My Travel Book - With Claude Monet in Giverny - France

"Nymphéas" by Claude Monet

Basically, I am an art lover. I spend a lot of time in museums and galleries and art exhibits. Lucky me, I know. Sometimes when my life gets really hard, there is nothing more positive than thinking about a beautiful painting or a sculpture or... or... So many images, all of them arousing a torrent of passion. (It works so well for me and yes, I am this crazy!)

Some painters became my friends throughout my life. Friends as in
Anais Nin’s quote: "Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."

I love Van Gogh. I love Hieronymus Bosch. I love Goya. I love El Greco and so many, so many others. Don’t get me started!

But there is one painter I would spend so much time with and luckily I do spend a lot of time with him since he is French and you find a lot of his paintings in Paris.

I am pretty sure that as I write Claude Monet’s name, a smile appears on your face.

Monet and Impressionism. Monet and his subtle touch on ephemeral colors, feelings... impressions... Claude Monet, one of France’s most celebrated painters.

In 2010, there was a retrospective of his works at the Grand Palais in Paris. 900.000 people went there, sometimes queuing for hours to try to have a glance at paintings so famous and yet so fascinating.

I went there several times, being lucky enough to own a pass that allowed me to avoid the crowd, more or less. The exhibit closed in January 2011 but there are still a lot of Monet’s paintings to be seen in Paris.

Go to Le Louvre, to Musée d’Orsay and to Musée Marmottan (dedicated to Monet and his Impressionists friends). Do not forget to spend some lovely and peaceful moments at the Musée de l’Orangerie, right in the Jardin des Tuileries. This is where you’ll find the most impressive series of the Water Lilies (Nymphéas), offered by Monet to the French people as a whole. Nice gesture! Priceless paintings. Pure beauty.

But if you are staying a tiny bit longer in the Paris area, try to go to Giverny. It is a small village in Normandy, 80 kms west of Paris. You’ll find how to get there on this page...

Why Giverny? Well, this is where Monet chose to live with his family in 1883 until his death in 1923. And this is where he had the famous pond with water lilies done.

The first time I went there I remember being quite surprised. The pond is quite small. The garden is not huge either... And then I realized why Monet was such a great painter. His Nymphéas paintings are boundless, true to the artist’s infinite vision.

The house itself is lovely. A little bit surprisingly pink, considering the houses in the area but so lovely. Monet’s paintings are all about color, aren’t they. It is not possible to visit the whole house but the curators have opened a few rooms, enough to get a feeling of Monet’s life there with his wife Camille and their two sons and Alice Hoschedé and her six children. Yellow walls. Blue gingham curtains. Shining copper kitchen utensils. Friendly and huge wooden kitchen table...

Do not expect to see real paintings on the walls. Copies only. Impressive number though. Who cares about seeing a real Monet’s painting there though? Aren’t we right in the heart of his paintings in Giverny?

After visiting the house, you follow the crowd through the garden which has been kept the way Monet designed it and you’ll find in it all the flowers he kept painting...

Monet painting in his garden, surrounded by children shouting and laughing. Monet painting in his garden surrounded by friends, some of them very famous.

And then you get to the pond.

And there, they are, the Nymphéas... in the small pond. Just the way they were when Monet was painting them. And the weeping willows too.

There are people all over the place and yet you feel so overcome by the atmosphere that you only hear peaceful chirping and you suddenly feel like Monet is so close to you, sitting by his easel, translating his impressions to the canvas. So real. Amazingly real because it is so easy to watch the pond and see the paintings.

I know I am a daydreamer. Maybe you’ll only see the real water lilies and this will be great too because the pond is truly a bewitching place.  

There is a flowering calendar of Monet’s garden. It says that the nymphéas (water lilies) only start flowering in July. I have been there mid-June and they already were in full bloom.

Memories and pictures work so well in my life. Right now, I am in Brittany, weathering a tempest. The scenery is breathtaking. The wind is howling all around the house. No gulls in the sky. Hares, rabbits and birds are gone in hiding. From time to time, the rain lashes against the window panes.

But there I am in Giverny too, enjoying so much peace and quiet! So lucky. So happy.

