Clubs, Clowns and Johnny Hallyday
415
My daughter
Emilie and I were asleep in the back seat of my French in-laws’ ancient
Rover sedan, when we were startled awake by my mother-in-law’s
incredulous and salty complaint about why we were slowing down on
National Route 89. Dominique, my wife, was at the wheel, having agreed
to drive from Limoges to Correze after a long transatlantic flight from
Cincinnati. What with my own jet lag and fatigue, it took me awhile to
focus my eyes on the scene and my brain on what, exactly, was happening. I
hadn’t yet shifted into being able to comprehend rapid-fire French,
which led me to believe I wasn’t hearing my mother-in-law correctly as
she poured invective on actors, musicians, Johnny Hallyday,
politicians, and the French unemployment system. What was this all
about? Over a traffic jam? I squinted into the afternoon sunlight and
saw at least a hundred people blocking the national highway right where
we turn off to go to Correze, the village where my in-laws live. Some
of the folks were carrying signs that read INTERMITTENTS EN GREVE.
Others had signs urging motorists to boycott the Johnny Hallyday
concert that night. Johnny H. in Correze? Was I still dreaming? Dominique
eased the Rover into the crowd that was now beginning to engulf us. I
looked over at Emilie to make sure she was all right. Like most
nine-year-old American kids, she hadn’t experienced much social protest
first-hand. I could tell she was a little nervous, but she tried to let
me know she was OK by asking me why someone was dressed up as a clown
in the middle of the crowd. To be honest, I couldn’t tell if it was a
clown or someone costumed to look like a giant Chirac. Dominique urged
her mother to tone down her anger at the delay. “Mother, they don’t
know that we’ve just arrived from the States. And it might not be a
real good idea to tell them that. Please let me try to handle it.” We
were fully stopped now. More people were pressing toward the car.
Dominique put her turn signal on, along with a big smile, and kept
pointing to the small road that led off the national highway. I assumed
she was trying to let them know that we were locals, hoping that might
make a difference to them. It didn’t seem to be working, until a tall
man with long curly hair came up to Dominique’s window. He looked like
a leader. The crowd had parted for him. He leaned on the car roof,
peered down at Dominique, then checked out who and what was in the back
seat. What I guess he saw was a wrinkled and bleary-eyed big guy with
his legs uncomfortably resting against carry-on luggage. Then there was
the little girl in a too-small car seat that was jammed against the
rear door to make room for even more suitcases. What he didn’t know was
why we were so cramped back there—a story in itself that says something
about the French. When we got
off the small plane we had taken from Paris to Limoges, we were met by
Domi’s mother and the bad news that our largest bag hadn’t arrived with
us. While Domi tried to straighten things out with the airline, I went
to the car with my mother-in-law and the rest of our bags. After
popping open the Rover’s hatchback, my mother-in-law asked me what I
thought we ought to do with the plums. There before us was a rather
large case of freshly picked plums—right next to a sizable beat-up box
containing my father-in-law’s car tools. My
mother-in-law must have noted the bewilderment in my face. “Well, what
was I supposed to do? My friends who put me up in Limoges last night
just picked them.” She pulled one of the plums out of the case and took
a bite of it, indicating that I should try one for myself. “Please
don’t be upset with me. They really are quite good this year,” she said. “I’m
sure they are,” I said. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do with
all our bags. We might have to strap Emilie to the roof.” “Nonsense,”
she said. “We’ll throw away your father-in-law’s tools before we do
that. He insisted I take them along. As if I’d know what to do if the
car broke down. And besides, we’ll figure out how to get it all in.
Sure you don’t want a plum while we’re waiting?” And
the women, including Emilie, did get everything in. I’m useless when it
comes to packing anything more complicated than my shoes in my golf
bag. We weren’t very comfortable in the back seat, but we had the
plums, luggage (we were lucky they lost a bag) and tools, and were
headed to Correze before being waylaid by striking actors and musicians. Dominique
politely told the leader that we had just arrived from overseas. I
noticed she didn’t mention we had come from the States, no doubt
thinking the guy might be Yankophobe. I put my leg over an exposed
American luggage tag, while leaving the Air France tags fully in view.
