Notes from Paris: Watching the Democratic Nat’l Convention

With everything else happening this week, moving apartments, selling my home in Oakland, gobs and gobs of paperwork, I found myself glued to YouTube, the streaming channel that made it possible for me to watch entire evenings of the Convention or just the speeches I wanted to hear.

Each evening, TV coverage started at 7pm ET which is 1am in Paris. So I elected to get a good night’s sleep and watched everything the following day. As with almost everybody else I’ve heard talk about the Convention, I was immediately struck by the joy, the happiness, and, dare I say it, the hope that oozed off the delegates and electrified each evening. I’m not sure how it happened and would love to hear from my readers, but from the moment President Biden threw his support behind his Vice President, Kamala Harris, the people who were so blue and feeling hopeless suddenly perked up, like watering a drooping plant that had days to go before it died and now suddenly was alive and vibrant. Watching Joe speak that first evening, I was very happy to admit that I was wrong and all the rest of you were right: He needed to step down and let someone younger run for his job. He didn’t look his age, eighty-one, but his entire body screamed that he was old. I felt so sad. What a thing to have to do. After most of his political lifetime, yearning to be President of the US, he got the golden ring but wasn’t able to finish what he started. He was asked to step down for the good of the country. Joe Biden will have a special place in history when Presidents are evaluated. I hope I’m alive to see him earn his well-deserved place.

I have spent the last 50+ years in California. Hearing the storied journey of Kamala Harris through the halls of California courts and administration was a revelation to me. And her smile!! On TV news channels, during her time in California, we were always treated to photos of her tough side, prosecuting criminals. Her smile is beatific!!! I did wonder over the last four years why people seemed to dislike her. I wondered what she had done. Or was it just that she is a strong, tough highly educated woman, a black woman, who pulls no punches and is not intimidated by bullies. Is that what she was guilty of?

Now, with the eyes of the world watching America, she is our darling. I was worried that the media would have a field day dredging up rumours and gossip about the Democratic hopeful. But she and husband, Doug Emhoff, seem to think ahead, to look at all those slippery slopes that most politicians, most people actually, don’t want to admit are there and do what is right. When she won the vice-presidency, Emhoff, an attorney whose cases had nothing to do with politics, quit his job in case there was any question about his connection to a possible case being litigated in the law firm of which he was a partner. In other words, he loved his wife more than his ambitions.

We heard that a lot over the four days of the convention. Biden: “I love my job but I love my country more.” Stephanie Grisham who worked for Trump: “I love my country more than I love my party.” and many other republicans who had voted for Trump said something similar.

The Love— Coach Walz telling his family how much he loved them. His son, in tears, saying “that’s my dad!” Emhoff declaring his love for Kamala. One of his sons telling us in photos how much fun it was watching his dad and “Momala” falling in love “just like teenagers!” The love, real love between people and families, was palpable even on YouTube watching from 7000 miles away.

It was pretty clear from the second hour of the first night that the DNC was going to take the high road. They grabbed themes that the republicans thought were theirs only and made them Democratic themes: patriotism, freedom, the American flag, families, USA chanted over and over. The words ‘facism’ and ‘neo-nazis’ were rarely mentioned. the words ‘dictator’ and ‘autocrat’ were mentioned as part of Trump’s psychology of “me, me, me,” all about Trump. Project 2025 was a book that several speakers referred to in the plans that Trump has for the US if he were to win. No one went into a lengthy explanation of who actually wrote the book, how long it has been in the making, and that these writers were not going to make the same mistake that was made in 2016 when they were unprepared to use the power that Trump made available to them. If you really want to indulge in a horror show, listen to the two seasons of Rachel Maddow’s Podcast: Ultra.(Click to start). It will make your toes curl, your stomach want to vomit, and wonder why you have never heard all this information so clearly before.

August in Paris is a time when the streets are empty, fifty percent of stores are closed, and most people are taking much needed vacations before La Rentrée, the return to school and the return to work, begins. The few people that are here have the Paralympics on their mind after having just witnessed the glorious Parisian party that was the 2024 Paris Olympics. I would watch my daily dose of the Convention and then wonder who can I talk to? Who can I trade observations with? Very few people were here. I got a few e-mails from Democrats Abroad that were joyful and urging us to get to work and that was about it. I suspect that there were others who had a different experience. Mine was lonely. It’s one of the first times of being an exPat that I longed to be somewhere else and bask in the hope and joy of my community.

In the words of the excellent Heather Cox Richardson: the Harris-Walz team is “reclaiming the idea of Community with its understanding that everyone matters and the government must serve everyone.”—HCR, Substack, August 24, 2024

And now, we who have moaned and groaned, have to “Stop complaining and get to work!” (Michelle Obama). I am volunteering with Democrats Abroad and doing whatever they ask me to do.

What are you doing?

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A bientôt,

Sara

Even Tom Cruise: Who would have thought! Notes from the Closing of Paris 2024 regular Olympics

The regular Olympics are over. Sigh! My friends and I gathered in the Marais Sunday evening to watch the Closing Ceremony, held in the Stade de France, north of Paris in Saint Denis. The evening before I watched one of the most exiting basketball games I’ve ever seen: Team USA vs Team France, a rematch from the Tokyo Olympics that the Americans won, a fourth Olympic win for Team USA. This year’s team was made up of Steph Curry, Lebron James, Kevin Durant, a handful of others, and coached by the Warrior’s Coach, Steve Kerr. Team France was captained by Wemby, short for Victor Wembanyama, who was a rookie in the NBA this year for the San Antonio Spurs. I didn’t recognise other French names although there were two other NBA players. Team France was rabid to beat USA and it showed. At times, they were like gladiators circling each other, poking at each other, butting up, not “quite on purpose,” against each other. There were many fouls and many free throws. The score stayed close until the last quarter when Curry shifted up a gear and started throwing three-pointers. The US went ahead and France couldn’t catch up.

I was waving a French flag. I really wanted to be for my adopted country. But I knew all the American’s names and caught myself cheering with each basket before I could pull the words back. By half-time, I couldn’t keep up the pretence and cheered the US on. By the end of the game, with each three-pointer Curry shot, I was out of my seat screaming “unbelievable.” Each shot followed by his trademark sign, putting both hands up to one check implying ‘night, night’. The final score was 98-87. Team France looked devastated. Wemby was distraught. One of the American players came up and hugged him then whispered in his ear for 90 seconds. Wemby sat down on the bench and cried. Only in France.

I didn’t see either team at the Closing Ceremony.