"Nymphéas" by Claude Monet

"Nymphéas" by Claude Monet

*Good Luck, and Good Night*

My Travel Book - My Birthday Surprise - Carcassonne (Chapter One)

Quite a long time ago, Popeye asked me what I’d like to do for my birthday.

He knew I was feeling quite depressed so he came up with a few very interesting ideas: Venice? Firenze? Egypt? (He was kidding, wasn’t he?)

Since I’m lucky enough to share my birthday with Belgium’ s national day, it meant a very long week-end starting on a Thursday.

So I answered: «What about Southern France and Arfons?».

Last time we were there was 23 years ago.

I kind of missed my village especially since I started writing about my ancestors. Well, it was not really a longing though. I’ve become too much of a Breton now. And the people I used to love so much have been dead for quite a long time.

But I did ask to go back to Arfons. And then I forgot about it.

Popeye didn’t talk much about his plans for my birthday and I did not talk about them either. My birthday is not my favorite day of the year even though I sure enjoy becoming older now.

I knew that we’d go out to a good restaurant, probably in Brittany! Popeye loves to eat well and I’m a rotten cook! And we both love Brittany.

On Sunday, I was told that reservations had be made in... Carcassonne. We would be flying to Toulouse on Thursday morning. We’d drive to the hotel in Carcassonne and go back to Arfons and any place I cared to go to!

It was such a surprise that my first reaction was totally negative. I definitely could not go back there after all. Too many extremely wonderful memories. It’s not easy to go back to places where you’ve been so happy... with ghosts around.


«Nevermore» said Poe’s raven.

Obviously, the raven never met Popeye. Because Popeye never says: «Nevermore.»

On Wednesday, the weather was really bad in Paris. Hard to believe that I had to pack summer clothes to go down south.

On Thursday morning, we took a cab to Orly to catch our plane to Toulouse. It was cold and rainy and I still didn’t know what to expect from this trip.

We landed in Toulouse 50 mns after take off. Incredible. It used to last a full 10 hours by train. Worth waiting 23 years after all.

Popeye loves to get things just right. In Marrakesh, we lived in a ryad, avoiding the big international hotels. In Carcassonne, he thought it’d be interesting to stay in a very beautiful family estate instead of checking in a traditional hotel.

Le Domaine d'Auriac

I loved the place at first sight. Very quiet and beautiful. I had the feeling we were miles away from Carcassonne. I mean far away from the city hustle.

And off we went... to Carcassonne which actually was less than one mile away.

I have been to Carcassonne so many times but the view from the vineyards was amazing. It really was being back home.

Hundreds of people around of course but we decided to take a walk around the «Cité de Carcassonne».

A lot of restoration had been done since my last time there. They are mainly changing the rooftops which had been covered with slates where there should have been red curved tiles. Viollet-le-Duc, you were so wrong!

Entering the Cité

The City walls (part of them anyway):

Once you've been around on the ramparts, you get to enter the Viscount's Castle. Quite impressive.

Carcassonne is real. People still live inside the Middle Ages walls.

From the Middle Ages!

No gutters. The rain falls directly from the tiles into the street below.

The Parisian (British?), etc. idea of a garden in the Middle Ages...

Right close to the Castle walls

Carcassonne is a very enchanting place to be.

We walked and walked around on top of the city walls. And from time to time, I’d look away and there there it was... my beloved «Montagne Noire» (its southern slopes anyway).

 My heart was beating very fast. I started feeling at home so much that before the end of the day, to Popeye’s merriment, I had gone back to my Southern accent and expressions.

The first time I uttered «Hé Bé», therefore expressing my delight and totally forgetting to use the French «Eh bien», he burst out laughing. But it was nice. I didn’t know I still remembered the expression which came back to me naturally like so many others.

I guess Southern French or Southern «langue d’oc» is part of my genetic heritage.

I was totally "fluent" by the time we flew back to Paris. And I got really mad at Popeye everytime he tried to mimic my accent.

«This is NOT your native tongue. This is NOT your native accent,» I’d say.

Do I need to tell you that as soon as I hit Paris, I lost my accent?

When in Rome...

Do I also need to tell you that besides being a very charming place, «our family estate» boasted an extremely good restaurant?

