Copyright October 2003
Well,
there they were, as big as life, Laura Bush with her hand being kissed by
Jacques Chirac. And she had never looked lovelier. When have we ever seen Laura
Bush with such joie de vivre (the joy
of life)? What is it that it does for a woman to visit Paris—whether or not she
represents the greatest nation in the civilized world?
“It’s
as if someone turned on a light inside you,” Kevin Kline says to Meg Ryan about
the same phenomenon, in the movie classic French
Kiss a decade ago. Earlier than that, Humphrey Bogart said longingly and
comfortingly to Lauren Bacall in Casa
Blanca, one of the crème de la crème (best
of the best) movies of all time, “We’ll always have Paris.”
Do
the French really think we’re going to “kiss and make up,” as the headlines
have read? Well, maybe. It’s not just that Chirac is kissing Laura’s hand; it’s
the way he’s doing it. Look at the picture carefully if you’ve had the foresight
to save your newspaper or magazine. His eyes and his humble bent posture say
that nothing is on his mind at that moment but kissing her hand well, with all
the feeling in his heart. Can American men be trained to do this?
I’ll have
to admit that my husband has French ancestry, so got to skip the training, but is
there any better reason for Paris to continue? And what of Bush himself? He
didn’t get to go this time, but my guess is that Laura will be so illuminated by
her visit to “The City of Lights” that he will reap many rewards, and—perhaps a
decade from now—will count her trip to Paris as among the top ten reasons why
he is glad that he was president.
Our
feelings have been hurt—deeply—by the French. The fact that they did not stand
by us going into Iraq was enough to make the Statue of Liberty, and her little
sister in Paris built first by the same artist, weep. Of course, not knowing
how many terrorists were hiding among the Beatnik to Punk assemblage around the
Left Bank and the Sorbonne, Chirac and his advisors were afraid that the Eiffel
Tower would be blown into a million tiny shards of light before French soldiers
could even get their boots on after the Parisian idea of a weekend.
Meanwhile,
as if in an unbelievably sad poetic justice, the Death Angel passed over France
anyway last summer—a toll of 11,000 people, according to September French TV,
having died from the heat called “La
Canicule,” (Dog Days, but like they have never been seen before.) The
French were brought to their knees—yes, many in a prayerful way—by the fact
that so many older people who had lived alone could not be connected to a
next-of-kin. They were buried after a memorial ceremony in a Paris park much
like that for the Unknown Soldier. France still prides itself on close family
ties and could not imagine that this had happened. Still, people from all over
the world purposely “drop out of sight” in Paris, so that would explain much of
it. Chirac spoke eloquently on that occasion.
I’ve
decided that this year I’m going to do a little research to find out just how
our early liaison with the French insured the freedom of both countries. I know
it has something to do with the writings of Rousseau, and the fact that
Jefferson and Franklin spent so much time in Paris when our country was young.
Continuing our parallel existence, prayer, for instance, has not officially
started the school day in France’s public schools since the French Revolution,
but students in some schools of the various départements (like states) pray or
discuss their faith any time they darn well please, according to some of my pen-pals.
Agonizing over the same things that we do, the French can’t be all bad.
At
our house we haven‘t exactly quit eating French fries. The truth is, we usually
rub the potato slivers in Mazola oil and bake them at 450⁰. My children tell me I
should call them “French Bakes.” For the same reason that we can’t pin down,
calling them “French,” like eating them before a fire outdoors, makes them
taste better.
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