Bastille Day

After seeing the eye Dr the other day, I stopped at the appointment desk to set the date and time of my next appointment. It fell on the 14th of July. I casually mentioned to the nurse that July 14th was Bastille Day. She and another nurse gave me a questioning look and asked what I meant. I had surprised myself when I blurted out the name of the holiday, but I explained that it was a National holiday in France, celebrating the storming and liberation of the Bastille prison and the beginning of the French Revolution.

In 1948 my husband and I, along with our 2 year old son, went to France. Soon after we arrived, we rented rooms in the apartment of a Jewish couple, M’sieur and Madam Dryfus, who had been in concentration camps and had taken in their 8 year old niece whose parents had been killed by the Nazis. They rented us a combination living room/bedroom and a dining room/kitchen but the bathroom was shared with them.

A large double bed in one corner of the living room was enclosed with heavy gray velvet drapes separating it from the rest of the room. The dining room had a large dining table and chairs in the middle of the room with a mini kitchen in one corner. A cot for our 2 year old was along one wall. There was a large window overlooking Paris in the dining room and a similar window in the living room overlooking shops on both sides of the street below and a park, which was catty corner across from our building

At the beginning of our stay in France, neither of us spoke French. The Dryfuses did not speak English, but we quickly absorbed enough French to understand them. They told us about the customs and habits of the French which paved the way for us when we shopped and traveled around Paris and the countryside. They urged us to join others of the 15th Arronndissment, (a working class neighborhood), and dance in the streets on Bastille Day to celebrate French Independence Day.

We were hesitant, but wanted to see how they celebrated. There was loud record music coming from an open doorway and 5 or 6 couples were already dancing in the street, but it wasn’t long before more people came to dance. The general atmosphere was one of gaiety and laughter. Many were strangers to each other and as greetings were exchanged, they realized we were Americans. Regardless of our limited French, and our decision to only watch, everyone insisted on dancing with us. I was very shy and tried to hold back, but found myself being whirled and turned as I tried desperately not to sprain an ankle as we twirled over the irregular pavement. My husband was also dancing and as busy changing partners as I was.

Besides being an evening to remember, it was a wonderful welcome to the neighborhood as well.