Such a perfect birthday.

 

(To be continued)

*Good Luck, and Good Night*

French? Did you say 'French'? - All about Bastille Day 2011

Starting quite early in July, Paris becomes a huge barracks. And nobody ever wonders why. Of course, we all know about Bastille Day and its gigantic army parade.

What are we wondering about? I’m using «we». Maybe I should use «some of us» even if the «some of us» group is growing fast now.

French people love the army parade. If they don’t get to be on the Champs Elysées in Paris, they will be stuck in front of their tv set all morning long to watch the parade.

The same way they will stay glued to their tv set whenever there is a royal wedding (even though we tend to be very fond of our Republic) and more than anything else, when the Tour de France (the famous cycle race) gets to Paris on its final stretch.

Lately there has been a sickening debate or should I say, vicious attacks against someone who was bold enough to say aloud what thousands of people think and are afraid to talk about.

France is entering a difficult patch.

2012 will be our presidential and legislative elections year.

Some sort of unofficial election campaign has already started. Some political parties have already chosen their candidate. Some are on their way to get through primaries, a little bit like in the States. Less impressive since there are so many political parties in France.

A woman called Eva Joly has been chosen (elected) as the official candidate to the Europe Ecology/Green Party.

Two days ago, she declared that we should cancel the army parade and replace it with a parade including people who work for the state and NGOs. They would symbolically represent the French Republic that they are serving well and anonymously.

She added that if we still needed a military parade, we should have it instead on November 11th or May 8th.

I’d like to say a few words about Eva Joly. She was born in Norway. She became French 40 years ago after arriving in France, fifty years ago. Of course she has a dual nationality, which in total agreement with European laws.

She has been one of the most reputable judges in France, in charge of financial crimes (often linked to the financing of political parties). Right now she’s one of the Green Party deputies at the European Parliament.

As soon as she uttered the «unthinkable», cancelling the army parade, she was under attack from left to right (down to far-right) for one reason and one reason only: She is not French. Oh really?

We are back to the stinking quagmire about what it means to be French. On Bastille Day of all days.

Please read the Marseillaise so many French people refuse to sing nowadays because besides being filled with violence, it does explicitely say: «What! Foreign cohorts would make the law in our homes... To arms, citizens. Let’s march, let’s march!  That a tainted blood Water our furrows.» This may have been relevant in 1792 since it was written for a revolutionary army. Is it relevant today when so many French people are  said to have «tainted blood» since they were not born in France?

So Ms Joly who has been lawfully elected and represents France at the European Parliament belongs to those «foreign cohorts» whose «tainted blood» should «water our furrows».

In 1968, Daniel Cohn-Bendit, born in France but a German citizen, was deported from France because he was one of the beloved leaders of the student revolution. This is why lots of (French) young people started wearing a button that said: «Me too, I am a German Jew.»

Nowadays, who would sport a button claiming: «I am French even though I was not born in France»?

I know. It’s easy to give lessons.

Lately one of my bad second degree joke about English soldiers in Dunkirk hurt quite a few British readers. (I’ll write a post about it!)

But today, let’s go back to Bastille Day which was the reason why xenophobia swept through our newspapers, radio talks, tv shows, etc.

Ms Joly says and I totally agree with her that if we need an army parade, we should choose November 11th. My faithful readers already know what November 11th has meant to my family.


I know, Armistice Day is supposed to mean peace. But if we need to honor the French army which is now totally professional , why don’t we switch to November 11th?

And why don’t we stop inviting foreign heads of state to our military parades, not because they are foreigners but because they are tyrants and dictators (Baschar el-Assad or Ali Bongo, for example)?

This year, at the last minute due to heavy loss in Afghanistan, our leaders decided to dedicate this  parade to French soldiers at war in faraway lands, especially in Afghanistan.

All I know though is that whenever I think about our 14th of July huge army parade, it smacks of dictatorships (old and present).

Back to Bastille Day again. How bizarre that we chose the 14th of July as our national holiday.

Why not June 27th? One of the most pivotal and peaceful event in our bloody past in 1789: The Tennis Court Oath. The day when French citizens became (almost) equal.