But the leader was done with the back seat. He gave Domi a pile of
handouts that explained the nature of the direct action being taken. He
backed away from the car and gave a quick wave to indicate we could
pass. A woman of about twenty-five, who had been observing all this
while sucking violently on the end of her cigarette, protested the
leader’s decision to let us pass. He waved her off, and Domi eased the
car through the ranks of strikers. He stayed near our fender to protect
us from being engulfed again. “Daddy? Who are those men getting off that bus over there?” my daughter asked. I
looked past her out her window to see a brigade of riot police in full
gear, filing out of a blue-gray bus. They were getting ready for a bit
of direct action themselves. How could I explain to my daughter what
was likely to happen soon? We live in a country that rarely has strikes
these days. And when there are strikes, they are brief and rarely
crippling in a national way. Most Americans aren’t much inconvenienced
by them. What little social protest that occurs in the States…
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My daughter
Emilie and I were asleep in the back seat of my French in-laws’ ancient
Rover sedan, when we were startled awake by my mother-in-law’s
incredulous and salty complaint about why we were slowing down on
National Route 89. Dominique, my wife, was at the wheel, having agreed
to drive from Limoges to Correze after a long transatlantic flight from
Cincinnati. What with my own jet lag and fatigue, it took me awhile to
focus my eyes on the scene and my brain on what, exactly, was happening.
Emilie and I were asleep in the back seat of my French in-laws’ ancient
Rover sedan, when we were startled awake by my mother-in-law’s
incredulous and salty complaint about why we were slowing down on
National Route 89. Dominique, my wife, was at the wheel, having agreed
to drive from Limoges to Correze after a long transatlantic flight from
Cincinnati. What with my own jet lag and fatigue, it took me awhile to
focus my eyes on the scene and my brain on what, exactly, was happening.
I
hadn’t yet shifted into being able to comprehend rapid-fire French,
which led me to believe I wasn’t hearing my mother-in-law correctly as
she poured invective on actors, musicians, Johnny Hallyday,
politicians, and the French unemployment system. What was this all
about? Over a traffic jam? I squinted into the afternoon sunlight and
saw at least a hundred people blocking the national highway right where
we turn off to go to Correze, the village where my in-laws live. Some
of the folks were carrying signs that read INTERMITTENTS EN GREVE.
Others had signs urging motorists to boycott the Johnny Hallyday
concert that night. Johnny H. in Correze? Was I still dreaming?
hadn’t yet shifted into being able to comprehend rapid-fire French,
which led me to believe I wasn’t hearing my mother-in-law correctly as
she poured invective on actors, musicians, Johnny Hallyday,
politicians, and the French unemployment system. What was this all
about? Over a traffic jam? I squinted into the afternoon sunlight and
saw at least a hundred people blocking the national highway right where
we turn off to go to Correze, the village where my in-laws live. Some
of the folks were carrying signs that read INTERMITTENTS EN GREVE.
Others had signs urging motorists to boycott the Johnny Hallyday
concert that night. Johnny H. in Correze? Was I still dreaming?
Dominique
eased the Rover into the crowd that was now beginning to engulf us. I
looked over at Emilie to make sure she was all right. Like most
nine-year-old American kids, she hadn’t experienced much social protest
first-hand. I could tell she was a little nervous, but she tried to let
me know she was OK by asking me why someone was dressed up as a clown
in the middle of the crowd. To be honest, I couldn’t tell if it was a
clown or someone costumed to look like a giant Chirac. Dominique urged
her mother to tone down her anger at the delay. “Mother, they don’t
know that we’ve just arrived from the States. And it might not be a
real good idea to tell them that. Please let me try to handle it.”
eased the Rover into the crowd that was now beginning to engulf us. I
looked over at Emilie to make sure she was all right. Like most
nine-year-old American kids, she hadn’t experienced much social protest
first-hand. I could tell she was a little nervous, but she tried to let
me know she was OK by asking me why someone was dressed up as a clown
in the middle of the crowd. To be honest, I couldn’t tell if it was a
clown or someone costumed to look like a giant Chirac. Dominique urged
her mother to tone down her anger at the delay. “Mother, they don’t
know that we’ve just arrived from the States. And it might not be a
real good idea to tell them that. Please let me try to handle it.”
We
were fully stopped now. More people were pressing toward the car.
Dominique put her turn signal on, along with a big smile, and kept
pointing to the small road that led off the national highway. I assumed
she was trying to let them know that we were locals, hoping that might
make a difference to them. It didn’t seem to be working, until a tall
man with long curly hair came up to Dominique’s window. He looked like
a leader. The crowd had parted for him. He leaned on the car roof,
peered down at Dominique, then checked out who and what was in the back
seat. What I guess he saw was a wrinkled and bleary-eyed big guy with
his legs uncomfortably resting against carry-on luggage. Then there was
the little girl in a too-small car seat that was jammed against the
rear door to make room for even more suitcases. What he didn’t know was
why we were so cramped back there—a story in itself that says something
about the French.
were fully stopped now. More people were pressing toward the car.