Earlier that day, six of us had “billets libres” to Concorde where all the “Street” events were taking place: BMX, Skateboarding, Breaking (still known in the US as Breakdancing). Our tickets didn’t allow us seats at any of the competitions but we were free to wander the entire space, attend all demonstrations, and be seated in front of DiamondVision when the competitions were taking place. We mostly focused on Breaking. It is a sport no matter who says differently. A breathtaking, energetic, athletic sport that seemed to me to be as skilful as the artistic gymnastics. This was the first time it was in the Olympics and, unfortunately, the last time. It will not be present at LA28.

My friends and I lost each other in the undulating crowds. I stayed with Cherilyn. We found a curb in the shade (it was close to 90o) that looked up at the DiamondVison in the competition area. Our responses to each contestant were emotional. Scores went up on the board but we couldn’t read what was scored or how it was scored. What we did know is that two Breakers at a time entered the platform and lent energy to each other while also competing against that person. There were two DJs who picked the sound (not known to the contestant in advance) that each contestant moved to. Each man then improvised. The strength in the arms, their fingers, the way they landed flips on their backs, or their knees, or on toes ready to jump into another flip was stunning. They never stopped moving, flipping, swirling, back and forth swinging their legs from side to side while changing arms, and that arm was all that was connected to the ground. I’m no good at describing this exhilarating sport. I hope the Olympic Committee reconsiders its removal at the next Olympics. Here in Paris, it was one of the more popular sports.

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Then it was Sunday night. I was tired. But I wasn’t going to miss the Closing Ceremony. It was supposed to be two hours and fifteen minutes but we learned at the Opening Ceremony, that France doesn’t run by the clock. The evening began with the flag bearers then the teams all pouring into the Stade de France, all happy and letting out alot of adrenaline. We got to see the champions act like children as they waved their medals at the camera. They were having fun and we loved it.

The women’s marathon had ended just before the ceremony so we were treated to a medal ceremony with the Dutch woman taking Gold, Ethiopia taking silver and Kenya taking bronze. Then everything went dark. The people who had tickets were given wrist bands when they entered and, as the lights went down, the wrist bands lit up. I turned to a friend and said “once upon a time, we just flicked on our cigarette lighters. Now it’s phones and, this time, we have techno wrist bands connected to some mother load somewhere.” Those my age nodded remembering.

There was a narration that was barely audible on the TV. I made out that we were starting in Greece at the first Olympics and then thirty or forty mummies emerged doing spectacular feats of bending, jumping, flipping all extolling the possibilities of the human body. Slowly huge circles appeared until there were finally five of them. The mummies climbed on them, did handstands, leaned out like we’d seen at Notre Dame at the Opening Ceremony. A red piano hanging in the air appeared with the pianist also hanging and, don’t ask me how, playing. I’m told that all who were present at the Closing Ceremony, were handed a program of explanation and a menu of what was happening and what it meant. We didn’t have that luxury and could only guess at the metaphorical imagery if that was what it was. The dance lasted twenty-two minutes, ending with the mummies pushing the circles in the air till they hung like the Olympic Circles. The mummies made a hill of people, that people climbed on until there was just one person, the Golden Voyager. It was a remarkable accomplishment of modern dance, hydraulics, and lights.

After two lengthy speeches by the President of the Olympic Committee, Tony Estanguet,and Thomas Back, President of IOC Refugee Olympic Team, people like me who, for no reason at all except to have an opinion, kept repeating: “please, no Tom Cruise.” Then Tom Cruise appeared at the top of the stadium, the very top, on what little roof there is. At 62 years of age, he still does many of his own stunts and today was no exception. He is one of the most well know faces of Hollywood here in France and the Top Guns and Mission Impossibles are the movies. He jumped from the top, repelled his way down into the crowd of athletes who grabbed their phones to take selfies. The Mayor of LA and Simone Biles handed him the Olympic flag and off he went. He jumped onto a motorcycle and cycled out into the streets of Paris. The rest had been video’d in advance. He cycled down the Quais along the Seine and into the back of a waiting plane. Two minutes later, he jumped out above Hollywood, took off his jumpsuit, parachute, and got his bearings. Then he began wacking away at a metal project. Soon an athlete came upon him and he handed her the Olympic flag. As she pulled away from him, we saw that he had added three more circles to the two in WOOD so the sign revealed the Olympic circles on the precious, never to be touched, Hollywood sign.

Ok, I had to admit, that was fun. The best of Tom Cruise: The Mission Impossible Handover!

What followed only underscored the difference between Paris and LA. We were taken to a beach shack on a beach that we weren’t sure really existed. The Red Hot Chilli Peppers sang and looked so American, Snoop and Dr. Dré, Billy Eilish all standing next to or on little stands and huts next to a huge ocean with fake palm trees. I didn’t say anything at the time but I’d bet 95% of us watching in Paris were glad we’d been to the Paris Olympics and had no excitement for the LA Olympics if that was a prevue.

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A Bientôt,

Sara

PS:

Another report from the Paris Olympics

Your email box is full of more opinions and descriptions of the first week and a half of the 2024 Paris Olympics than you thought possible. The Games are known over here as the Jeux Olympics 2024. It seems a bit redundant to give my perspective. But I’m going to anyway! As well as give you links to some of the more interesting posts I’ve read.

This from a woman who has been excited and looking forward to the games from the beginning: hannahmeltzer.substack.com/an-impossibly-ambitious-opening

I wrote about the lead up to the Olympics a while ago then decided to stay away from writing more as I was feeling negative and inconvenienced. It’s safe to say that most of the inhabitants of Paris felt as I did. Then came the last ten days before the Opening Ceremony. a third of the metro stops in inner Paris were shut down. Detours were set up for cars, taxis, and buses. Police, Gendarmes, and police from other countries stood on every corner. There were designated zones: red zone-very close to the event, grey zone- further away but still close, and the rest of Paris. As it turned out, my doctor’s office is in a grey zone. I had an appointment on July 18-nine days before the Opening Ceremony. I usually walk as it’s only a 25 minutes walk. As I got close to Trocadero, I was stopped by five gendarmes. FIVE! Just for me? Well, no, but for anyone walking towards Trocadero. One woman was practically in tears. She also had some kind of appointment but I couldn’t tell what without getting in her face. I explained to one of the men that I had a doctor’s appointment. I showed him the address on my phone and the confirmation of the appointment. He explained it was in a forbidden zone and I had to back-up and walk around the zone and come up from another direction. I said “But my appointment’s in 5 minutes.” Not quite true but I would never have made it if I’d done the detour. He looked at my phone again and said “OK, but you have to go around from now on.”

