BoomerGirl Diary

Just another ordinary day in Paris. At the intersection on my street, the police were redirecting traffic yesterday afternoon. Cars were backing up, honking. I could see the far end of the street was blocked off by a white police truck. Another day, another manif (demonstration).

I recalled my first days in Paris when I saw my first manifestation ever, as it paraded noisily and cheerfully down the rue de Rennes. I was so excited, exclaiming to unfazed shopowners, "Regardez!" I snapped dozens of photos, thrilled with the drama of it all. Now I hear about another manif, and I don't even bat an eyelash, but simply do the mental calculation of how to change my transportation plans to get where I need to go.

So yesterday I walked down the narrow side street, rue de Babylone, anyway, assuming that I could get to the boulevard, knowing that bus service would be interrupted and I'd simply take the metro to get to my meeting across town.

Think again.

This time the two policemen wouldn't even let pedestrians down the street. "C'est bloqué." is all they would say. A small crowd of would-be passersby began to gather, incredulous that we weren't able to go the one block to the boulevard. One by one, they asked the same question. "Can't I just go to the metro?" Same curt but polite reply each time, "C'est bloqué." We all started looking at each other with an oh-well-what-the-hell shrug. "Can we get to Duroc station, au moins?" asked one lady. "You can try, but I can't promise anything," replied the gendarme, clearly tiring of his role as an information desk clerk.

"Can you least tell us the projected route of the manif?" she pressed her luck. No reply.

I stood there immobile for a moment, weighing my options. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Damn! I was already running late, and couldn't decide which way to head to catch a bus or metro that would skirt the manif. I chewed on my fingernail as I contemplated.

"Surely, madame, you cannot be so anguished as to have to do this," teased a smooth but gravelly male voice. I looked up and saw an elegant 60-something gent, graying wavy hair, silk ascot, imitating me by biting on his finger. He smiled.

"Mais si," I replied, perking up and coyly returning the smile. "I'm trying to figure out whether I should try to go to Duroc or Sevres-Babylone to catch the metro." I stuck my index finger back in my teeth. I needed to think, fast — potential Romeos notwithstanding.

"Ah, oui, Sometimes we have to make choices in life, " he said with a twinkle. "We have to take risks."