Dominique put her turn signal on, along with a big smile, and kept
pointing to the small road that led off the national highway. I assumed
she was trying to let them know that we were locals, hoping that might
make a difference to them. It didn’t seem to be working, until a tall
man with long curly hair came up to Dominique’s window. He looked like
a leader. The crowd had parted for him. He leaned on the car roof,
peered down at Dominique, then checked out who and what was in the back
seat. What I guess he saw was a wrinkled and bleary-eyed big guy with
his legs uncomfortably resting against carry-on luggage. Then there was
the little girl in a too-small car seat that was jammed against the
rear door to make room for even more suitcases. What he didn’t know was
why we were so cramped back there—a story in itself that says something
about the French.
When we got
off the small plane we had taken from Paris to Limoges, we were met by
Domi’s mother and the bad news that our largest bag hadn’t arrived with
us. While Domi tried to straighten things out with the airline, I went
to the car with my mother-in-law and the rest of our bags. After
popping open the Rover’s hatchback, my mother-in-law asked me what I
thought we ought to do with the plums. There before us was a rather
large case of freshly picked plums—right next to a sizable beat-up box
containing my father-in-law’s car tools.
off the small plane we had taken from Paris to Limoges, we were met by
Domi’s mother and the bad news that our largest bag hadn’t arrived with
us. While Domi tried to straighten things out with the airline, I went
to the car with my mother-in-law and the rest of our bags. After
popping open the Rover’s hatchback, my mother-in-law asked me what I
thought we ought to do with the plums. There before us was a rather
large case of freshly picked plums—right next to a sizable beat-up box
containing my father-in-law’s car tools.
My
mother-in-law must have noted the bewilderment in my face. “Well, what
was I supposed to do? My friends who put me up in Limoges last night
just picked them.” She pulled one of the plums out of the case and took
a bite of it, indicating that I should try one for myself. “Please
don’t be upset with me. They really are quite good this year,” she said.
mother-in-law must have noted the bewilderment in my face. “Well, what
was I supposed to do? My friends who put me up in Limoges last night
just picked them.” She pulled one of the plums out of the case and took
a bite of it, indicating that I should try one for myself. “Please
don’t be upset with me. They really are quite good this year,” she said.
“I’m
sure they are,” I said. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do with
all our bags. We might have to strap Emilie to the roof.”
sure they are,” I said. “I just don’t know what we’re going to do with
all our bags. We might have to strap Emilie to the roof.”
“Nonsense,”
she said. “We’ll throw away your father-in-law’s tools before we do
that. He insisted I take them along. As if I’d know what to do if the
car broke down. And besides, we’ll figure out how to get it all in.
Sure you don’t want a plum while we’re waiting?”
she said. “We’ll throw away your father-in-law’s tools before we do
that. He insisted I take them along. As if I’d know what to do if the
car broke down. And besides, we’ll figure out how to get it all in.
Sure you don’t want a plum while we’re waiting?”
And
the women, including Emilie, did get everything in. I’m useless when it
comes to packing anything more complicated than my shoes in my golf
bag. We weren’t very comfortable in the back seat, but we had the
plums, luggage (we were lucky they lost a bag) and tools, and were
headed to Correze before being waylaid by striking actors and musicians.
the women, including Emilie, did get everything in. I’m useless when it
comes to packing anything more complicated than my shoes in my golf
bag. We weren’t very comfortable in the back seat, but we had the
plums, luggage (we were lucky they lost a bag) and tools, and were
headed to Correze before being waylaid by striking actors and musicians.
Dominique
politely told the leader that we had just arrived from overseas. I
noticed she didn’t mention we had come from the States, no doubt
thinking the guy might be Yankophobe. I put my leg over an exposed
American luggage tag, while leaving the Air France tags fully in view.
But the leader was done with the back seat. He gave Domi a pile of
handouts that explained the nature of the direct action being taken. He
backed away from the car and gave a quick wave to indicate we could
pass. A woman of about twenty-five, who had been observing all this
while sucking violently on the end of her cigarette, protested the
leader’s decision to let us pass. He waved her off, and Domi eased the
car through the ranks of strikers. He stayed near our fender to protect
us from being engulfed again.
politely told the leader that we had just arrived from overseas. I
noticed she didn’t mention we had come from the States, no doubt
thinking the guy might be Yankophobe. I put my leg over an exposed
American luggage tag, while leaving the Air France tags fully in view.
