Topic: A Foreign Country…

Author: Chris Dunn

We stood in a teeming throng at Trocadero staring at La Tour Eiffel and waiting for the fireworks to start. People crushed in on all sides, jockeying for the best views and trying to avoid the periphery where a constant rain of M80s reminded us of the joy of the day. “Freedom!” The bombs seemed to demand with each thunderous retort, but the only purpose they really served was to keep us all corralled tightly in our waiting pen. I’ve never been a fan of fireworks, loud cracks and brief flowers of light followed by oohs and ahs from strained-necked gawkers. Ugh.. My nerves were shot and my bladder was full. I turned to Drew who was staring at the dark sky as if the show had already begun, “I have to pee,” I said.

“Do you have money to pay the fat lady?” he asked. I stared at him blankly and he continued explaining that though there were signs declaring bathrooms available in the Metro, during holidays and events there was often a fat lady (his words) who sat by the door and demanded a tax of a few francs. I guess to ensure only serious contenders would apply…

We had exchanged cash just that morning, so all I had were twenty franc notes. With a sigh, I hunted for a vendor and eventually purchased a trio of warm sodas, which I deposited in my companion’s hands while I made for the metro; my pocket full of change and my bladder full of piss. At the bottom of the stairs I found myself deposited in a war zone. It turns out that metro tunnels have the best acoustics you can find for M80 explosions. Let me explain for any Americans in the room, you think you have freedom here with that secret stash of poppers you secured for the Fourth by driving 4 hours into the boondocks and buying them at some hastily erected shack with a purple phantom logo? No, you have no idea. in France, every free citizen is issued a bag full of ¼ sticks of dynamite and urged to throw them at unsuspecting people for fun. Now, that’s freedom! Through the thick smoke haze, I could just make out screaming hordes of people fleeing in terror – hands over their ears – through the litter strewn floor as maniacal figures hurled flickering, deafness bombs into their midst, and hapless subway controllers stood by flaming garbage cans with shell-shocked looks of combat fatigue. I waded through this mess only to find the sign had lied! No bathrooms. No fat lady. No relief. I dreaded the return trip, but there was nothing for it. I rode the waves back, surfing the surge of the crowd, carful to keep a buffer of humans between me and as many explosions as possible.

When I returned to square, things were little better. Nursing my warm Coke, I stood with Drew and Kit staring at the Tower as staccato explosions and piercing screams split the night all around us. Eventually, the police showed up. Never before have I been so happy to see a gendarme in my life. Finally the horror of the situation receded to a background tension, as the leader forced his horse to the front of the crowd, until his silhouette blocked our view of the Tower. His words were French, but his tone was clear. I didn’t really need Drew’s translation to know. “No show tonight. Tomorrow at 10:30…”

Kit and Drew were disappointed, but this was fine with me. I was done! I wanted out! We headed down to the Metro again. Apparently, Kit and Drew had not believed the severity of my report - perhaps thinking it artistic embellishment. The looks of amazement on their faces as they took in the whole of the chaos were quite rewarding. With no other way home than a miles long trek through crowded, shrapnel filled streets, we dove in. This time the fire in the garbage was out, but a woman had been injured. She stood to side cradling her broken arm as tears streamed down her face and the controllers shielded her from further injury with their bodies. Too inured to even slow, we hurried through the scene, pausing only when the crowd surged backward to avoid another explosion.

We balked only a moment at the turnstiles. We only had one ticket, but an explosion in the near distance spurred Kit and Drew to action, and they leapt the barrier in slow motion like action heroes. We grabbed the first train that came. I leapt aboard as soon as the exiting crowd had moved on to their disappointment above, only to find that one of those freedom loving, Bastille Day celebrants had left behind a grenade. I tried to retreat, but the tide push me forward and the bomb exploded in my face. Deafened, I collapsed against the wall, happy simply to be underway.

It wasn’t until my hearing returned, that I understood what Drew was saying to me. This was the wrong train. Sigh. Thus began a long trek all in grips of an angry funk. We had to walk a mile, zip along some one-way people movers and catch another metro across the entire diameter of Paris to find our way home, all the while being serenaded with the constant song POP! BOOM! BANG!

Eventually we made it to our semi-quiet hostel. I was so surly that Drew insisted I needed to go get a bottle of wine and calm down. By the time I returned from what was the longest and most satisfying piss of my life, Drew had ditched us to find other sleeping accommodations. Kit and I drank Cokes that I paid for, and he retrieved. Then we played Mekton to the backdrop of the constant rain of artillery on Paris. Gone were the pleasant memories of the day. I have only the briefest of notes about our trip to an amusement park or our visit to Jim Morrison’s grave that day. All sacrificed on the altar of yet another celebration of freedom.