and in a way it parallels the American Independence Day. After all, the

French were so inspired by our gusto in 1776 that they decided to have a

revolution of their 13 years later. In 1789, a bunch of angry French

citizens (in fact, many probably weren’t even “citizens,” because they

were mostly poor, some women, and I doubt most owned any land) stormed

the Bastille. And now, 221 years later, France celebrates Bastille Day

on July 14th.

The annual festivities are quite similar to those in the good ‘ole USA –

parades, fireworks, “barbeques” (though all y’all know what a real

barbeque is), parties and picnics. And just like kids in America think

it’s fun to run around with sparklers and shoot off fireworks from their

backyards, kids do the same thing here. Unfortunately for my ears and

for my sleep, kids begin to do this at least a week before July 14th.

The first time I heard the loud popping noise, I thought maybe there

were gangs in my neighborhood shooting off guns. It made me jump. After

a few pops, I strayed from the gang theory, but began to think that

maybe kids were throwing those popper things out in the street. But

surely they wouldn’t be that loud – would they?. Every time I looked out

the window, the bandits had mysteriously scattered off. After a week of

this, the gun noises bothered me less, and I simply attributed it to

annoying French kids (nothing against French kids, there are annoying

American kids too). However, the sheer frequency of the delinquency and

the hours that these kids would throw their uber large poppers into the

street was absurd. For a week, I had a continuous thought run through my

head: Where are their parents?

Perhaps kids running around at one o’clock in the morning is normal

here. I don’t know. The more plausible answer is that it’s the

neighborhood in which I live. I live in the 19th arrondisement

technically, but I’m not a far walk from the 11th. I’m a 3 minute walk

from Metro Belleville and a 5 minute walk from the Parc des Buttes

Chaumont. The first thought that comes to mind when people think of

Belleville is Edith Piaf. She grew up in this neighborhood in the 1920s

and earned money singing in the streets. At that time Belleville, though

its name literally meant “belle ville,” or beautiful city, was dirty,

over-crowded and full of poverty and debauchery. Though it has certainly

cleaned up quite a bit since then, Belleville is still a working class

neighborhood with a lot of immigrants and high-rise buildings, most of

which are probably HLM’s (low-income housing in the states, and stands

for habitation à loyer modéré). Paris’ Chinatown is technically in the

13th, but the second highest number of Chinese immigrants in Paris live

in Belleville. Around the corner from me are a handful of Chinese

restaurants, grocery stores, travel boutiques and even a few Chinese

restaurant supply stores.

Back to the problem at hand: kids running around late at night throwing

around explosives. Forgive me if I’m extrapolating here, but I believe

the abundance of young teens causing my ears to hurt may be a lack of

discipline on the part of their parents, or perhaps even a lack of

parents. It’s during these times that I appreciate my wonderful parents

and the discipline they gave us Glenn children, the lessons on

responsibility we received and the constant “act like you’ve been

somewhere” mantra. I don’t mean to dis my neighborhood, most certainly

not. I absolutely adore where I live in Paris because I am constantly

interacting with new people, cultures, languages and nationalities. It

is me that is the outsider, the foreigner, the stranger, and I quite

like being the minority…..at least for a month.

The night before Bastille Day, I sat outside at a café near my apartment

and watched as said teenagers set off actual fireworks in the street. By

now, of course, I was used to it. Nonetheless, it was dangerous.

Pedestrians, oncoming cars, trees above that could’ve easily caught on

fire, and real fireworks – not poppers or sparklers, but M80s and

firecrackers.

I stayed at chez moi the night of Bastille Day and lounged atop my

advantageous rooftop which doubled as a viewing platform for the

fireworks show that was to take place, comme habitude, over the Eiffel

Tower. The usual din of poppers and firecrackers was going on below, but

above, blues, whites and reds lit up the sky (of course the French share

the same colors in their flag as the U.S.), illuminating Paris. Ahhh, la

vie Parisien.