1.5 million French and 1 American Flood the Streets of Paris in Display of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité

1.5 million French and 1 American Flood the Streets of Paris

in Display of Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité

January 14, 2015

PARIS — The French Capital City has been convulsed by the Revolution of 1789, the Paris Commune of 1871 and the student riots of 1968. On Monday, January 11, those previous moments in history hovered in the air as an estimated, and unprecedented, 1.5 million people gathered in the streets of Paris, 3.7 million across all of the country of France, in an apolitical showing of national solidarity.

I had arrived in Paris for a two-week sojourn with my older “adopted” French brother and his family less than 48 hours before the outbreak of a 3-day siege of terrorism gripped the city. Plans to go on neighborhood walking tours, wander through English-language bookstores, ride every line of the Métro and explore the city’s nightlife faded into insignificance. Coming from America, which has seen its share of nationwide civil unrest in recent months, I suddenly no longer was another sterile and predictably patterned tourist.

Sunday morning, I awoke early and dressed for a jog. All public transportation had been declared free for everyone for the day, something I’ve never experienced in Washington City. Arriving at Anvers on the Métro, my goal was to make it to the foot of Sacré-Cœur. Without audio aid of the Rocky theme song, I nevertheless took the direct path — not one of the picturesque stairwells on the side rues — the stairs seen in the postcards. From Boulevard de la Chapelle to Rue de Cardinal DuBois, slowly ascending at what felt like a 90 degree incline, it took me between three and four minutes by the count of my internal clock. Ready to fall out with one of more set of stairs to go, seeing a cavalcade of historic American and European cars from Ford Mustangs to a 1958 Chevrolet Impala to a gold-colored Rolls Royce rounding the corner, I mustered the will power to make it.

Reaching the last step, I momentarily close my eyes and thrust my arms triumphantly into the panoramic sky overlooking Paris, nearly thwacking the camera out of the hand of an Asian tourist in the process. I apologize in French and English before taking a seat on the edge of the top step to take in the iconic view.

Although it’s not yet ten in the morning, tourists led by guides speaking at least four different languages are within sight and sound. Taking in the sights and a moment of recovery, I spring to my feet and begin a jog in and through the back streets of Montmartre. I run down to the Cimetière Saint-Vincent, back over to the short Rue Muller and then get back on the Metro without needing a billet or to hop or push my way through as so many young men I’ve witnessed do.

At around 2pm Alex and I depart from Asnieres on his V-Max motorcyle. As we cross the city limits into the 17th arrondissement we find ourselves falling in with a small fleet of scooters heading in the same direction. Alex leads the group for a moment or two, his motorcyle being the most powerful machine in the phalanx. Moving deeper into Paris the throngs of people are becoming denser. We are now joined by a cluster of young men and women on pedal bikes reminiscent of the scene from E.T. where Elliot and his friends evade the police through a construction site and eventually take flight, crossing the Moon, the internationally recongnizable image of the movie.

As we pass Opéra de Paris we are still obeying traffic lights, but it has become obvious with a million people descending on the streets that the French have not planned for any measure crowd control. Up ahead the conflux of participants on foot are mingling with those on wheels. For a block or two we negotiate our way through the crowd, many people admiring Alex’s bike.

“I think this is as close as we will get,” Alex says. I hop off the bike. All along the sidewalk and curb scooters are parked haphazardly. At the corner of Rue Volta and Rue de Réaumur Alex parks his motorcycle. Just a short walk away on Rue Volta is one of the oldest houses in Paris, built in 1644.

We wait for Alex’s sister and her group of friends to arrive. The cellular network is in and out, mostly out. Alex uses my phone to call his sister and gets through. He relays our street coordinates. As we wait for the Husson family delegation to arrive, I look around for people to interview. I see a young man standing with his girlfriend. “Bonjour, do you speak English?” The young man answers in the affirmative. I tell him I’m from the United States and a journalist. “Why are you here today?” I ask

“Thank you to the U.S.A.,” 29 year-old Teddy Notari, who works in advertising, says. “This march represents everything we’ve been fighting for. We support Republican values. We can vote but we must be in the streets. It shows …,” he looks to his girlfriend as they exchange some words in French. They both interlock their fingers and squeeze their hands together. “The march shows we are united.” They look at each other in agreement.

