- unassumingly gentle and beautiful throughout, where joy and family and friends and community and food and smiles come first. A "carefreedom" in life to focus on each other, intuiting a message that we're all in this together, so let's enjoy it.
And this is why the news today hurts as it does.
I know there's sensitivity from unrelentingly sad news over the last two months, but again: loss of innocent life -- harmless, representing no conflict, celebrating in a space we have all agreed is safe. Unrelenting.
This morning, before there was any new news of tragedy, I looked back at my photos from 2013. FFF and I started our day at Un Zebre, a cafe near our apartment in Montmartre. Coffee on the table transitioned to Rosé as I wrote and he read for a few hours. There was energy of the holiday up and down Rue de Abbesses, and the staff at the cafe felt like party hosts.
The bartender, without our asking, played Random Access Memories (FFF's favorite) and Channel Orange (my favorite) in their entirety, back to back, before handing me the aux cord for the cafe (probably one of my three wishes if I ever found an old lamp in a cave). Not too long after, a water fight started in the cafe -- first amongst the staff and then spreading to the patrons and then to passerbys on the street. It was silly, outrageous, and a blast.
In the early evening, we headed to meet FFF's cousin near Montparnasse, an area of the city with higher elevation, offering great, not-too-crowded views of the Eiffel Tower's fireworks show. Sunset was around 10 p.m. at that time in the Summer, so the fireworks probably began around 10:30 p.m. It was a magically impressive show, and the crowd, standing in the middle of a closed six-lane street more than two miles from the Tower, felt like a squad of friends watching and cheering this uplifting celebration.Sometime after 11 p.m., the show ended and the three of us went to a cafe for a few beers. They caught up and I watched, following the French as best I could but more than anything just enjoying Conversation In A Foreign Language as the soundtrack to my night. There's something warm and inviting about the French that never creates any anxiety from lack of understanding. A few hours later, FFF and I jumped on the Metro back to Montmartre. We happened to go to the Abbesses station instead of our routine stop near the apartment, and when we came out of the Metro's tunnel, we walked straight into a block party.
"Beers for 1 euro! Beers for 1 euro!" Sure, why not. That's approximately 10% of the cost of every other beer we'd had that month. We walked over to a tent where "bartenders" were filling plastic cups from kegs.
"What's going on?"
"We're the Youth Communist Party!"
"...Cool. Thanks for the beers!"
So, that's where we were. No one around us seemed fazed that it was pushing 2 a.m. after a daylong celebration -- in fact, there was a large crowd dancing to a DJ who played American pop and dance songs from the '80s that I recognized but couldn't place. Then some Prince came on and kids went nuts. The same for Madonna, Michael Jackson, and... The Eurythmics, I think.
Then, just as we were finishing up our last OneEuro Beer for... probably ever... The DJ threw on "Paris" from Watch The Throne. In a Pavlovian-style reaction, I bolted to the center of the crowd and found myself dancing and rapping in a circle of Parisians, maybe the only one who knew every word in every verse of the song, sweating as I danced with my camera bag across my chest. The next song was "Hustlin'" by Rick Ross, which -- oddly enough -- was the first of a long, very aggressive, committed Rick Ross tribute set (the DJ hadn't played two songs by the same artist since we'd arrived, and suddenly there's an onslaught of Rozay, complete with "Only Rick Ross 'til dawn!" pronouncement in a wonderful French accent over the PA, multiple times...MULTIPLE times). Rosé and Rozay go hand in hand, I suppose.
Around 4 a.m., he announced they had to stop because of noise ordinances -- it was a Sunday night, after all -- BUT were taking the party to a warehouse in Neighborhood I Couldn't Pronounce. FFF and I looked at each other, shrugged, and followed the crowd, down the hill towards Pigalle, where we all planned to take the Metro to this after hours party. As we walked the 9 blocks to the station, the crowd started to dwindle, and we were met with the realization that the party was now the DJ, 3 of his friends, and us, and we were probably 45 minutes from whatever place they were going.
We again looked at each other, shrugged and ducked into a bistro. We had a bite to eat and our last drink or two of the evening before walking back up the hill to Montmartre. Around 6 a.m., we got back to the apartment. I opened the windows and stood on the sill, watching the sun rise to meet our hearts and the triumphant feeling of knowing we just had a day unlike any other.
And that day and night could have only happened in Paris. On July 14.
That's the kind of thing that's supposed to happen in France.
Those kinds of things.
Not these kinds of things.
This piece originally appeared on ScottyCrowe.com.
-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website. Reported by Huffington Post 1 week ago.
Every trip to France was such an escape. It is such its own place, its own culture, its own time and speed. Early yesterday morning, I considered why I haven't just moved there. Each visit -- framed as a vacation -- helped me wrestle through life in unexpected ways: how I was doing, how to be happy, where to be happy. Each day and night spent in France either made me feel confidently like I was more than I am or pushed me outside of myself with discomfort, seemingly encouraging me to do a lot more or a lot less in life... but either way, igniting the desire to change something in the current framework. In both cases, the place envelops its visitors with equal aspiration and inspiration.
