France and Strikes

Over the course of the last three years of my life, since I have arrived in Canada, a comment which I have often heard is that french people like to protest and go on strikes. Well that is absolutely true, as there is at least one strike every month somewhere in France, not to mention protests, for different causes. Now the trick is that there are two sorts of strikes: the small ones which are isolated and mostly teachers or subway drivers and which as I mentioned before, happen every month or so. The second sort is the one that outsiders enjoy the most for they are more spectacular. This sort of strike happen more or less every three to five years, and I think the last one was in 2005. This year, we had a huge strike all through september and is just starting to end. The reason this time was that the government moved the retirement age from 60 to 62 years. So as usual when there is a big reform, all unions went on strike one by one, starting with the opposition. Then the unions decide to march all together so the protests and strikes are more effective, which makes some schools close, transports a very perturbed, oil refineries are close and garbage piles up on the streets. This year, the inhabitants of Marseille got to see an unusual sight: soldiers picking up all the garbage on the streets. This year as well, the police had to forbid strikes in the oil refineries because there was only two days of gas left in the gas stations.
           But the part when protest get nasty is when students get involved. This happens because in France, as soon as of grade 10, when students enter the lycee, they have their own unions and are allowed to go on strikes. Usually, during strike periods, it is common for french students to block the entrance of the school so the school is closed and then go to the march althought a great portion of the students, such as myself, do it more for the fun and excitement of protesting than for the cause and that is of course because not everyone can be against the reforms, otherwise they would never be voted in the first place. The problem of students on the streets is that that is usually when some people infiltrate the march just to break windows, burn cars or fight with the police. That is usually inevitable during big strikes and in fact, a special police force has been created in case of protest turning into riots, the infamous CRS. They are known for their brutality but it usually enforces people's desire to go and annoy them.

My old high school on september 2010, sign reads: Buffon on strike

            Therefore it is possible to say that in France, strikes are more than just a thing to stop reforms from happening, they are a cultural thing. People from age 14 till death can be seen on protest march and one thing is sure, it is that the French will never give up these sacred ceremonies. In fact, it is unheard of that someone who lived in France and never participated in a protest.

Poem Theme: Night

Superflous are all these lights,
Which in our cities violate the purity of the nights.
All you need is to wait for the slow ascent
Of the majestuous moon's bright crescent.

Dog Mountain

             Two weeks ago, on a sunny sunday, two friends of mine and me decided to go on a little escape from the urban life and go on a hike on Seymour Mountain. The original plan was to hike up to the third peak (aka Seymour peak) using the ski runs deserted by the snow at first, and then various little trails that led to the top. I had already done that hike before and we had all done another hike on Seymour Mountain the year before, which made us pretty confident in our knowledge of this mountain. Half an hour after we had left from the parking lot, at the point where a little trail diverged from the ski runs, I thought it was the trail to the top and encouraged my friends to follow my lead. Unfortunately, I realized 10 minutes later that my memory had failed me and that this trail was not the right one. It would have been very quick and easy to go back to the main trail and take the right path but our teenage sense of adventure got the better of us and thus we deliberately decided to continue in the wrong direction which we saw on a sign was going to Dog Mountain. When we arrived on top of dog mountain an hour later, we did not regret our mistake. The view that was offered to us was magnificent and I realized that this view was actually better than the one on top of Seymour Mountain. Besides, on that day, Seymour was particularly crowded from the bottom to the top except here, on top of Dog Mountain, which no one had ever heard of, and therefore was free of any kind of unwelcomed hikers or tourists of any sort. Therefore, we can say that my mistake really was a good idea and so was our decision to keep on going on the wrong trail.

Where my world began assignment

Where my world began

            When I was little, at the beginning of every summer vacation and sometimes at the beginning of spring break, my brother, my mother and I went to Ablon-sur-Seine, a little town on the outside of Paris where our cousins live. Once we were there, my three cousins, my brother, my mother, my aunt and I packed everything into my aunt’s car. Then we left Ablon-sur-Seine, attacking bravely the 600 kilometers that separated us from Bonnieux, our family house in the south of France. After 600 kilometers of being squashed like sardines in a can, and with our mothers swearing to god they would never again take the car on this long of a trip with this many children –as they had sworn the year before, and would probably swear the next year- we arrived in Bonnieux where our cousins from the west of France always were waiting for us with our grandparents and only once everyone else had said hello to everybody could the vacation really start.

            In order to understand why the whole family adored this house as a living god, you would need to know one or two things. First, the house itself is a gigantic, majestic house that sits in the center of the region of France where the winter never comes. And since the house had as many rooms as the Caesar Palace, that allowed us as children to play endless games of hide and seek, hiding in old cupboards or under dusty beds full of spiders, but it had its charm in its own way. Secondly, there also was a huge field with grass that yellowed a little on summers that were too hot. And after the field, there was a forest home to many wild animals, most of which were only the creations of our imagination. And thirdly, there was a sandbox, a swing and a swimming pool. And all this is as good as it gets when you are ten.

At the dinner table, when the whole family was there, which, unfortunately became rarer as time went on, there was 16 of us: two grandparents, six adults and eight grandchildren. Of course you can imagine the chaos that reigned at the table when the whole family was eating together and because of this it wasn’t rare that the adults ate after us. But nevertheless, we often ate all together and we would just sit at the table outside in the field eating, drinking, talking and laughing while enjoying the beautiful sunset of Provence over the Giant of Provence, the Mont Ventoux.

But the one thing that made this house great for me is the fact that it was never empty because we always went there with all the family. After a few years, my brain associated this place with the family and it was unconceivable for me to go there without them. The house was the family. This holy house, because it really was sacred to most of us, the grandchildren, is where my cousins and I really bonded, and now we are all like brothers and sisters. Another great thing about this house is freedom. Once you were there, you were completely free to wake up at any time of the day, even when the sun rised long before you, and then you could do whatever you wanted during the day. We explored the region a little more every time we went, expanding our territory. We went in the neighbor’s cherrytree plantation and sat in the trees, amongst the branches and the fruits, eating cherries until our stomachs reminded us of their presence, bringing us back to reality with a stomach ache. And when the night was warm, we slept in the dark field along with nature’s scary appearance when you can no longer see it, but only hear its thousands of noises: owls hooting, rivers streaming, branches cracking and many more. But for some unknown reason, maybe Murphy’s law, the rain would always come out on the nights we were sleeping outside. The parents, who were only too happy to have peace for a while, would let us leave the property and explore the countryside as long as we were back for lunch and dinner, which really were the only obligations we ever had in this wonderful house.

As time went on, I realized that not everyone was as lucky as me, not everyone had a perfect family house, not everyone had a family to share their vacation with, and far from everyone had both which made me see this house as a blessing, and I think that my cousins feel the same way about it for we truly cherish that house and we all fear the day when we will have to sell it. That fear comes from the fact that of course, nothing is eternal and we know very well that as we grow older, we won’t come as often and once our grandparents die, we will most likely sell the house. But for now, we try to enjoy it as much as possible and especially me, because to me this house is like a book which contains my best childhood memories, it is a synonym for freedom and joy, and also, it is where my world began.