“It was really unexpected. It’s great to see that even in bad times we can come together,” Teddy says. “The last time I saw this was when we won the World Cup. Yes, we can party, but we are also engaged in what is going on. This is for France and for freedom. No matter what your beliefs, what your religion is, it’s OK. It’s not about the differences.”

Two women stand on the curb as the legion of demonstrators begins to thicken. They both work as flight attendants for Air France. “Why are you here today?”

“We are here because it’s not too late for being aware of what’s happening in the world,” says Isabelle Gegard. “We are supporting the families of the dead and the freedom of the press. The whole world is threatened by terrorism and intolerance. From the tiniest villages and places to the biggest cities in France everyone is marching. It’s happening all over the world. It’s worldwide now. We had to be here.”

An American flag is being waved in the small plaza outside the Arts et Métiers Métro station, just across the street from where we stand. “I have to go interview whoever’s waving that flag,” I say already taking steps towards the flag.

“I won’t leave until you come back,” Alex says.

Making my way against the tide of a thick flow of humanity, I reach the flag bearer. A number of people are taking pictures of the star-spangled banner. I move out of the way of an older Parisian woman who looks like she emerged from a time capsule from the 1970’s, fiddling with her archaic camera.

Wrapped in a French flag is a dark-haired woman, her arms extended, waving the American flag. I nudge my way to within speaking range.

“Are you an American?” I ask, over a spontaneous rendition of Le Marseillaise, the French national anthem. She is not. Shorena Asabasvili is a 30 year-old student in Paris from Georgia, not the state but the former member of the Soviet bloc in the Black Sea region.

“It is a day of international solidarity. The USA has always been with us. I have an American friend who couldn’t be here. I wave the flag for her.” The crush of people are moving against as I stand still and try to ask more questions. While getting dragged away by the crowd I take a couple photos as a brief gust of wind catches the flag.

I fight my way back to Alex. His sister and her friends have now found arrived. The crowd appears to be reaching a surge as the people continue to come. They are no longer large groups. They have turned into one totality.

We join the current and walk a half-block on Rue de Réaumur before the gridlock decelerates us to a shuffle. By the next block we have slowed considerably. Up ahead the crowd is merging left with another group. Our pace has slowed to a near standstill.

A trio of women in front of me pose for a selfie. I stand directly behind them unable to move. I point my finger at the camera. We’re close enough that I can see myself in the screen of their phone. After snapping the picture they turn around smiling and speaking in French. I ask if they speak English. No. One of them says they speak Spanish. “Que es importante mass personas en la calle?” I ask.

“Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité,” the young woman responds in French.

“I feel like we are in a game of Tetris,” I say to Alex. “You mean Space Invaders,” he says with a laugh, pointing to one of the hundreds of pieces of street art that started appearing throughout the city nearly two decades ago.

By now the mountain of people that we’re packed into makes a left turn onto Rue du Temple. In forty minutes we move as a mass just one block. Two groups have somehow wedged themselves between Alex and I. He yells something back to me. Any effort to say, “Pardon a moi,” have long since been abandoned. I politely elbow my through, saying, “Excuse me. American coming through. America coming through. Excuse me.”

“We go the bar!” Alex says pointing his finger to an intersection 30 yards away. We move through the crowd and settle on the sidewalk at Rue de Temple and rue Dupetit-Thouars.

Streams of people have begun to retreat course. Alex is looking at his phone, “Republique Square is closed off. They are not letting anymore people in.” It is now around 4:45 in the late afternoon. The bar we are standing next to is not taking anymore customers. The decision is made to make our way back to Alex’s bike.

Advancement of the crowd is now in almost full reverse. The revolutionary statement made by the citizens of France as the world watched has been made. As we walk back along Rue du Temple I capture a photo of Alex and his sister, both native Parisians, marching in solidarity.

When we get back to the motorcycle, Alex checks his phone for news on the demonstration. “They are reporting more than 1 and a half million people, and 1 American, in the streets of Paris,” he says with a grin. The sun is setting for the day, the sky over Paris is radiant with an amber glow.