Why not the 26th of August? The day when the last article of our famed «Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen» was voted? This Declaration that has inspired so much freedom in the world.

I really wonder why our ancestors chose the day when a prison was taken over by a riotous crowd (yes, I know, they were to become our revolutionary heroes) to free seven prisoners, mostly if not all of them noblemen, jailed because they had run up debts...

The day when the prison governor and the guards were murdered after surrendering under a flag of truce...

Well, somebody probably had good reasons to choose Bastille Day. But for me and many people like me, all we hear that day is some terrible war rumble.

By the way, have you ever read or listened to «Le Chant du Départ»? It was written in 1794... another revolutionary song. It became our national anthem during the Great War. A few French presidents tried to reinstate it. But «La Marseillaise» won, once and for all.

What do I worry so much about? I am so lucky after all. I was born French in France.







*Good Luck, and Good Night*

Revolutions? Wars? Dictatorship and Napoleon Bonaparte

ⓒGoya - El Tres de Mayo - Museo El Prado

The world has been going through crazy troubled times lately. Some dictators are defeated by their people quite quickly as we saw it happen in Tunisia and Egypt.

Other dictators fight hard and choose to kill their own people to remain in power. We do not know what will happen in the followings weeks maybe months from now.

I have been feeling quite distressed by all those revolutions and wars. The year of the Hare was supposed to be a good year, filled with peace, wasn’t it? That’s what our Chinese friends told us not too long ago, a few days before Mubarak resigned actually.

Now a little bit of weird thinking about what’s going on.

Can you imagine the day when crowds will stand in line in order to get close to the grave/tomb of Ben Ali (Tunisia) or Mubarak (Egypt) in the monument erected twenty years from now in their own country?

I think I’ll skip the list I had established while walking to Les Invalides...

You see, right now I am staying in Paris. Whenever I step outside, there it is, gilded and flamboyant: Les Invalides.

To make the story short, Les Invalides was built by one of our kings in the 1690s. It was to become a nursing home for old soldiers as well as a hospital for wounded soldiers. This is what Les Invalides still is nowadays, part of it anyway.

It is mainly known now as a monument which houses several museums, all of them about war.

It also is the burial site for several very famous military French ‘heroes’, including our long gone Emperor, Napoleon Bonaparte whose ashes are kept in a rather impressive stone tomb.

Believe it or not, I had never been inside Les Invalides. I’m not too keen on wars, you see. Not too keen on Napoleon either.

Not any more ever since I grew up. When I was a teenager, there was this romantic cult about him. I still have to figure out why.

Then this morning, it hit me very hard and I’m still very upset.

While I was standing in line to buy a ticket, I noticed an inscription on the wall: «I wish my ashes to lie on the banks of the Seine, in the midst of the French people I have loved so much.»

Who said that? Napoleon I.

Who was standing in line and buying tickets to get to see his tomb? Tens of people from all over the world. I heard a few French voices mingling with Spanish, Italian, British, etc. voices.

I thought that people forget very easily. I felt very sad for all the people who right now are fighting for freedom and human rights all over the world.

Does time heal wounds and make people forgetful of the truth? Do we need heroes this bad? And preferably heroes with power?

I love Madrid and whenever I’m there I go to El Prado (a very famous art museum). Once there I go straight to the Goya area. I know I will feel awful but I have to go there.

‘El Tres de Mayo’ is very impressive. The dying men are Spanish. The shooting squad is French. It happened in 1808 in Spain after some Spaniards rebelled against French military occupation. They attacked French soldiers with... knifes and forks and were very quickly defeated. The survivors were shot. All of them.

France was then ruled by Napoleon Bonaparte, the very Napoleon whose ashes are now in Les Invalides.

Napoleon was one of the ruthless dictators France ever had.

Of course, there were many really freakish dictators after Napoleon. History is filled with their names.

Napoleon was a military man (quite brilliant). He managed to get hold of the power while quite young.

France was emerging from a very bloody revolution. It was quite easy for him to grab the power and very legally at first.

I’m not planning on writing a history course. The Wikipedia pages are quite satisfying. Help yourselves.

But I have to mention that while he was a young general, he suppressed a royalist rebellion (against the Revolution and its bloody leaders, butchering some fifteen hundred people in the streets of Paris in October 1795, in one day (13 Vendémiaire An IV).

