One could never accuse the French of being unromantic. Arles has reminders around every corner. Families and friends meet with kisses on the cheek--three (left, right, left), woman to man, man to woman, woman to woman, man to man (I've finally figured out why Paige likes me to shave). Old men flirt with women half their age, and, without a hint of chagrin, she usually flirts back. Young couples walk hand in hand, make out on trains, lounge about the stone stairs leading up from the Rhone to the cobbled street. Weddings in St. Trophieme are frequent, with flower petals and paper hearts lingering long after the newlyweds have driven away in a convertible bedecked with white roses.
Of late, the most frequent reminder of French romanticism is trash. Lots and lots and lots of trash, with more piling up on curbs and beside overflowing dumpsters every day. Poubelle ("trash") has made its way onto the front page of La Provence, the regional newspaper, accompanied by pictures of junk stacked like ramparts along the streets of Marseilles. The mountains of trash outside our door are the symbol and culmination of over 200 years of French romance.
If there is one thing the French hold in greater romantic esteem than les jollies filles, it is Revolution. Revolution is a French birthright. It is in the water, it blows through French heads and hearts like the Mistral. It sticks to the bottoms of French shoes like another ubiquitous sidewalk-substance (the latter left courtesy of les chiens). Americans generally lift their political mottos from one side or the other of dichotomous rhetoric, rhetoric cleverly wrung clean of meaning by a press that is both free and free of actual thoughts. Instead, the French have inherited their sense of justice. They don't need to see a newspaper or turn on a TV to know what to think. Revolution is in their DNA.
But I am getting ahead of the story, which begins at the pool about two weeks ago, on a Monday at 7:58 PM, 32 minutes prior to the scheduled close.
"Désolée, Messieur'dame--nous sommes fermées." The clerk doesn't appear désolée. She seems anxious to be heading home. We beg for a bit, but the clerk is resolute.
Paige is incensed by a perceived lack of courtesy and, on the way home from our failed piscine attempt, stops by Gloria's to vent. Gloria, a well-traveled, well-read German expat cum Citizen of the World, has become our go-to source of wisdom regarding all things Français.
"It's Catholicism." Gloria is adept at finding ways to blame the Catholics. As usual, she does so with a wry smile and a keen sense of humor. "Catholics can be rude without fear of hell. If they mistreat you on Tuesday, they just go to confession on Wednesday." Someone who has read as much history and philosophy as Gloria can't be expected to be more than half-serious. Paige seems satisfied with this rationale. Or if not with the rationale, than with the several glasses of vin en vrac that accompany it.
The next day, we return to the pool, making certain to arrive a few hours before closing time. Our punctuality is to no avail. A friendly janitor stands on the other side of the locked gate and explains to us why the piscine is again closed.
"Greve," he says.
"Greve? Qu'est c'que 'gréve'?" Paige and I ask, trying to understand this latest cause of our steadily-deterioriating respective physical conditions.
"Grève. Réunions. Drapeaux. Marches." He raises his arms in the air, waving an invisible flag in demonstration (and double entendre).
"Oh, a party!" Paige says. "Une fête?"
"Non," he shakes his head, still smiling. "N'est pas une fête. Gréve."
The light bulb slowly begins to flicker. "A strike?," we ask.
"Oui, oui," our new friend smiles and nods enthusiastically. "Gréve!"
"When will the pool open again?" we ask in French.
"At 8:30," the janitor says. "But not for swimming. For a nudist club."
Toto, we're not in California anymore. You've got to love a country that breaks ranks only for naked people.
It is Wednesday before we finally manage to swim. Well, almost: The pool is open, I've made it through the locker room, donned my obligatory cap, and I'm about to jump in the heavily-chlorinated, bath-tub-warm water of Lane 2.
"Attendre!" The lifeguard jumps up from his chair and runs over to me as though my legs were on fire. " Les shorts sont interdit."
Shorts are forbidden? "C'est vrai? Sont les shorts de surf." I say, pinching the fabric between my thumb and forefinger as though to prove their harmlessness.
"I just washed them," says Paige.
"Désolée. Ils sont interdit."
I will remember to pack a Speedo next time. For now, the lifeguard is nice enough to hook me up with a skimpy, somewhat-moldy pair from the lost-and-found. We have a good workout, and the pool remains open late, not closing until 15 minutes prior to the advertised time.
Two days later, Larry arrives for a visit. By then, France is in full-blown protest mode. The trash is starting to pile up. Seventy oil tankers are hovering outside the Marseilles port, waiting for the dock workers to return. Gas stations are closed, waiting for the petrol that was supposed to have been unloaded by the dock workers. There are marches and speeches every few days in the Place de Republique. Trains still run, but on a cryptic schedule that is announced the night before and can only be deciphered by a specialist.
Frederic and I drive to the airport to pick up Larry. Along the way, Frederic explains to me the superficial reason for the current greve, which is that Sarkozy wants to follow Germany and others in raising the retirement age from 60 to 62. Frederic is smart enough and jaded enough to avoid whole-hearted adoption of a mainstream view, but he seems to agree with the strikers. He is also convincing, despite the language barrier. Over the 5-hour course of the trip (Larry has been incorrectly told to take the bus all the way to Marseilles' central station, and it takes us several phone calls and beaucoup running around to find him) I find myself opening my mind to the cause of les ouvriers. Two extra years of pension seem reason enough for an extended fete.
As of this writing, the strikes appear to be coming to an end. I heard the dumpsters being emptied into trucks this morning. I'm not sure if the greve has had an effect, other than to reduce access to the pool, stop the mails, close the open market, shut the doors to several photo exhibits, and to give French workers a few additional vacation days. But, my good Catholic God, there is something superficially funny yet deeply inspiring about French solidarité.
It will be difficult to leave Arles. We find ourselves more at home here, with kisses and greves, than in the States, with Fox News and 50-hour work weeks. Even if romance and revolution aren't in your blood, they can be contagious.
Photographer: Julia Maier
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