A Revolutionary Way to Tour Paris
by James Purpura in Europe , France
In tight formation the five thousand rollerbladers street-trekking with me sound like a hive of deep-voiced bees buzzing around my head. I am careful not to disturb any. We roll down the street together as one body, not even the stragglers that far behind. We descend upon place de la Bastille like the revolutionaries that destroyed it. We half-circle it, mercifully leaving it unscathed, instead heading directly away from it up boulevard Beaumarchais. Saturday is only minutes away. Last month was January. This isn't exactly a mid-winter's hot chocolate-evening spent at home in front of the fireplace. Go figure.
This could only be Pari Roller, the ingenious version of a Paris expedition. The experiences people have had in this town over the centuriesóall those pairs of eyes that have gazed upon it and become dyed with the indelible images that abound hereóare as unique as the travelers themselves, for every person who has visited keeps with them a uniquely personal version of things as only they could have lived it. Friday night rollerblading has now taken this truth to biblical dimensions.
And the night begins in the 13th arrondissement at place d'Italie, where in addition to the sport itself American influences abound. In the Gaumont big screen theater plays 'Sleepy Hollow,' its pumpkin scenes rather out of season in late February. In the theater's enormous windows is reflected the McDonald's-KFC combination restaurant on the other side of the place. On a round, fifteen-foot kiosk at the foot of the stairs Gwenneth Paltrow shows off the bored look she has so perfected. She shares the billing with Matt Damon, in studious glasses, and what must be the film industry's latest stud, Jude Law, a name that combines Old Testament and porn. On a matching, towering kiosk George Clooney is flanked by Marky Mark and Ice Cube. Parting from rising black smoke, they don fatigues and sport machine guns. This is the image of ourselves we export.
In addition to Kronenbourg, Kanterbr‰u, Kilkenny Irish Beer, and Andelscott (BiËre au Malt A Whisky), Le Levants Brasserie advertises BUD, King of Beers. A bus stop advertisement shows a purple I-Mac laptop, ‡ emporter. And if you are weary you can always stay at the Holiday Inn on the opposite side of the place.
I am reminded of which country I am actually in by the language I seem not to have arrived at mastering. They have gathered, mostly young but by no means exclusively so. The daytime-donning Suit People have 86'd their three-piece handcuffs and replaced them with threads for middle-of-the-road flying: pads, sweats, windbreakers, some back packs, hip packs, water bottles. The bold wear skin-tight jeans, the kind with the hind end faded, the boldest shorts. Thousands are just bold.
People
glance at their watches and at each other. The witching hour is soon upon them.
The pent-up energy the crowd exudes consists of hundreds of thousands of wo/man-hours
they have endured in cubicles all week. Friday night is blocked out on their
calendars as surely as is Super Bowl Sunday for football fanatics. The sidewalks
are packed with them; shoed pedestrians don't stand a chance (no pun intended);
cars honk and swerve. People warm up. The hot dogs show off. They wheel around
and talk. The contagious impatience and anger everyone's face so visibly
displayed throughout the work week, in lines and the métro and the sidewalks,
has here and now metamorphosized into anticipation of good things to come. Every
face is showing it tonight. Every face.
At five past ten the signal is given. Cries of joy break out, and they are off. The mass follows closely the yellow-tee'd staff and the motorcycle cops. Those still socializing on the sidewalks know they can wait a few minutes and still jump in at the rear. The curbs are lined with shoed spectators. Unlucky motorists whom the police have just stopped to allow the procession to pass might as well turn off their engines and take a cat nap, for there are thousands upon thousands participating tonight.
On the other side of the big place, hidden waist down by hedges, the procession passes in curious motion: they could be any moving crowd, but smoother and quicker. Behind them is the 13th's town hall, which looks like a little cousin of the main HÃTMtel de Ville. Like thickly waddled babies, its three palm trees sit comfy in a small lawn of exceptionally green grass (gated, of course). After several minutes the last of the group disappears around a corner like Godzilla's tail in New York. The catnaps are over.
Some rollers lounge around talking, for one reason or another not leaving with the larger group. They will perhaps blaze their own trails tonight. But up the metro stairs latecomers ascend racing. The horrific look of disappointment on their faces is absolutely heartbreaking. Too late by just minutes, they look quickly around for some sign of hope, but it is too late. I am reminded of that scene in 'Titanic' where the thick boiler room doors roll down before that guy can get out, he jumping about-face in the desperate half- pose of a boxer. Yes, the human bee hive is gone. The late ones have missed the boat and roll around slowly and aimlessly. This is tragedy.
Things
to Dye Your Eyes With
Ahead a few minutes on the clock and up ahead in the distance the Eiffel Tower creeps up out of the ground and into view. One and a half hours into the ride, at place Jacques Reuff, the roller-leaders indicate break time and we slow to a stop. ET looms over us like the most stirring of icons, a stunning tower in the night.