But the leader was done with the back seat. He gave Domi a pile of
handouts that explained the nature of the direct action being taken. He
backed away from the car and gave a quick wave to indicate we could
pass. A woman of about twenty-five, who had been observing all this
while sucking violently on the end of her cigarette, protested the
leader’s decision to let us pass. He waved her off, and Domi eased the
car through the ranks of strikers. He stayed near our fender to protect
us from being engulfed again.
“Daddy? Who are those men getting off that bus over there?” my daughter asked.
I
looked past her out her window to see a brigade of riot police in full
gear, filing out of a blue-gray bus. They were getting ready for a bit
of direct action themselves. How could I explain to my daughter what
was likely to happen soon? We live in a country that rarely has strikes
these days. And when there are strikes, they are brief and rarely
crippling in a national way. Most Americans aren’t much inconvenienced
by them. What little social protest that occurs in the States is
usually given a snippet of coverage in the medea.
looked past her out her window to see a brigade of riot police in full
gear, filing out of a blue-gray bus. They were getting ready for a bit
of direct action themselves. How could I explain to my daughter what
was likely to happen soon? We live in a country that rarely has strikes
these days. And when there are strikes, they are brief and rarely
crippling in a national way. Most Americans aren’t much inconvenienced
by them. What little social protest that occurs in the States is
usually given a snippet of coverage in the medea.
“Oh, I guess they’re going to try to clear the highway,” I said.
“They have clubs and helmets. Is anyone going to get hurt?”
“I
don’t know.” I hoped we’d soon be through the mob and on our way. Our
usual comment about Correze being our refuge and haven took on new
meaning right then. Then I wondered if it would be so bad for my
daughter to see the reality of social conflict first-hand—as I had by
witnessing steel strikes and student protests when I was younger. Let
it be some other time, I said to myself. Let her be a little older.
don’t know.” I hoped we’d soon be through the mob and on our way. Our
usual comment about Correze being our refuge and haven took on new
meaning right then. Then I wondered if it would be so bad for my
daughter to see the reality of social conflict first-hand—as I had by
witnessing steel strikes and student protests when I was younger. Let
it be some other time, I said to myself. Let her be a little older.
As
it turned out, the crowd had parted enough for us to get on the smaller
route to the village. I looked back through the rear window to see the
riot squad begin to “clear” the road—or restoring order, as they like
to say.
it turned out, the crowd had parted enough for us to get on the smaller
route to the village. I looked back through the rear window to see the
riot squad begin to “clear” the road—or restoring order, as they like
to say.
Once we got to my
in-laws’ house we began to sort out what all this was about. Les
intermittents were taking action against many public performances
throughout France to protest the way their unemployment benefits were
being handled. As you can imagine, this wasn’t exactly a huge story in
the States. Even though Domi and I pay pretty close attention to news
in France, somehow we hadn’t paid much attention to this particular
story—only to find ourselves landing in the middle of it.
in-laws’ house we began to sort out what all this was about. Les
intermittents were taking action against many public performances
throughout France to protest the way their unemployment benefits were
being handled. As you can imagine, this wasn’t exactly a huge story in
the States. Even though Domi and I pay pretty close attention to news
in France, somehow we hadn’t paid much attention to this particular
story—only to find ourselves landing in the middle of it.
“Oh,
yes,” Domi’s mother said with that Gallic sigh of dismay and
acceptance, “they’ve shut down most of the smaller concerts around the
country. But I think Johnny will go on. He’s too big. And besides, I
think the president and his wife are coming back for it.” The Chiracs
happen to hail from the department of Correze. “They’ve built a big
concert site on an old garbage dump down the road. Johnny’s going to
inaugurate it.”
yes,” Domi’s mother said with that Gallic sigh of dismay and
acceptance, “they’ve shut down most of the smaller concerts around the
country. But I think Johnny will go on. He’s too big. And besides, I
think the president and his wife are coming back for it.” The Chiracs
happen to hail from the department of Correze. “They’ve built a big
concert site on an old garbage dump down the road. Johnny’s going to
inaugurate it.”
My father-in-law muttered something about it being fitting that Johnny would play in a garbage dump.
“Johnny’s
staying across the street,” my mother-in-law said. “Across the street”
meant he was staying at the plush hotel that just happened to be
located now in the building where Domi had attended elementary school.
“He’ll probably keep us up all night with his noise. Too bad les
intermittents won’t succeed in canceling this concert. They might have
gained us a good night’s sleep.”
staying across the street,” my mother-in-law said. “Across the street”
meant he was staying at the plush hotel that just happened to be
located now in the building where Domi had attended elementary school.
“He’ll probably keep us up all night with his noise. Too bad les
intermittents won’t succeed in canceling this concert. They might have
gained us a good night’s sleep.”