At that point, I thought these precautions were for the entire Olympics and possibly the ParaOlympics. I wasn’t going to be in my apartment for the three weeks of the regular Olympics but apartment sitting for a friend up in Montmartre. I was pretty sure these regulations wouldn’t affect me up there. But still,…it was all part of the communal negative complaint of the Parisian trying to live a life.

I had tickets for a Rugby Sevens qualification event on Thursday, July 26, the day before the Opening Ceremony. This would be my first taste of how well the organization of the Olympics was going to be. I walked to Gare du Nord and took the RER D to the Stade de France. I met my friend, Fatiha, on the platform. The very informative Olympic website had advised NOT taking the RER B (which stops there but goes on to Charles de Gaulle) or the metro 13. These would be too busy and crowded. The D took 10 minutes and the cars had plenty of seats. As we left the RER station, there were volunteers to show us the way. There were plenty of signs. And there were footprints on the ground guiding us to the Stade de France. As we got close to the entrance, security checked our packs. All very orderly. Then we were inside. Still no back-ups or blockages. We looked for our gate and were inside quickly. I was amazed. It was streamlined.

Rugby Sevens, for those who don’t know, is a different game than regular Rugby. It is 14 minutes long with a two minute break. It is fast, intense, and fun. The stadium was full. We saw four games with the US winning one and France wining one. The crowd, probably half French people, were into it and screaming their approval. That kind of excitement is contageous. That evening, France won again and the US lost. France won the gold. The US didn’t place. I had so much fun I actually said to a friend “I could see Rugby replacing baseball as my sport.” But, of course, they aren’t even in the same ballpark. Baseball is history, a culture, has more cliché sayings that any other sport as proved by my last sentence.

That trip was the beginning of my rethinking the 2024 Olympics. Friday night, I was invited to a friend’s apartment to watch the Opening Ceremony. And it started to rain. We had so much fun watching everything, oooing and ahhing. But mostly just glad we were inside with a roof over our heads. Here is another take on that night:

courtneymaum.substack.com/what-the-Paris-Olympics-opening-can-teach-us-about-first-drafts.

Scroll down past the interview to her take on the Ceremony.

About fifteen minutes after the incredible ending of listening to Celine Dion make her huge comeback since becoming very ill four years ago, I left to walk to the metro. The rain had stopped. Not a drop. The TV later said it was the worst July downpour in Paris history (it rarely rains in July). I’ve chatted with several people who were there and no one minded the rain. They knew that history was being made. And they were having fun. The whole thing was smiling, laughing, high-fiving fun.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/3IcrcWD-4es?rel=0&autoplay=0&showinfo=0&enablejsapi=0

I had a moment when the camera scanned buildings in the third arrondissement, behind the many spectators. I caught my breath. The beauty of Paris never ceases to bring the true meaning of wonder to my heart. I live here, I thought to myself. This is my home, this gorgeous city. After more than eleven years, I feel the miracle that is Sara living in Paris.

The next day, most of the metro stations opened. A few roads were still diverted but that is because the city has built stadiums at Trocoadero, at Concorde, and on the Champs de Mars. It was easy to get around again. In fact, it seemed to me that there were very few people around. Normally in August, most Parisians leave the city for a vacation. Half of the stores will shut down. This year, many Parisians left because of the Olympics. They were feeling the same dread I was feeling. It was eery how few people were in the streets. It’s possible that because the events are spread all across the city, and many events are in Lyon and Marseilles, that there truly aren’t that many people here when events are going on.

I started feeling sad that I hadn’t tried harder to get tickets. I was catching the Olympic fever. One friend called to ask if I’d like a ticket on August 10 to the street events at Concorde. BMX, skateboarding. I didn’t have to think about it. Yes! so I get to go to a few more events on the same day. I found the resale page and tried for tennis tickets and those little guys move faster than any of the Olympic runners. Yesterday, Barbara and I went to one of the Fan Zones. The city has set up a Fan Zone in every arrondissement with huge screens, picnic tables, the selling of drinks, and things for children to do. I had passed one in the 19th where I saw children playing on swings, running around having a wonderful time while their parents watched the events. We went to the 9th yesterday. For the second day in a row, I got caught in a bicycle race. Streets closed off. How to get to the other side? Take the metro!

Today, a friend called and said she was trying to buy more tickets. Was I interested? Yes, I said. We set a number for ‘don’t go over this, it’s too expensive.” We are going to men’s water polo on Friday. And then Sunday it will all be over. At least for a couple of weeks. On August 28, the ParaOlympics will begin.

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A bientôt,

Sara

Say it ain’t so, Joe

I cannot remember the last time I cried. It was undoubtably over something stupid like stubbing my toe because I didn’t lift my foot high enough when coming inside the apartment from the terrace. Or perhaps reading something to my writing group that unexpectedly went deeper than I’d realized.

Sunday night I cried in shock. Joe Biden has stepped down from running for President 2024.

Yesterday, I cried again while reading the hundreds of accolades that important people are saying about him. Someone sent me a parody of Kamala (Camelot) and I cried and laughed at the same time.

Where is the cynical Sara who thinks every move a politician makes is selfish, self-aggrandizing, and narcissistic? I’m in shock at myself as much as in shock at this turn of events. Since I’ve paid attention to these things, I have said that Joe Biden was a decent human being. In 2008, when he was campaigning for President (stepping aside for Obama), I remember watching him at a fireplace during a fundraiser, speaking, making his usual gaffs, and loving him. I also liked Obama and had no trouble switching my allegiance. Obama holds his cards very close to his chest. We really don’t know much about him except what he has shared in his two memoirs. Joe? We know Joe because he is an open book. We watched him suffer with tragedy after tragedy. We’ve watched him pull himself together and work for the US because that was his job as an elected official. We’ve watched him work with his stutter which tends to come back when he’s stressed. We’ve watched him outsmart many of the MAGA Republicans during his SOTU addresses.

Joe Biden is not only a decent man, he is also a great man.

Yesterday, Hunter Biden wrote that there wasn’t much distance between the public Joe Biden and the private Joe Biden. I believe him.