We have half the night's journey filed away in our memories. Our finish line is that where we began. It waits patiently for us. People take advantage of the opportunity and sit on the sidewalks, leaning back on hands or elbows. This year's a mild February. Someone in the center breaks out a boom box and plays this city's ever-popular house music. House, house, house.
For the first part of the break calm has instilled herself. We look back at the roughly eight miles' (13 km) journey we have put behind us, filing away in the recesses of our minds the indelible memories we will look back on from our deathbeds and swim in.
But no sooner has the calm of the break fully set in than somebody rolls by. They must be thinking about the next hour and a half. Then someone else, and someone else. Silence. Three together, and a set of speeding wheels passes them. One by one people start to stand up, stretch, go in circles around the place. The bug has caught on, and when it is actually time to go fifteen grueling minutes later, we are all more than ready. Still the yellow-tee'd staff and the motorcycle cops are ready to lead and to protect. As the signal is given cheers break out and with the speed of electric discharge adrenaline transfers to wheels, which mercilessly gnaw at the pavement.
The
Roots of Ritual
The sport itself is uniquely American, circa 1980 thanks to two Minnesota brothers, our modern-day rollerskating. The contagious virus that is the sport jumps the pond and voil‡ (you knew that word was coming).
Paris, 1993: It begins as an idea of a group of cavaliers called the 'Crazy Riders.' In that year the meeting point is established at place d'Italie. The number of participants stays at around 100 until spring 1995. They ride on the sidewalks. By the summer of '96 numbers surpass 200, and the sidewalks cannot hold them. They take to the streets. By the end of '97 the authorities get involved. After several meetings the police decide to take care of traffic problems. October 31, 1997: the first ride that is a cooperative effort between riders, who number 350, and police (it is also about the year Halloween became known in France). Month by month, as people see open roads before the rollers, participation skyrockets. The Frogs adopt the sport as enthusiastically as the sport itself requires enthusiasm, dropping the word ëblade.' Hence they ask, 'Do you ëroller'?' like they ask, 'Do you snow?'
By the summer of 1999 numbers as high as 25,000 are conquering unchartered routes in the city. Ahh, blissful summer, when the heat of the bright day has cooled to the caressing warmth of a dark night, and air brushes by you, and beyond it passes by a dreamy rooftop, a fairy-tale building, or that one particular view that does it for you. If at some point you tire you can jump out of the Bladers River and plop yourself down at a sidewalk table at whatever café happens to be the closest. The world goes by. It is your world. What have you done to deserve this? Not only will you never forget it, but hey, the rollerblading extravaganza's free and there is no paperwork to fill out (surprising for a country so in lust with its own bureaucracy).
One of the best things about it is that no one thinks about a fight breaking out. They don't think who might be harboring a gun because unlike in the US people don't even have guns. Or what could happen if somebody looked at somebody the wrong way. These worries are not even part of their consciousnesses. It is hard to describe the true feeling of freedom that comes with the absence of fear of violence, especially in a crowd of strangers in a big city at night. The only tension in the air is the anticipation, not the promise of random violence. Despite the icons, we are not in America. If we can export, we can surely import some civility. 'My Country ëtis of the, Sweet Land of Liberty?'
What is so Liberating about this Rollerblading Nonsense?
As far as options for physical exercise is concerned, Paris is lacking. While for instance places like Seattle and the Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area have endless options for outdoor activities, Paris is the antithesis. And it is truly maddening. Even if you can jump on a bike here or slap on some rollerblades you always have to put up with traffic lights, nutty drivers, bad surfaces, and surprise cobblestone streets. So when on Friday night the cops tell the cars and motorcycles to take a hike, it is a delectably sweet revenge. What's better, the route changes every week, so if you go often you won't be getting bored with the same ol' same ol'.
The trip is broken up into several segments. So while even on the street you have this rare freedom and can reach great speeds en masse relatively safely, the police still have to stop the group intermittently to clear the next segment of cars (they can't go and close fifteen miles of major streets at one time). Yes, it's frustrating. But who's complaining?
Other Options
The unobstructed-minded have another choice: Sundays. A similar ride is held at 2:30 starting from the same place. However, some prefer the quai that stretches along right bank of the Seine. Here, on Sundays from 9-5 all year excluding winter, it is closed to motorized traffic from pont de Bercy in the 12th to pont de l'Alma in the 8th. The views are just as good if not better, but perhaps a little less intimate, than the Friday night or Sunday afternoon group rides. Although it attracts cyclists and pedestrians by the thousands, you don't have to be an 'advanced' skater, unlike the organized skates. It is perhaps a little more relaxing knowing that if you fall three thousand people will not bury you in wheels and knees like dominoes. You can achieve greater, unobstructed speeds or even just pick up the sport without being run down.
Other Information
- The Friday night and Sunday afternoon rides require you to be able to handle downhills, quick stopping, and fast steering. Beginners are not allowed.
- Bring water and spare francs (soon to be euros). Light shoes are good to have in case you decide to drop out early. A small backpack will do.
- For further information visit Pari Roller's Web site at www.pari-roller.com.
Photos are from the January 16, 2004 and June 4, 2004 events.
