June. JUNE. It was hailing here in June. We've only been consistently breaking 70 here for about a week now; I've spent more time in a rain coat and (much bedraggled) jeans this summer than anyone south of Alaska should be forced to. But the weather has decided to make amends by skipping straight from low 60's and rainy to mid-high 80's and perfectly sunny. And so, in honor of summer FINALLY deciding to make an appearance, I think it only appropriate to muse upon that strangest and most unique of Parisian summer traditions, the Paris Plage. Luckily for those of us who find ourselves Ile-de-France-bound, I have not misspelled "plague;" "plage" is the French word for beach. (That would be a pretty terrible summer tradition: punish all those in Paris too poor to leave the city for holiday by releasing some form of deadly biological agent via rats. That would not be nearly as fun).
"But Allison!," you cry in protest. "Paris is not on a coast! What beach could you possibly mean?". To which I answer, "This one that they invented, bitches":
City officials shut down the busy road that runs along the right bank of the Seine, import a bunch of sand from Normandy, and turn the highway into a beach complete with ice cream vendors, street performers, palm trees, beach umbrellas, and of course, several miles of tightly packed locals and tourists sizzling like rotisserie chickens, offering up their bodies to the sun gods.
To be clear: this is not something that I enjoy on a personal level in any way. For me, the Paris Plage is essentially everything that I hate about the beach (hot, crowded, and sandy with overpriced snacks) without the one thing that made me crazy enough to book a holiday to the south of France for mid-August: the chance to swim in the ocean. (Oddly enough, there are no signs posted warning people away from swimming in the Seine. I think the assumption is that if you are bonkers enough to try it, then your subsequent absence from the human race might not be such bad thing). And yet I returned this year (with an equally sun-allergic friend; we were quite the sight, him in long sleeves and khakis, me in a sun hat and carrying a parasol) out of a heavy sense of obligation. As the wise philosopher Carrie Bradshaw once said, "if you see a sign that says 'two-headed snake,' you pull over." And when you live in a city where they shut down a major highway to set up an elaborate fake beach along the banks of their filthy, filthy river, you pull over.
Seriously, the whole thing is just so stinkin' French. One of the things that I adore about life in France is that July/August holidays are expected and are practically sacrosanct. Whole businesses shut down for months at a time; we have been provided with a schedule from the city hall of which boulangeries and other businesses will be open in our area so that we are not left breadless (quel horreur!). AH is feeling elated and a bit indulgent to be taking 2 days off for our excursion to Marseilles (on top of the week that he is forced to take in August because they shut down his place of work because everyone is expected to be on holiday), while his French co-workers are blithely talking about the five or six week vacations that they have planned. Contrast this to my time working my first out-of-college big girl job at a telecommunications company where I was a glorified robot monkey, verifying and sending through paper work. During the whole winter holiday season, I was given exactly two days off: Christmas day and New Year's day. When we encountered level 2 snow emergencies, I was required to risk life and limb and drive into work because I was considered "essential personnel" (again, see: glorified robot monkey). And my experience at Unnamed Telecommunications Company does not seem to be atypical for an American worker, especially in "These Trying Economic Times" when the general expectation seems to be that you should be licking boots and be grateful if it means that you receive a steady paycheck. So needless to say, the attitude that it's not just acceptable for workers to take it easy in the summer, it's actually expected, has been a marvelous adjustment to make (other than the times that my favorite bakery is closed and I'm forced to make do with sub-par baguettes).
Furthermore, it's not only the rich that are expected to take time to flee to their villas in Provence; this expectation of a leisurely summer is an attitude that hangs like an especially shady beach umbrella over the whole city. And so for me, the Paris Plage is not only a strange carnival spectacle in its own right but also a physical embodiment of the importance of leisure and enjoyment in France: everyone is entitled to be on a beach somewhere, whether it's along the Mediterranean, the Atlantic or, in a pinch for the cash-strapped, the Seine.
Still not convinced that the Paris Plage is an apt symbol of ultimate Frenchness? Then let me leave you with a mental picture of what I saw yesterday in the sand: a man in his early-mid sixties, heavily tanned, hairy as a graying gorilla, wearing nothing but a pair of speedos, sandals, and a beret. I wanted to nominate this man to be France's mascot.
So even if you're stuck in an office this summer with no vacance in sight, at least take a tip from the French and turn wherever you live into its own holiday destination: beach chairs, a sunny backyard, a cold tasty beverage and some sweet tunes should do the trick. And if you do it in a speedo, please send pictures.
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