Then he went to war again: Italy and Egypt.

He was becoming so famous and so hungry for power that he chose to abandon Egypt and came back to Paris just in time to overthrow the constitutional government. This happened in 1799. On the 18th Brumaire according to the so called Republican calendar (November 3.)

From then one, he was on his way to become the most powerful person in France, first as the ‘First Consul’ (securing his election to this position).

He resumed wars against France’s neighboring countries. He re-established slavery in France’s colonies. Slavery had been abolished during the Revolution.

Being ‘First Consul’ and Commander-in-Chief of a very powerful army wasn’t enough for him.

On December 2, in 1804, he recreated a hereditary ‘monarchy’ in France. He crowned himself  ‘Emperor Napoleon I’ in Paris, at Notre-Dame.

From then on, France became a warring and conquering nation. Napoleon would get rid of the kings of the defeated countries and replace them with members of his family or with high-ranking and trusted officers.

Rebellions were subdued in bloody repression. And the occupied countries were plundered.

To make the story short, Napoleon’s downfall started when he was defeated in Russia.

He started loosing battles against a very strong coalition (7 countries) and then one day, he was thorougly defeated and forced to abdicate unconditionally (without being able to do so in favor of his son which had been his plan). This happened in 1814.

He escaped the island where he had been exiled to and he came back to power for a short time (100 days). He lost everything at the Battle of Waterloo, on June 18, 1815.

He was then sent away for good to a tiny island in the Atlantic Ocean, the Island of Saint Helena where he died, supposedly poisoned, in 1821.


His ashes were brought back to Paris in 1840 to Les Invalides, less than 20 years after his death.

Napoleon I’s story belongs to French history and is much more complicated.

I am not saying that he was totally, completely bad. He did great things for France which contributed to some kind of golden legend which survived throughout the centuries.

But he was a dictator, in those times - a tyrant even if he started with ending disorder in post-revolutionary France.

It has been proven that while he was ruling France and most of Europe, he can well be credited with the deaths of at least 1.000.000 men, women and children, a lot of them civilians. Plus around 500.000 soldiers in the French army.

A lot of people when you realize it happened in the early XIXth century when Europe was not extremely populated.

Does this mean that dictators have feelings? Feelings or delusions?





*Good Luck, and Good Night*

Our sweet French Corner in Belgium or all about the renewal of our I.D. card

Last week, we received a note asking us to renew our registration to the French Consulate expat list.

Our consular I.D. card is still good until the end of 2012 (election year in France). But going through our I.D. cards (the Belgian residence permit, the Consular I.D. card and the French I.D. card), we realized that we no longer had a valid French I.D. card (since March).

In France, the I.D. card is the only valid identification... And you have to carry it with you all the time, just in case.

And it’s no use to try to show your (valid) passport nor your (lifelong) driving licence either. I know. I’ve been through a couple of identity checks.

Since we had to go to the Consulate to renew our registration, we decided it would be a good idea to renew our I.D. cards as well.

I googled the French Consulate website to make sure we’d have the right  papers and pictures with us because they make you wait an awful long time and Popeye is a very busy man.

I found some old I.D. pictures for Popeye (who hasn’t aged too much, I have to admit). But I was smiling on mine. This is strictly forbidden now. I have a hard time to understand why but it is not good at all to start thinking when dealing with the public services.

I went to the nearest camera store to get my picture taken. Since I haven’t been feeling too good lately, I do look awfully tired. I knew I was not supposed to wear make-up. I thought I’d look a little bit better if I wore a red scarf over my shoulders with matching earrings (not showy but red).

Popeye got home around noon and off we went to the French Consulate in Brussels.

Getting into the building is hard enough (worse than airports, just imagine) but once you are inside, you think that nothing worse can happen.

Wrong. There was a lady at the ‘welcome’ desk. She took one look at me and I understood right away that I was in trouble. Funny how many (fake) blond and oldish women are disturbed by grey short hair.

She took one look at my ID pictures, shook her head in complete disbelief. You see, she didn’t like my earrings. So she gave the pictures back to me. I couldn’t help but say: ‘I’m not wearing an Islamic headscarf, am I?’. Bad move.

