Bastille Day… There is blue and white in the skies over Mt. Tam. Blue skies edged with fog. But no red in this picture.
Some years ago, many years ago in fact, I spent Bastille Day in Belleville, an area of Paris. In the morning that day, if I recall this correctly, a friend and I made the pilgrimage to Pont de Grenelle, where, within the view of the replica of the Statue of Liberty, my friend threw her ice skates into the Seine as a gesture to symbolize the end of her career with a traveling ice show.
From there, it was on to the “block” party to celebrate Bastille Day with a few of the colorful inhabitants of the 20th arrondissement. It was at this party that I first tasted Calvados. After a few shots of that stuff there I was dancing in the streets of Paris, though I don’t think I have a clear recollection of the music, or my steps. Much of that night unfolded like a tale from the pen of a young writer with more ambition than imagination. A tale with a yarn in knots from all the rough spots that show up in the awkward plot twists and in trite dialogue.
That’s just the thing. The worst stories sometimes spring from life’s best experiences. Or rather, the most colorful experiences. Experiences that perhaps seem so much more colorful in memory tempered through the prism of fog drifting over Mt. Tam this morning.