When I learn too much about a famous person, for example JFK who I idolized as a teenager, I want to stuff it all back in Pandora’s box. I want to hang on to my fantasies that these ambitious people who have to stoop to many compromises to raise money for their campaigns, who tend to misuse power the minute they have it, really are as good as they seem. Then we have Jimmy Carter and Joe Biden. They say that Jimmy Carter is the greatest ex-President the US has known. I met him once at a conference on Aging. My mother was getting an award, one I had nominated her for. Carter was the keynote speaker. He was very accessible, shaking everyone’s hand. He didn’t need to. He wasn’t running for anything.

Joe Biden made gaffs. TV and media made fun of him. What you saw was what you got. During these last three weeks, we’ve watched a defiant President try to tell the world that he still had what it takes. I was convinced. Heather Cox Richardson was convinced. Defiance wasn’t a good look on him. He was angry, he was defensive, and he let us see it all. That’s who he is.

It will take me a couple of days to make the switch to Harris. I have an innate fear that the US will never elect a woman, much less a Black woman, or an Asian woman, to be President. White Supremacists, who have an inordinate amount of power, believe a woman’s place is in the kitchen and there she should shut up.

Much of the news says Biden stepping aside has changed the whole geography of the election. Now, Trump is the old man, the crazy man, who can’t finish a sentence, who rambles on and on not making any sense. They are implying that Trump will receive the same treatment that Biden has been receiving. But there aren’t any Republicans willing to stand up to Trump. They are terrified of his retribution.

There isn’t a Joe Biden amongst them. A man willing to make one of the most difficult decisions ever. A decision that serves his country and not his personal ambition.

I subscribe to Good News from The Guardian. Every Sunday, I get four or five articles of good things that have happened in the past week. After a week of bad news, horrifying news, deadly news that fills up every page for seven days.

Maybe this is why I’ve been crying. When I was in my early 20s and studying for my licensing exam (Psychology), I used to watch an episode of Bonanza (which I hadn’t seen it’s first time around) every day. Every day I’d cry at the end of the episode. I quickly figured out that I cried because it was about family, love in the family being a priority, and justice always won in the end.

I think I cried about Joe because I like him. And this man that I like did a courageous and selfless act that if unheard of in this day and political climate. In the end, he showed us his integrity.

I have a vision now that with nothing left to lose, our President will achieve more great things in his last six months.

And then? Please stay alive, Joe. Don’t let this be one tragedy too many. Please muster that working class Delaware boy who has a real spine and served the country well for over fifty years. Be a great ex-President.

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A bientôt,

Sara

So many books……so little time.

You may have noticed that many Substacks this month have focused on books. The release of the 100 Best Books of the century (yikes, did they have to use that word?) by the NY Times has many people talking about what was included and what wasn’t. As voted on by 503 novelists, nonfiction writers, poets, critics and other book lovers — with a little help from the staff of The New York Times Book Review.—from NYTimes website.

I have read a number of posts in which the author groused about a book missing from the list. And how could George Saunders be on it not twice but three times!!! The most amusing thing I saw was the book that was No. 1: My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante; translated by Ann Goldstein 2012. I chose this book for my bookclub two years ago when I wanted to read it a second time. Not one person in the book club liked it—except me! No 9 is Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro 2005. I picked this book for my book club three years ago and the same thing happened. I was the only reader to enjoy it!

The New York Times is not the end all be all as we have certainly seen with their political stance lately. It is a revered publication (though if it doesn’t watch out, it will suffer a very painful falling out amongst intelligent people). Many, many people disagree with this book list. Reading all the lists that have been inspired by the Times, has caused me to think about the books I’ve read this summer. I thought I’d tell you about some and why I liked, or didn’t like them. So here we go in no particular order.

1 Tianammen Square—Lai Wen Thirty years after Lai Wen survived the Tianammen Square uprising and massacre, she has written a lovely book about her childhood and teen years leading up to the revolt. It is called a novel. It is a snapshot of life in China under two different regimes, neither particularly encouraging to an intelligent young girl wanting to succeed in life. We are privy to her relationships with both mother and father and a boy that she was sometimes girlfriend/boyfriend with but was constantly questioning.

2 Tell Me Everything—Elizabeth Strout The world of Elizabeth Strout is a world that reminds me of Our Town or It’s a Wonderful Life, small towns where everyone knows everyone and, in each of her books, we learn about a different resident. This book is about Bob Burgess. She tells us that on the first page. Lucy Barton meets Olive Kitteridge in this book. It’s a bit like going back and revisiting old friends who have grown and changed since last seeing them but their essential natures never change. The plot isn’t as important as how people relate to each other. Strout writes in simple language, short sentences and, if you are open to it, wallops you in the end with some truths that are good to hold onto in our own lives.

3 A Woman of No Importance: : The Untold Story of the American Spy Who Helped Win World War II (2019)—Sonia Purcell My sister told me to read this book. She loved it. I loved it. Reading any story of the resistance in France is stirring. The courage, the belief in what was right is impressive and most of us don’t have that kind of physical or moral courage. This story is particularly fascinating because the woman in question, Virginia Hall, a Baltimore socialite, became one of the most targeted spies by the Gestapo. She lost part of a leg in an accident early in her life and managed to walk the Pyrenees, out manoeuvre Nazis, and lead an ever changing team of resistance fighters. Thirty or forty years later, no one knew her name.

4 The Marlow Murder Club—Robert Thorogood There are three books in this series. I stumbled on the second one in a little free library box near my apartment building. I recognised Thorogood’s name because he writes the series Death in Paradise and it’s off-shoot Beyond Paradise—both of which I enjoy. These are just plain fun books. Like the Thursday Murder Club, the “detectives” are older and have to find a way to work with real detectives and not ruffle their feathers. I’ve now read all three books in the series and what entertainment! I believe the BBC has serialized the first book with Samantha Bond in the starring role.

5 The Women—Kristen Hannah Kristen Hannah has written two dozen books. She spoke recently at the Sun Valley Writers Conference and her event was live-streamed. She said that for the last fifteen years, she’s been writing about women whose voices get lost or forgotten. The Women, published this year, is about the nurses who went to Vietnam, worked hard, and returned to the US to be told, when seeking help for PTSD, that 1) there were no women in Vietnam or 2) she couldn’t possibly be suffering as she didn’t see combat. It is a beautifully written description of both Vietnam and the emotional and mental falling apart that followed.

6 The Bird Artist—Howard Norman I had never heard of Howard Norman until this year when my writing teacher, Jennifer Lauck, assigned us I Hate to Leave this Beautiful Place, a small book of five essays, to read for class. I fell in love with him. Jennifer suggested The Bird Artist, published in 1994, the first book of his Canadian trilogy. Written in spare sentences, the book concerns Fabian who wants to be a bird painter. Set in Newfoundland (where my aunt came from adding to my love of this book), we follow Fabian through relationships with his parents and various women. It has a haunting quality because of the writing style. Though we are distanced from the narrator, by the end of the book, it is hard to forget the story, the landscape, and the characters that make up this wonderful tale.