Popeye looked at me, looking real mad! Oh, oh! Then he gave her his pictures. Not the legal size, thank you. Ah, ah, ah. Maybe he should have been wearing a tie. (I kept my mouth shut but no one can prevent me from thinking.)

We left. And then I heard something like: ‘I hate it so much when French people act stupidly when they are in a foreign country! And this is what you just did in front of the clerk. She was doing her job after all.’

Foreign country? We were in the French Consulate, for goodness sake, i.e. we were in France! And I had been polite even if a little bit sarcastic. Men are so different from women. Bad day anyway.

We went back to the picture store. No earrings. No scarf on my shoulders. Still no tie for Popeye.

And yesterday, we went back to the Consulate with pictures, our old I.D. cards, without forgetting all the papers mentioned on the consular website.

Popeye almost had to get his clothes off before being allowed to get in. I was already inside... (I had learnt the tricks the day before but as I said, men are different from women.)

And then my good friend, the charming blong clerk, started sniggering: ‘Some people do love to get undressed, don’t they?’

‘I imagine you are not aware you are talking about my husband, are you?’

My turn. Fair backlash.

She turned very red. But when we showed her our pictures, she inspected them very carefully. I guess her job is really boring. Alas, the pictures were obviously totally in line with the instructions.

We then went to the waiting room and we waited and waited until our number was called.

We met with another clerk. She was a quite nice young lady. We started renewing our registration. Just imagine, we had been summoned because the first time we were there in 1998, they had forgotten to ask us about our height and our eyes color.

The eye color stuff really bothers Popeye a lot. You see, when it’s sunny, his eyes are green. When it’s getting dark, they turn to brown.

The cat had got my tongue. I had learnt my lesson. I did not ask the clerk whether or not it would be possible for him to have two consular I.D. cards - one for the day, one for the night. But it did go through my mind.

‘Dear Franz Kafka, I’m writing this letter to you to let you know that bureaucracy has changed since you wrote The Trial, etc. It’s a lot worse.’

Renewal of the registration - Over.

I.D. card renewal - Next.

The pictures were allright.

Then the young lady asked: ‘May I see the copies of your birth certificates, please?’

Birth certificates? The cards only needed renewal. They were not our first I.D cards. We are getting old and I.D. cards have been mandatory ever since we were 18.

We had our passports but no birth certificates. I was waiting for Popeye to say something, which he did - more nicely than I would have, I admit.

‘Why do you need our birth certificates? The website does not mention it’s mandatory for renewal.’

‘The website was not updated, Monsieur. I’m sorry but there is a new law. We have to make sure you are French.’

Popeye looked at me, quite appalled. Weren’t we French? Our old cards came from this Consulate.

And then the girl added:

‘It won’t take long. It says here that you were born in France.’

‘Then what?’

‘Sir, we need your birth certificate, that’s all.’

I.D. card renewal - To be continued.

Once we were outside, we looked at each other in total disbelief.

And then we remembered what our dear friend N. had told us a month ago. She’s French, born in France but her parents were born in Algeria when Algeria was French. Their birth town archives have been destroyed during the independence war. No proof they were French. But they’ve always had French I.D papers without any problem.

Last month, N.'s sister could not get her passport renewed. Yes, this is what I wrote: ‘renewed’. Because she could not prove her parents were born in French Algeria. Both her grandfathers have fought Germany as French soldiers. To no avail.

Not funny. Not funny at all.

When I got back home, I checked  our I.D. file. There they were. Copies of our birth certificates. Yes but they were 11 years old. You’ll think that they should be good. I’m not sure any longer.

So I went to the French Government website and applied for new birth certificates. I wrote Popeye’s name and surname and then one question popped out: ‘Were you born in France?’  Our family name is so Frenchy/French. I just couldn’t believe my eyes.

And then an instruction popped out on my screen. ‘If you were born in France, click here’, which I did and found myself on a completely new page.

Georges Orwell was laughing loud and clear over my shoulder so I did not try to stay on the previous page... I was so sure that the following question would be: ‘Are your parents French?’