Nights in Paris last forever -- no, nights in France last forever. Nights in France last forever, because the beauty is everywhere. Though its history may not be, I find the country -- cities, towns, villages, countryside -- unassumingly gentle and beautiful throughout, where joy and family and friends and community and food and smiles come first. A "carefreedom" in life to focus on each other, intuiting a message that we're all in this together, so let's enjoy it.
And this is why the news today hurts as it does.
I know there's sensitivity from unrelentingly sad news over the last two months, but again: loss of innocent life -- harmless, representing no conflict, celebrating in a space we have all agreed is safe. Unrelenting.
This morning, before there was any new news of tragedy, I looked back at my photos from 2013. FFF and I started our day at Un Zebre, a cafe near our apartment in Montmartre. Coffee on the table transitioned to Rosé as I wrote and he read for a few hours. There was energy of the holiday up and down Rue de Abbesses, and the staff at the cafe felt like party hosts.
The bartender, without our asking, played Random Access Memories (FFF's favorite) and Channel Orange (my favorite) in their entirety, back to back, before handing me the aux cord for the cafe (probably one of my three wishes if I ever found an old lamp in a cave). Not too long after, a water fight started in the cafe -- first amongst the staff and then spreading to the patrons and then to passerbys on the street. It was silly, outrageous, and a blast.
In the early evening, we headed to meet FFF's cousin near Montparnasse, an area of the city with higher elevation, offering great, not-too-crowded views of the Eiffel Tower's fireworks show. Sunset was around 10 p.m. at that time in the Summer, so the fireworks probably began around 10:30 p.m. It was a magically impressive show, and the crowd, standing in the middle of a closed six-lane street more than two miles from the Tower, felt like a squad of friends watching and cheering this uplifting celebration.Sometime after 11 p.m., the show ended and the three of us went to a cafe for a few beers. They caught up and I watched, following the French as best I could but more than anything just enjoying Conversation In A Foreign Language as the soundtrack to my night. There's something warm and inviting about the French that never creates any anxiety from lack of understanding. A few hours later, FFF and I jumped on the Metro back to Montmartre. We happened to go to the Abbesses station instead of our routine stop near the apartment, and when we came out of the Metro's tunnel, we walked straight into a block party.
"Beers for 1 euro! Beers for 1 euro!" Sure, why not. That's approximately 10% of the cost of every other beer we'd had that month. We walked over to a tent where "bartenders" were filling plastic cups from kegs.
"What's going on?"
"We're the Youth Communist Party!"
"...Cool. Thanks for the beers!"
So, that's where we were. No one around us seemed fazed that it was pushing 2 a.m. after a daylong celebration -- in fact, there was a large crowd dancing to a DJ who played American pop and dance songs from the '80s that I recognized but couldn't place. Then some Prince came on and kids went nuts. The same for Madonna, Michael Jackson, and... The Eurythmics, I think.
Then, just as we were finishing up our last OneEuro Beer for... probably ever... The DJ threw on "Paris" from Watch The Throne. In a Pavlovian-style reaction, I bolted to the center of the crowd and found myself dancing and rapping in a circle of Parisians, maybe the only one who knew every word in every verse of the song, sweating as I danced with my camera bag across my chest. The next song was "Hustlin'" by Rick Ross, which -- oddly enough -- was the first of a long, very aggressive, committed Rick Ross tribute set (the DJ hadn't played two songs by the same artist since we'd arrived, and suddenly there's an onslaught of Rozay, complete with "Only Rick Ross 'til dawn!" pronouncement in a wonderful French accent over the PA, multiple times...MULTIPLE times). Rosé and Rozay go hand in hand, I suppose.
Around 4 a.m., he announced they had to stop because of noise ordinances -- it was a Sunday night, after all -- BUT were taking the party to a warehouse in Neighborhood I Couldn't Pronounce. FFF and I looked at each other, shrugged, and followed the crowd, down the hill towards Pigalle, where we all planned to take the Metro to this after hours party. As we walked the 9 blocks to the station, the crowd started to dwindle, and we were met with the realization that the party was now the DJ, 3 of his friends, and us, and we were probably 45 minutes from whatever place they were going.
We again looked at each other, shrugged and ducked into a bistro. We had a bite to eat and our last drink or two of the evening before walking back up the hill to Montmartre. Around 6 a.m., we got back to the apartment. I opened the windows and stood on the sill, watching the sun rise to meet our hearts and the triumphant feeling of knowing we just had a day unlike any other.
And that day and night could have only happened in Paris. On July 14.
That's the kind of thing that's supposed to happen in France.
Those kinds of things.
Not these kinds of things.
This piece originally appeared on ScottyCrowe.com.
-- This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website. Reported by Huffington Post 1 week ago.