Spring in Paris

The rain came down hard in the days leading up to the election. And then they voted.

"I'm happy that Francois Hollande came out with the most votes, but I'm disappointed with my country. Marine Le Pen managed 20%!"

Or "I can't believe Jean-Luc Melenchon didn't make the second round! It's politics as usual. Nothing ever changes."

Or "Sarkozy is almost gone!"

And the rain continued. We have had only glimpses of the sun in the past three weeks. Parisian parks were crowded to overflowing four weeks ago in a celebration of sunny spring, but the joy was short-lived.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy finds himself facing an uphill battle to be re-elected. No one much likes him. Business knows he'll be kinder than the Socialists. We can assume his children still like him. German Chancellor Angela Merkel thought he would be better for Europe, but her interventions on his behalf didn't work out so well. So they came to a halt almost as soon as they began. Apparently the French don't want to be like the Germans. Who would've thought?

The former Trotskyist Melenchon spoke intelligently and honestly, and the French, educated in revolution and class upheaval, rallied to his message. Those who disliked the internationalist turn of recent French history, whether Brussells' power or immigrants' presence, turned out for Marine Le Pen. Francois Bayrou, a three-time Presidential candidate lost somewhere in the middle of a polarized France, fell well short of his 2007 score. The French weren't charmed by his discourse of "telling the truth" and "avoiding extremes". So now, as the second round approaches, it comes down to Hollande and Sarkozy, a replay of the 2007 election for Hollande's children, except this time the four are working to elect their father instead of their mother.

The sun came out for an hour or so today. Not too long. There was a downpour for about 10 minutes, but that stopped too. Mainly it's just overcast. Melancholy and overcast.

The spring marches on...

The Paris Marathon 2012

A few years ago when I was a graduate student in need of release I ran the Philadelphia Marathon.

I vividly remember scrambling down the Ben Franklin Parkway towards City Hall trying to stop shivering that freezing November morning. Those tens of thousands of adrenaline-charged bodies all felt a common purpose: not to die of hypothermia.

By the time we reached the National Constitution Center, Liberty Hall, and that long strange building of a hallway the Liberty Bell calls home, the shared bodily need in question had shifted from creating heat to something more...well, different. As an exercise in historical fiction, I tried to imagine what Thomas Jefferson would have thought had he seen those men (and women!) dropping their pants and emptying their bladders near, on, and by national landmarks.

This last Sunday I had the privilege of observing such universal human needs expressed in a different setting. This time around it was not Liberty Hall, but the Louvre. Imagining what Louis XIV might have done to those marathon runners brought a smile to my face. Aren't we all glad the divine right of kings is a thing of the past?

Truth be told, I had never intended to run the Paris Marathon. I had even been out at a party until 2 that morning.

And yet there I was near the Arc de Triomphe, shivering, waiting for all those other bag-covered sardine-packed runners to just get a move on it already.

The registration closed last year right as I was starting a new job, moving into a new apartment and decidedly not thinking about training to run 26.2 miles. My friend Daniel had tried to convince me and many others to run with him. No one else wanted to. Over the months that followed, I trained with him off and on. And by "trained" I mean "I ran parts of the routes he ran four or five times with him".

Then on Sunday, I found myself shivering on the Champs d'Elysees on the other side of a 10 foot high fence from him and all the other marathon runners who had paid. Daniel had suggested I run part of the marathon with him after the first mile or two, where I could easily join him. I was undeterred. I wanted to start from the beginning. So I crawled under the fence and wandered around aimlessly looking for one familiar face in a sea of strangers.

Among those strangers was a very large contingent who were somehow convinced that by finishing the marathon they would save Tibet. White, brown, black faces...no, actually in truth, they were like 99% white...bravely facing the elements with Tibet paraphernalia in hand. You could almost feel the Chinese Politburo quaking in fear from Beijing.

I eventually found Daniel and we eventually began the race. Before long we encountered the first of many bands playing music. They were interspersed among friends and relatives and running enthusiasts who cheered us the entire length of the race.

Now the problem with not training for a marathon is that you're not prepared to run a marathon. It's a difficult conundrum, and there's no easy way around it. After considering it at length, I believed that I had come up with a brilliant solution.

The path of the marathon led from The Champs d'Elysees to the Rue de Rivoli and the Louvre to the Bastille and then a lap around the Bois de Vincennes, passing within one block of my apartment, before returning all the way back to the other side of Paris.

When I saw the 11-mile marker of the marathon just in front of the street leading to my apartment, I ran onto the sidewalk and turned to Daniel. I surveyed the wonder of shared masochism, the band music, the cheering crowds. I drew in a deep breath of air, and I shouted, "Je rentre chez moi. Bonne continuation, tout le monde!" (I'm going home. Best wishes and enjoy the rest of the marathon!)

I slowed to a jog and then a walk. I stretched some, took a shower and then a nap. Later that day I returned to the other end of Paris to see the finish line, meet some other friends and greet Daniel as he finished the whole thing.