7 The Self is the Only Person—Elisa Gabbert Like Howard Norman, I had never heard of Elisa Gabbert until recently. If I wasn’t writing my own book of essays, I don’t think other essayists would jump out at me when I’m reading book reviews. The review I read of this book, loved it and who wouldn’t with a title like that? Elisa Gabbert loves books, she loves libraries, and she loves to discuss books. These well-researched essays talk about books. How her husband and she, along with friends, started the Stupid Classics Book Group. They picked classics to read that were under 450 pages. Gabbert tells us what she thinks of Fahrenheit 451 and a couple of other picks. She doesn’t like any of the choices until she gets to Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. She talks about the part of the Library she likes the best. Macmillan Publishers says “Contagiously curious essays on reading, art and the life of the mind.” Yes!

8 Splinters: Another Kind of Love Story—Leslie Jamison Splinters is Jamison’s most recent book, about the dissolution of her marriage and raising her daughter on her own. She is a recovering alcoholic and, though not drinking, she finds herself in addictive relationships constantly self-examining her motives, her choices, and her priorities. I have read some of Jamison’s earlier essays. This book is the most vulnerable she has made herself. She doesn’t gloss over her behaviours nor rush through to what she learns as a result. At one point I thought to myself ‘this is brilliant writing but I don’t think I’d like her as a friend’.’ She probably felt the same way. By the end of the book, she is learning about self-love, experiencing grief and joy at the same time, and her descriptions of the love she feels for her daughter will leave you breathless.

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Happy Reading,

A bientôt,

Sara

Big Magic

Do you believe in magic……???

Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, an inspirational book by Elizabeth Gilbert, was published in 2015 and instantly became a bestseller. This was nine years after her breakout bestseller Eat, Pray, Love. After hearing writing group friends talk about it in my presence, I broke down and bought a copy in 2021. I think I read two chapters. Since I have just finished reading the entire thing today (July 2024), I cannot tell you why I wasn’t interested back in the pandemic years when being able to read for long periods of time wasn’t such a luxury. Maybe I considered it airy-fairy and that approach wasn’t going to improve my writing. Whatever the reason, I put it in the Living Room closet next to some books on the Writing of Memoir, and there it has sat ever since. In fact, it is still sitting there. I listened to Elizabeth Gilbert read the audiobook while I walked the trails and beaches of Saint Jean de Luz in the Pays Basque region of southwest France.

The book can be summed up as EG taking every possible fear and rationale we writers have to not write and shows us why it is poppycock. She claims she was the most fearful of children, scared of everything, scared of waves, scared of snow. She lists at least two pages of fears to not write. “I’m too old”, “I’m not old enough”. I found myself laughing as I remembered almost each and every fear she mentioned.

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She says something very interesting. Something that goes against one of the blurbs of her book: which said something to the effect ‘how to learn to have a creative life.’ My words. Gilbert says we don’t learn anything. We already are creative. We either use our creativity in living or we don’t. But it’s always there.

I enjoyed listening to the book. I enjoyed it because I’m on the other side of a lot of the fears she’s talking about. So I was nodding my head as she talked, agreeing with her on many points. I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t been writing for eight years, hadn’t had a book published, hadn’t talked about some of my fears with my coach and editor, I would have had a hard time groking what she was saying. It was a bit like the huge Nike poster I had scotch taped to the back of my toilet door years ago. JUST DO IT!

Gilbert seems to think if she could do it, anyone can. So she talks about courage, persistence, trust, enchantment and how she met each one head on. What she doesn’t say is that, in fact, she is an exceptional person. She has a huge personality, she’s probably impulsive and when she gets into something, she jumps in 110%. She takes risks—introducing herself to Ann Patchett at a conference by telling her how much she loved her. I recognise this. In my 70s, I have much the same personality. But it took sixty-five years to be born. I think I might have cried reading this book in my 30s. Of course, I have no way of knowing. Looking at that Nike poster every day actually drove home the sentiment – forget all your excuses, Sara, just do it! And sometimes I did!

I think my take away from the book and one I want to pass on is: love what you do. If you love to write, write. Don’t think about the end result. Will it get published? Do I need an agent? etc, etc, etc. Just write because you love it. I need to say that I’m in a very lucky and enviable situation. I am retired from my first profession, have savings, and am in a position that many writers are not. I don’t have to depend on my writing for income, to make ends meet. I get to write because I love to write. I am discovering that more and more. I find on-line challenges and things like Jamie Attenberg’s #1000 Words of Summer that encourage me to write every day and account to someone, even in the virtual world. Writing every day makes it easier to write every day. Yes, that’s English and it’s true. And getting prompts from people like mary g.’s substack What Now? has led to interesting stories—ones I wouldn’t have thought up just sitting on my butt at the dining room table hoping for inspiration.

I have a hard time getting through any book on writing. Some craft books are written by smart and wiley people. They give you a teaching then two or three short stories that use the very thing the writer hopes you will learn. For instance: Tell It Slant (Miller and Paola, 3rd edition 2019). I was finished the book before I had time to give up on it. There were fascinating stories, most I hadn’t read. I may have learned something also. My writing teacher, Jennifer Lauck, refers to it often.

So if you, like me, like to listen to audio books while you walk, and you want some inspiration to take a next step or do a high five because you’ve already figured out something Elizabeth Gilbert writes about, then you will probably enjoy this book. EG’s voice is extremely pleasant to listen to. Since she wrote the book, she can emphasize words and points she wants emphasized.

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A bientôt,

Sara

C’est Ouf or What the heck happened in France

Four weeks ago, June 6-9, there was a parliamentary election in Europe, the tenth since the formation of the EU, the first since Brexit. The Far Right won the most delegates in France. Marine Le Pen and Jordan Bardella, her handpicked ersatz leader of RN (Rassemblement National), began to crow. Within one hour of getting the results, without any warning to his deputies or his “friends”, President Macron dissolved the standing Parliament and called for new elections. They would be held on Sundays: June 30 and July 7.

