Walter and I always wished that we could have managed to be in Paris, or anywhere in France, for Quatorze Juillet, or Bastille Day as we know it in English. We could afford once a year, and that in the spring, when prices and temperatures were kinder, but we'd always heard great things about the joy of the community celebration.
We admired the way that dead soldiers were in the national consciousness.
We were tickled by the way that the Eiffel Tower peeked in and out and around public life in Paris, enjoyed and mocked, ready to be bought by tourists who were not us.
So much pleasure in the reliable breakfast in the local café, where the waiter greeted us with "Bonjour madam, m'sieur, comme d'habitude?" [Good morning, folks, the usual?]
I was tickled all to hell that the French national bird (unofficially) is the rooster, symbol of an agricultural nation where food matters.
We'd always heard that the local fire departments threw parties for their neighborhoods, with music, food, wine, and dancing. I'd have loved to have taken part in one of those, especially with Walter in his better days.
You can find the French flag, displayed sparingly and respectfully, not draped around people's asses and plooped on their heads. Le Petit Nicolas was the bearer of the security of the French middle class for many years.
Happy birthday, France. Happy birthday, nation of Méthode D, of making things work, of looking out for as many as possible, young and old, of endless discussion and veneration of mathematics, of belles lettres, of living well every day.
