Bastille Day

I'd really done it this time. I've really pushed my husband to finally do the vile things he would never do had he never known me or loved me. (Not that he needed much prodding.)

Today I got him to wake up early (an ungodly 7 a.m.); weave through the unreasonable traffic barricades around the perimeter of the Champs Elysees; walk from La Madeleine through a long, tedious maze concocted by the Gendarme like sheep being herded to the sidewalk; go through a body search; stand behind a fence for two hours and a half; and carry me on his shoulders occasionally. Madness. Utter madness.

But he's in love with an eternal tourist, so he escorted me to the Bastille Day parade.

The yearly show of strength in the country's capital.

But sad news greeted us as we walked towards the Champs Elysees. Five of their boys had died the night before in Afghanistan, the speakers blared, asking for a minute of silence.

Suddenly the day regained its significance. It was a reminder that wars were still being fought.
 

In old ways.

And new.

The parade used to be a way to sow holy terror into the hearts of would-be enemies.

But I guess it goes both ways these days. I am no fan of war, I think it turns people into puppets of other people's vested interests, but I don't think our species would ever outgrow it. It is the law of nature, and we only live in her planet.

And so we stand along the fringes and watch the pomp and glory of the Republique pass us by.

And we watch the machines of war thunder along in the old way...

Or in new.

In a city where the past is ever present.

Impossibly cute (and adult mimic) petite Nina came before it got dark, while the sunset made the city around us glow as pink as her cheeks. Like me, this was her first Fête Nationale. She came by to sniff the cold night air and the gunpowder from the rooftop.

Where fire exploded in the colors of the rainbow and fell in minuscule slivers of dying light.

(You can watch part of the fireworks here.) 

When it was over, my champagne was missing.