The country went into a tailspin. Journalists tried to guess why he did this. Most thought it was suicidal. In France, there are many parties from the Far Left to Center Left to Center Right to the Far Right. Macron first ran as Center neither left nor right but has turned out to be far more Right. He won his second election by a hair, many French voting against Marine Le Pen than voting for Macron. His newly formed party, Ensemble (Together) did not win a majority in the Parliament in 2022 so Macron has had difficulty passing many of his reforms. In many cases, the government has used the Article 49 of the French Constitution, paragraph 3 (Article 49.3) which allows the government (essentially Macron) to pass a law without a vote. Some journalists think that he knew he’d reach his limit of doing that. People were angry. He seemed to be favouring the wealthy. If he hadn’t dissolved the parliament, there could have been a call to pass a motion of No Confidence.

My friend, Fatiha, has been explaining to me what has happened day by day. The voters of France were galvinized. For many, the goal became ‘keep the Far Right from getting power.’ The same night as the dissolution, spurred on by François Ruffin, four parties on the left banded together and called themselves Nouveau Front Populaire. These parties do not agree on many things but they do agree that letting the Far Right get power would be disastrous for the country. They put aside any disagreements they had and campaigned as one party They agreed on a social program determining how much each piece of the program would cost. They worked on this for four days. They were the only party to think out and present a detailed plan. Fatiha and her friends were out on the street every day passing out flyers. They went door to door (mostly apartments, they would start at the top floor and work their way down) and talk to people. I asked Fatiha if people slammed doors on her. No, she told me. Some didn’t want to talk but many did. She would send me a photo of the campaigners at the end of the day all happy and exhausted.

Then came the first vote on Sunday, June 30. The outcome was 33% for the RN (Marine Le Pen), 28% for NFP (the Left), and 21% for Macron’s party. All the rest had under 12%. If a delegate received over 50% of the votes AND 25% of the constituency had voted, they were in. Marine Le Pen was in on the first vote. On July 7, all the delegates that had received over 12.5% would run against each other. This meant a triangle. There was real fear that votes would split between Ensemble and the Left giving the Far Right the majority. The left suggested and then followed through with the idea that if their delegate was in third place and RN had a chance of winning, they would drop out making it a two way run off. Macron’s party wasn’t so good. Many did drop out but many stayed. Historically, the Left has helped Macron against Le Pen probably giving him the presidency in both years 2017 and 2022. The favour has not been reciprocated or acknowledged according to Fatiha. I was now caught up in the breathtaking drama of this election. At the first election, 66.7% of France showed up to vote. “63% of French voters turned out to vote for the second round of the country’s snap parliamentary elections on Sunday, July 7, slightly less than for the first round (65%). It is the highest turnout since 1981. These figures confirm intense interest in the vote.” Le Monde

We all know the outcome. Nouveau Front Populaire won 182 seats. Macron’s Ensemble won 168 seats. Marine Le Pen’s Rassemblement National won 143 seats. A hung parliament. “A hung parliament with a large eurosceptic, anti-immigration contingent could weaken France’s international standing and threaten Western unity in the face of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. European Union officials, already learning to deal with far-right parties in power in Italy and the Netherlands, are watching France closely. And in Rome, Pope Francis chose the day of the French vote to warn against “ideological temptations and populists”, adding: “Democracy is not in good health in the world today.” Le Monde—July 8.

The last time this kind of thing happened was in Mitterand’s Presidency. He honoured the French vote by choosing a prime minister from the party that got the most seats even though it wasn’t a majority. Fatiha has no faith that Macron will do the same. She is ready for anything sneaky, egotistical, and anti the French people. A majority of people now feel as she does. I asked her if she thought anything would happen before or during the Olympics. My common sense says it all should wait. The Olympics are fraught enough. No one knows. The French want a Parliament. Macron may try and stall. So far, he has not made an appearance on television. So far, he has not talked to the French people.

My sister wrote to me and wanted France to send NFP to the US to galvanise them. I wrote her back that there is a fatigue in the US. Much as I detest Marine Le Pen and her beliefs, she is not a criminal, she hasn’t stirred up the kind of violence that Trump has, she seems to keep her language in check. Americans seem inured to the most detestable way of speaking, they expect lies on a daily basis. We, in France, have watched stunned as all the news after the Biden-Trump debate has been about Biden and his age. Nothing about Trump’s criminal acts, his inflammatory speeches and actions, and he seems much more deficient in brain cells than Biden. WTF is going on? (Read my friend Pamela Drake’s Substack for an opinion:

https://pameladrake.substack.com/p/the-ice-floe-or-the-endtimes

And what the heck does “C’est Ouf” mean? It’s a wonderful expression!

“C’est ouf – roughly pronounced say oof – is a colloquial French expression to express shock or surprise.

It is the rough equivalent of ‘it’s wild’ or ‘it’s crazy/mad’ in English or just ‘wow’. (From Fatiha: ‘ouf’ also means “What a relief!” This is what made the front cover of Liberation so brilliant)

C’est ouf can be either positive or negative, depending on the context.

The word ouf is the verlan, or backwards slang, of ‘fou’ which means crazy. While ouf is colloquial, you can still hear it used by people of different generations – not just young people.”—the local.fr

More excitement (and I’m afraid not the good kind) coming up.

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A bientôt,

Sara

Gentle is the joy that comes with age. A Washington Post Opinion piece by Anne Lamott.

When we are younger and have troubles, we are almost always encouraged to find like-minded people to talk with, a support group to join, to surround ourselves with others who understand and we can know we are not alone.

Among all the many issues aging people have is the sense that we are doing this alone. You forget where you put your keys and get overwhelmed with shame, try to assure your loved ones you aren’t getting dementia. For whatever reason, the specifics of aging seem hard to talk about. And I’m a very healthy person.

It was with a sense of gratitude that I read Annie Lamott’s piece today in the Washington Post. I have always appreciated her. She has a wicked sense of humour, a lovely way of writing, and she wrote a wonderful positive blurb for my book Saving Sara A Memoir of Food Addiction. How could I not love her?

I want to share this Opinion piece with you. If you are aging as I am, you will recognise parts of yourself. If you aren’t, put it aside, you may want to read it someday.

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“It turns out the point of life is gratitude. And gratitude is joy.

Some of my much older friends have 10 doctors or more, like an overeducated friend community. I have only six so far. But time lurches on and the reality is that, before too long, I will have 10, as well. Until then, the point of life is gratitude, modest miseries aside. And gratitude is joy.

Wendell Berry wrote, “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.” Yes, yes, but/and older-age joy is different.

To a great degree, in older age, ambition falls away. Such a relief. Appreciation and surprise bloom many mornings: Yay — I like it here.