We were upset and critical when the so-called National Identity Survey was launched by the government. We felt so much better when they stopped it, under many pressures, especially from the Civil Rights movements.

They stopped the survey. But you have to ask for I.D. papers to realize that a new law has been voted anyway, a very shameful law.

This is France once more.

The country of the Declaration of the Rights of Men. My dear, dear country.


But are we really French, after all?





*Good Night, and Good Luck*

Race? Roots? Racism? And then what?

A week ago, I read a very interesting blog about ‘race’ and ‘roots’. And I had to comment in a very assertive way that races were not a problem in France because the race concept is not accepted by our constitution - Which is true since France is probably the only country in the world to refuse to use the word ‘race’ and/or to mention ‘ethnic groups’. Officially that is.

So no ‘race’ problem in France. So-called ‘National Identity’ problems, yes: Are you French? Were you born in France? Were your parents born in France? So we always get mixed up signals. But no official ‘race’ nor 'roots' problems. 'Race' and 'roots' are a very personal matter after all.

The policemen arrest someone because they don’t like the look of him (i.e. definitely not Caucasian). This is derisively called in France ‘facies offense’. (Completely forbidden by law but very real nevertheless, ask my son.) But who talks openly about ‘race problems’ in France except the far right voters?

Let me tell you a story.

(I have already made my point about firearms a while ago.)

This summer in a very small village in Southern France, R.G., an old man wakes up during the night. He hears strange noises at his door.

By the time he gets up, two young women have entered his house. He calls the firemen. (One wonders why but there must be a reason. Maybe the police station was too far away.)

Then he grabs his (loaded - of course) hunting gun, aims and shoots the first girl. He’s 6 ft away from her. The second one runs away and hides in another room. He goes after her and shoots again - this time right through her abdomen.

The state prosecutor declares the man has definitely not been acting in self-defense. The girls, 21 and 11 yrs old, were unarmed and never threatened him.

(The youngest girl is still in the hospital, 2 months later.)

I almost forgot to tell you they were Gypsies.

Let’s quote the trigger-happy man when he was arrested: ‘I felt I was in danger. I was afraid because you never know what may happen with this ‘blasted’ race. I am a racist. When you watch television and you see what’s going on in France, you have to become a racist. And then you have to defend yourself against them.’

‘Them’ being of course ‘the others’, ‘the ones who are or look different’, ‘the ones we are afraid of’, etc. as shown on television.

R.G. claimed that his life has been filled with dread because 300 Gypsies are living close to his home. He also added that if Gypsies start stealing, they have to understand it will be a matter of life and death. Justice from his own hand, of course.

Therefore, R.G. was jailed for attempted first-degree murders.

The magistrates in charge of the case explained their decision, referring to the seriousness of the wounds sustained by the girls and above all other facts, the constant racist statements which had obviously led to his despicable acts.

As soon as the case was known, far right activists and leaders asked for R. G.’s release. Their petitions were turned down again and again.

They were trying to make this case a self-defense case. They are still trying to, by the way. But racism was the point there, not self-defense.

Up until now, the French government has been quite determined to keep R. G. in jail. Except that it is now publicly rumored that he may well be out of jail before his trial starts. Because of what's been going on all summer long.

So, I apologize. There are 'races' in France since there are racists willing to kill young girls mainly because they are Gypsies.

How dumb and blind can I be when I write to my American blogger-fellow that the ‘race’ topic does not exist in France? Since we are so bright here and know that there is only one 'race', the 'human race'.

Since it is obvious I refuse to think about ‘race’, then I am probably acting and thinking like a hard core French nationalist denying people the right to their cultural and ethnic differences. Am I? Really?

This is really, really bad!

Wait. I have an excuse, I think.

It upsets me terribly when I read in the newspaper (despite the existing laws) that a ‘French man whose roots are Algerian (African, etc.)’, has done something bad. When no roots are mentioned, you maybe sure that the guy is French-French. Therefore no need to mention his roots. He-is-French. He has been French for generations and centuries. End of the matter.

This is probably the reason why I have become color (and religion blind) and why I have such a hard time dealing with the roots and race problem. It sucks.

Being European does not solve the problem after all.




*Good Luck, and Good Night*