On Bastille Day (or Le quatorze juillet as the French say), I mentioned something about the day online. My French/German friend Ollie told me they say joyeux or vive la France, instead of the greeting I gave. That reminded me of a very short story.
In 2006 I went to Paris for my birthday. Now that I’m une femme d’un certain age, I won’t reveal which one, but those of you playing at home probably already know. My sweetie and I had a fabulous time. We traipsed about, eating cheese and chocolate and visiting the various tourist sites. I think that’s a separate post.
The morning we left, we knew there was going to be a strike (or greve). We left for the airport early, because we weren’t certain how often the trains would be running, etc. As an American, I found this strike quite … well .. striking. People showed up to work. But they didn’t do their work. In America, they would picket outside the workplace. By doing it this way, no one else could come in and do the work, either.
Needless to say, we got all the way through and on to our flight (sans the corkscrew I had to leave behind). As we taxied to the runway, the pilot came on and gave an announcement in English. He said there was going to be a delay before we could take off. We were tired and grumpy and ready to go home. RIGHT NOW.
Then the pilot made the same announcement, but in French. Except instead of being vague, he said, “a cause du greve.” My French is middling, but I understood that! I turned to my girlfriend and said, “It’s because of the strike! Vive la revolution!”
We sat back in our seats, content. We could wait.