We more easily accept the world as is, even as we doggedly keep trying to save it, like aging Smurfs. A man who got sober with me in 1986 said he had come into recovery a big shot, but the guys had helped him work his way up to servant, and he had finally found happiness.

We take it slower, and thus can be amused by the foibles of humanity around us, even as we are alarmed by how quickly the days we have speed by: Kitty Carlisle’s mother said that the best thing about being older is that, every 15 minutes or so, it’s time for breakfast again.

I’m not loving the cognitive decline, which can be so scary at the time but (for me, in the early throes) still ends up being sort of funny.

For instance, yesterday, I needed to pack up some shoes that I’d been auditioning, that even with the custom orthotics provided by my most recent boyfriend, my podiatrist, just didn’t work out. So I printed out the return label and set about wrapping them for the post.

Much of this effort went into sneak attacks by the packing-tape dispenser; each strip I pulled out tried to return to the mother ship. Each time, this required at least five minutes of crotchety scraping to get it restarted, turning me into Andy Rooney. (“What is it about packing-tape dispensers?”) I finally got the shoes all packaged, with the label taped on, and realized I had left my orthotics in the shoes. So I opened the bottom of the box, fished them out and taped the box back up. All this took at least half an hour. I then started out jauntily for the post office and five minutes later realized I had left the shoebox at home.

A good story, and it makes everyone I tell it to feel better about their own condition. Stories are joy.

(P.S. It can be quite time-consuming to be older.)

We also don’t love how simultaneously dried out and leaky we become. An older person must never, ever leave home without Kleenex, and laughing too hard without a squeezey kind of prep can be a setback. But the older people I know laugh and laugh at themselves, because we know things.

We know the truth of and beauty of cycles.

Thistles for younger people are to be avoided at all costs, for obvious reasons, but when you have slowed down, they can be enjoyed, because you won’t be running into or leaping over them. There is beauty in old stalks, even when they are us: It’s tough and lovely to be alive. Thistles in the spring are so pretty. I love their springiness, the power of the breezy soft purple fibers, and then in the summer the kind of Elizabethan glory of those ruffs around their necks. In autumn, the wind blows away all the fluff — the seed pods — leaving the spikes and stalks, which dry up and fall over, as will we all.

But in the meantime?

Older joy is not so much about chasing down things, as it is about what seizes the eye, out the window or on a walk. Older joy is less caffeinated. When you are younger, joy is photographable, for display on the curated Facebook life. Younger joy means endorphins. Older joy feels more like contentment. Someone at my church once said that peace is joy at rest and joy is peace on its feet.

Older age can be a balancing act — how much to put out, how hard to try, how much to let go. And if things aren’t working, how to accept that with grace.

There can be a lot of joy in all that still works with our bodies and minds. The miracle is not high dives and Segways but appreciation, and knowing the great miracle: decades of love and loyalty.

Even someone such as me, who has since birth been more anxious than the average bear, can be less alarmist. By this point, we’ve lived through wars and political crises, earthquakes and droughts, sorrow and way too much death. But almost all the deaths I’ve seen have been gentle. One of my pastors said that death is like falling asleep on the living room floor and waking up in your own bed. Those last weeks are often so sweet, if messy, and filled with grace.

We finally realize we can’t save or fix or rescue anyone, even and especially those we most love. We stop rushing to people’s sides like arthritic St. Bernards with kegs of brandy strapped around our necks. We’ve learned that we cannot reshape their lives, get in there swinging and carry their pain for them. Now? We mostly listen. Sometimes, we lay some money on them. We are lighter than we’ve ever been.

I think a lot less about what other people think of me. Sure, I want to look good, and be charming. But it doesn’t mean that much in the bigger scheme of things. When I’m home alone, or with my husband or son, best friends, reading my book, watching TV, eating my snacks, being kind of a slob, who cares? I’ve arrived.

Now, I’m in it for the deep soul love, where maybe one person is impossible, shut down, annoying or neurotic, but they’re yours, your person, or perhaps they are you, and along with the sun, moon and stars, this love is the light of the world.

I have always been lifted by the bulbs we planted in winter’s cold rocky soil, breaking through hilariously bright and fresh. But I’m so moved now by aged trees, like some nearby old English walnuts. They do their thing for a couple of glorious months a year, loaded with white blossoms, made to make seeds to make more trees. Then they’ve had it. They get old — no need to put makeup on those wrinkled petals any longer. They fade and fall to the ground for the year. But oh, the beauty of old beings, old trees and old us. We made it through. We did our work. And if I’m here in the joy of next spring, I’ll love them again.” —Anne Lamott; Washington Post, July 1, 2024

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A bientôt,

Sara

My favorite French photographer. The man who captured ‘vieux Paris’ captured my heart with his images

Those of you who have been reading me for awhile know that many of us who write about France are in a FranceStack that was organized by Judy MacMahon. This week I’d like to introduce you to Jenn Bragg and her recent post about her favorite photographer. Jenn writes For the Love of France. You can find her substack by putting either her name or the name of the Substack in Search.

I hope you enjoy her post as much as I did.

“Something I have come to learn about France is that it puts a very high value on those who engage in literary or artistic endeavors. This is something I love about this country. And as many of us know, some of the best artists and creatives in history come from France.

I love old photographs, especially of Paris, so this week I wanted to tell you about one of my absolute favorite French photographers – Eugène Atget.

Eugène Atget, young and old. The photo on the right was taken by Berenice Abbott.

Atget always seemed destined for the arts.

Born in 1857, he was raised by his grandparents after being orphaned at the age of five. In his 20s, he worked as a cabin boy on passenger ships destined for South America. He returned to France and became an actor in the theater until he had problems with his vocal cords. Then he tried his hand (literally!) at painting. Not finding much success, he pursued photography.

Towards the end of the 19th century, Atget’s work mostly served as images on which artists could base their paintings.

But things started rapidly changing in Paris.

Industrialization began to change the city, which was being torn down and rebuilt by a man named Georges-Eugene Haussmann. Haussmann was tasked with cleaning up grimy old Paris. He did away with the narrow, rickety old streets and dilapidated buildings to create a more open, ‘breathable’ city.

Atget foresaw the disappearance of ‘vieux Paris’ (old Paris), so he decided to devote the next 30 years to documentary photography. Thank goodness, because without his work, we wouldn’t have much to go on.

Photos of old Paris boutiques by Eugène Atget

Eugène Atget took photos of streets, storefronts, private hotels, and people. He traveled far and wide, from central Paris to the outskirts, which were entirely undeveloped.

