Liberté, égalité, fraternité

We gazed out the window at the quiet, late Sunday afternoon. Occasionally a couple, arm-in-arm, strolled along the path next to the canal. Paris closes on Sundays, or at least the part of Paris we were staying in did. The shops shuttered early if they were open at all and we were hard pressed to find a café open this late after lunch.

Needing dinner, we ventured out to the tiny market on the corner hoping to find something we could turn into a decent meal for our first night in Paris. The store was just a few steps away from the apartment, maybe five doors down. I’d noticed it when we’d driven in, but I’d mistaken it for a flower shop. The entirety of the storefront overflowed with carts filled with bouquets. Here had gathered most of our strollers, it seemed. A steady stream of people passed back and forth between the flower merchant and the restaurant across the street.

I would have walked past it still ignorantly searching for the grocery if the realization of where we were hadn’t stopped me in my tracks.

The Petit Cambodge stood closed, of course, but the sidewalk was alive with activity. Wilted bouquets were removed as fresh flowers were lay down. Votive candles twinkled in the dusk illuminating notes, postcards and photos of the fallen. It was somber, but not sorrowful. It was human kindness, patriotism and compassion.

We wandered a bit down the cobblestone streets, the tall walls of apartments along the narrow sidewalks hugging us. It felt warm and friendly. Safe.

The sky grew larger and the path widened. Before us stood the magnificent statue of Marianne in the center of the Place de la République. A symbol of the triumphant French democracy, the monument now stood covered in graffiti and surrounded by a melee of flowers, candles and words of defiant love. There was no mention of war or hate gracing the landmark, only pleas for peace and a declaration that they would not be broken. The words “même pas peur” repeated on banners and signs. Indeed, the scene was not one of fear. The crowd was as a democratic nation’s should be: filled with individuals free to emote in whatever way they wished. Yet none chose anger.

A couple holding  a sign reading “free hugs” drew me in. I carried Dia toward them, smiling and asking aloud who could turn down a hug. We embraced – all four of us – while some stranger took our photo. There were television crews everywhere, set up under canopies and working out of vans, but they remained a respectful distance from the group. This was no media circus. No one was exploiting the scene and we were free to feel whatever emotion gripped our hearts.

In my case I still have yet to find the words for that emotion. I’m not sure if I haven’t processed it clearly yet or if the words simply haven’t been invented. All I am certain of is that in that surreal first impression of our Canal St. Martin home, Paris won my respect, my love and my loyalty.