Well,
Johnny certainly disturbed my sleep that night. I had turned in early,
but because I had slept a bit in the plane and the car, I couldn’t fall
asleep. Well into the early morning hours I was serenaded by the
curious tones of Johnny’s form of “rock” wafting through the hills and
valleys of Correze—straight from the garbage dump. When his entourage
arrived at the hotel at about 3 am, I got to listen to the clamor of
security guys yelling to each other as fast cars screeched through the
village’s small streets. No doubt they were setting up a perimeter to
protect Johnny from his admirers, not caring about the sleep habits of
us normal people.
Johnny certainly disturbed my sleep that night. I had turned in early,
but because I had slept a bit in the plane and the car, I couldn’t fall
asleep. Well into the early morning hours I was serenaded by the
curious tones of Johnny’s form of “rock” wafting through the hills and
valleys of Correze—straight from the garbage dump. When his entourage
arrived at the hotel at about 3 am, I got to listen to the clamor of
security guys yelling to each other as fast cars screeched through the
village’s small streets. No doubt they were setting up a perimeter to
protect Johnny from his admirers, not caring about the sleep habits of
us normal people.
With all this
commotion as background, I let myself mull over my observations about
strikes in France. If you have ever been inconvenienced by a strike in
France, it’s understandable to feel annoyed by the disruption—even if
you sympathized with the strikers. On one of my first trips to France I
remember the captain coming on the horn just before we were to land in
Paris to tell us we weren’t being given permission to touch down. He
said the air controllers were having a slowdown. I looked out the
window to see stacks of airliners circling Paris. I also noticed the
dismayed looks on many passengers’ faces. The captain said there was
nothing to worry about, except being late. The controllers would
probably let us land when they thought we were close to running out of
fuel. What a relief.
commotion as background, I let myself mull over my observations about
strikes in France. If you have ever been inconvenienced by a strike in
France, it’s understandable to feel annoyed by the disruption—even if
you sympathized with the strikers. On one of my first trips to France I
remember the captain coming on the horn just before we were to land in
Paris to tell us we weren’t being given permission to touch down. He
said the air controllers were having a slowdown. I looked out the
window to see stacks of airliners circling Paris. I also noticed the
dismayed looks on many passengers’ faces. The captain said there was
nothing to worry about, except being late. The controllers would
probably let us land when they thought we were close to running out of
fuel. What a relief.
If you’ve
ever been in Paris when the train or subway workers are on strike,
you’ve probably raised a fist toward the sky in anger while witnessing
one of the world’s most monumental messes. Many French people use the
same gesture, only to be followed by that classic shrug and a “Well,
you know they’re right to be on strike.” And that’s the paradox about
their attitudes toward strikes. Striking and demonstrating seem
ingrained in the French psyche, much more so than in the contemporary
American consciousness. One of my Stateside friends—a former coal miner
and truck driver—says he has nothing but admiration for the French
willingness to disrupt the ordinary to make a point. He doesn’t always
agree with the political stripe of the strikers or the cause—but at
least “folks are out there” as he put it. It’s the same thing with my
mother-in-law. When she was cursing various institutions and
professions, it wasn’t personal—or even a comment on the rightness of
the action. They were just in the way of where she wanted to go at the
moment.
ever been in Paris when the train or subway workers are on strike,
you’ve probably raised a fist toward the sky in anger while witnessing
one of the world’s most monumental messes. Many French people use the
same gesture, only to be followed by that classic shrug and a “Well,
you know they’re right to be on strike.” And that’s the paradox about
their attitudes toward strikes. Striking and demonstrating seem
ingrained in the French psyche, much more so than in the contemporary
American consciousness. One of my Stateside friends—a former coal miner
and truck driver—says he has nothing but admiration for the French
willingness to disrupt the ordinary to make a point. He doesn’t always
agree with the political stripe of the strikers or the cause—but at
least “folks are out there” as he put it. It’s the same thing with my
mother-in-law. When she was cursing various institutions and
professions, it wasn’t personal—or even a comment on the rightness of
the action. They were just in the way of where she wanted to go at the
moment.
As for me, I just wanted
to go to sleep. I put my pillow over my head—selfishly sorry that those
men with their helmets and clubs had earlier carried the day.
to go to sleep. I put my pillow over my head—selfishly sorry that those
men with their helmets and clubs had earlier carried the day.
—
Charles Naccarato lives, writes, and teaches in Athens, Ohio. He travels frequently to France with his wife and daughter.
Charles Naccarato lives, writes, and teaches in Athens, Ohio. He travels frequently to France with his wife and daughter.