Photos capturing hotel design details. Source: BnF Gallica/Eugène Atget

Those undeveloped areas were along the periphery of Paris, an area that was known as The Zone. (Today it’s known as ‘la péripherique’ and it’s fully developed and more affordable than central Paris.)

By the turn of the 20th century, the people living in la Zone were very poor, often in ramshackle, makeshift dwellings surrounded by trash. They were known as les zoniers. Their living conditions were unhygienic to say the least. It only got worse with Haussman’s project, which drove up real estate prices in Paris. (An entire article could be devoted to les zoniers, but I’ll leave that for another time.)

Atget did well to document the lives of les zoniers. When I see their images in his photos (below), they remind me of the scenes described in John Steinbeck’s ‘Grapes of Wrath’.

Except this was Paris, not the United States during the Dust Bowl.

Photos of people on the edges of Paris. Source: BnF Gallica/Eugène Atget

Over the years, Eugène Atget took more than 15,000 photographs, meticulously documenting exact locations and dates on his photos. He even captured his own studio (below), but identified it under a different name to create some distance between the artist and his subject.

Atget’s studio around 1910; photo: Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

A few years before Eugène Atget died in 1927, he became acquainted with an American photographer named Berenice Abbott. At the time, Abbott was working for Man Ray in his Paris studio. (Man Ray and Atget lived on the same street in the Montparnasse neighborhood of Paris.)

Atget and Abbot shared a love for documenting (and preserving) the magic of their modernizing cities – New York for her, Paris for him. Abbott took his portrait photos before he died. Sadly, she learned about his death when she returned to Paris to show them to him.

Eugène Atget by Berenice Abbott; photo of Berenice Abbott

Seizing the opportunity to tell the world about Atget’s work, Abbott spread the word among her New York circles. She also acquired thousands of his photographs, which gave to the Museum of Modern Art. (Separately, the National Library of France also has thousands of Atget’s photographs.)

If you’re coming to Paris and have an interest in Atget’s work, you MUST visit the Musée Carnavelet, which is entirely devoted to Paris’ history. One of the best depictions of ‘vieux Paris’ is through Atget’s photography.

‘Au soleil d’or’ photo by Eugène Atget (1912) & the actual ‘golden sun’ sculpture above the door of Maison Delmas, displayed at the Musée Canavalet in Paris

France’s snap elections

Dear Francophiles and Friends

The following is a reprint from an on-line journal that I subscribe to. All my friends in the US seem very confused by what is going on. I hope this helps.

“5-minute guide to the latest on France’s snap elections

written by Emma Pearson – emma.pearson@thelocal.com

Protesters gather to demonstrate against the far-right in Paris. Photo by Zakaria ABDELKAFI / AFP

From party alliances to shock announcements and the emerging key figures, here’s your essential roundup of all the latest from France’s snap parliamentary elections.

France will head back to the polls at the end of this month for snap parliamentary elections – called by Emmanuel Macron on Sunday in the wake of his party’s humiliating European election defeat at the hands of Marine Le Pen’s far-right Rassemblement National.

The president’s announcement caught everyone off guard – even key members of his own party – so three days later, political groups are scrambling to get ready and fight the very short election campaign.

Here’s a roundup of the latest election news:

Republican front

The most widely-heard call in France over the last three days has been for a Front républicain.

The concept of a ‘republican front’ is not a new one, it essentially means that when necessary mainstream parties put aside their differences in order to combat the extremists in the far-right movement.

Most recently it’s been seen in the second round of the presidential elections of 2017 and 2022 – the final two candidates were far-right leader Marine Le Pen and Emmanuel Macron and in that context plenty of people who detest Macron and all that he stands for cast their vote for him because they considered that the alternative – a far-right president of France – was much worse.

In the context of these parliamentary elections, the Front Républicain is more to do with political parties and essentially involves parties making agreements not to run candidates against each other in certain constituencies, in avoid to avoid splitting the vote and allowing in the Rassemblement National candidate.

Talks on these potential agreements are mostly still ongoing but it would involve, for example, the four left-wing parties who made up the Nupes group agreeing to run a single Nupes candidate in each seat – rather than diving the leftist vote by fielding one candidate from the far-left La France Insoumise, one from the centre-left Parti Socialiste, one from the Green and one from the Communist party.

It’s early days, but most of these agreements are far from being done deals, despite pleas for unity.

Eric effect

One politician who appears to be swimming against the republican tide is Eric Ciotti, leader of the right-wing Les Républicains who has announced that he would be open to an alliance with Le Pen’s party.

Les Républicains is one of the two parties that dominated French politics in the post-war period – the party of presidents Jacques Chirac and Nicolas Sarkozy.

Badly weakened since 2017 and at risk of fading into irrelevance, the party has been steadily drifting to the right for several years, electing in 2022 the very right-wing Ciotti as party leader.

An alliance with Le Pen would not come as a surprise to anyone who had read his most recent manifestos and policies, but the thought of the political heirs of Charles de Gaulle getting into bed with the far-right has caused shockwaves in France and within the party itself.

Protests

There have been several protests, especially in Paris, this week but unions and left-wing parties have called for mass demos across France this weekend.

Intended as a show of solidarity against the far-right, the protests are intended to echo 2002 when million of people took to the streets after Jean-Marie Le Pen progressed to the second round of the presidential election.

Key figures

It’s not only opposition parties and the media who were taken by surprise by Macron’s election call, it also caught senior members of his own party off guard, with several saying privately (or less privately in the ear of friendly journalists) that they think Macron’s ‘grand pari‘ (big gamble) is a bad idea.

This number appears to include prime minister Gabriel Attal who was conspicuous by his absence for 48 hours after the announcement (even failing to post on his usually active Instagram account). However he’s now back and saying that he will do whatever it takes to “avoid the worst”.

Those of Macron’s ministers who are members of parliament – and in France it is not necessary to be an MP in order to be a minister – are also declaring their candidacy in these elections and so far there are no surprises . . .

Key dates

Candidates have until Friday to confirm that they are standing. The formal campaign period begins on Monday, which is when election posters will start to go up and TV debates will be organised.

Voting takes place in two rounds; Sunday, June 30th and Sunday, July 7th.”

Thanks for reading Out My Window! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Please leave comments below with thoughts and questions and I will do my best to answer as the elections move closer

A bientôt,

Sara

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“5-minute guide to the latest on France’s snap elections

From party alliances to shock announcements and the emerging key figures, here’s your essential roundup of all the latest from France’s snap parliamentary elections.

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