Ah Paris, referred to by some as the civilised world. Don’t be fooled.
One of the blessings and curses facing France are its unions. Those famous 5-9 week vacations you hear about? Union contracts. The impossibility of firing even the most errant employee? Union Contracts. The typical 35 paid holidays per year, on top of the 5-9 week vacation? You guessed it — union contracts. French industry has to be the least productive in the world, and explains, partially, why everything costs so damned much here — union contracts. Yet, the lifestype is priceless. Kinda like a Mastercard ad….
The clout of the unions here is remarkable. Back in the 70’s, the prostitutes of Marseilles wen ton strike (they don’t have a union, but probably don’t really need one), which was joined by just about every prostitute in the country. The major unions announced that they’d join in on a sympathy strike. The country just about shut down. In the end, the prostitutes got whatever it wsa they were looking for.
French unions are actually pretty courteous when it comes to striking. They’ve always, I’ve observed, announced their strikes, which are published in newspapers well in advance, so one knows when not to plan trips, subway rides, and a whole list of daily transactions that might be affected. After all, it’s a strike in a civilised country by civilised people. No barbarians here.
Sadly, I found myself caught one day, having forgotten that the metro engineers were striking at 2pm one afternoon, in sympathy with a police strike that was taking place at the same time. All of Paris would be defenseless, and immobile, given the ensuing traffic jams exacerbated by lack of police direction and lack of public transportation.
Most wise people would simply stay home. Not me..totally forgetting about the much-announced strike, I boarded the RER train bound for the city, promptly transferring over the the Metro and proceeding to a meeting near pl. Bastille. The meetng ended on time, which should have served as a reminder as to what was coming, as meetings rarely end on time, or even get started by the scheduled end time, I’ve discovered. Still, I boarded the Metro, and made it two whole stops before the train came to a halt a station, and, after a terse untintelligible announcement through speakers somewhere, powered down and emptied.
Here I was, two miles from the RER station where, if it weren’t also powered down, the train home would be waiting to take me the four miles to my decrepit apartment. They say that Paris is a nice walking town. Don’t believe it.
French-born Jacques Legume spent several decades living between the Northeastern US and various places in France. He enjoys (or is tormented by) a unique understanding of The French from an American point of view, and of Americans from a French point of view, the result of which has been a serpentine work history littered with creative exploits, including wallpaper embosser (ever wonder where they get this little ridges?) and forklift driver for touring rock bands.
Recently released from the Bercy Institute for the Sexually Insane, Legume currently lives in an illegally sublet slum welfare apartment in the Paris suburb of Antony.
Like all Frenchmen and most Tea Party members, considers himself to be an expert. About what is uncertain, but, well, he IS French, after all….
He is a member of Mons Pubis, a society dedicated to correcting the wrong committed by l’Academie Francaise for mis-genderization of the word for female genitalia, and founding member of DENSA, the largest, oldest and most unknown society in the world dedicated to intellectual mediocrity (members must fail by 98% or more the written entrance exam). He is single and has no known offspring.
