Throughout their lives, my parents have had three personal experiences with France and the French, and, therefore, with French strikes. But the outcomes have been unexpectedly pleasant.
When I was a young child living in Rochester, NY, we had an exchange student for two months from France named (of course) François. For a whole summer, my parents took him here and there and showed him the best that upstate New York has to offer (and before you make that sarcastic retort, there was plenty that was great). He said nothing, and our family assumed he was painfully shy. Then, when they got to the airport to drop him off, the flights were cancelled because the French baggage handlers were all on strike. (Gallic shrug. "Eh, no, we will not unload your bags today." Puff, puff.) Since some families lived too far from the airport to make the round trip home and back the next day, my family offered to take a couple extra French students for the night. Now that he had two French-speaking teenage girls in the house, François suddenly came to life, and he excitedly showed them a slideshow of his summer, gushing about all the great things he'd done and seen. This is where I first learned how to say "chutes Niagara!" and where my parents first realized he was not a sullen teenager but rather very bad at English.
A decade or so later, they took a silver anniversary trip to Europe, their first. One day, they wanted to go to Versailles and, in a very uncharacteristic move, actually shelled out the big bucks for a tour guide to take them from Paris for the day. Needless to say, when they arrived at Versailles, the ticket takers were on strike (Gallic shrug. "Eh, no, you may not see the palace today." Puff, puff.). Their tour guide, a French-woman through and through, took one look at this situation and said, "Well, we'll do the gardens first, and they'll probably be back at work after lunch." All the tourists who had taken the train to Versailles by themselves turned right around and went home disappointed. Meanwhile, my parents enjoyed the gardens and a relaxing lunch, then had something nobody in history since Louis XVI himself has had....Versailles palace to themselves. Anybody who has battled the tourist throngs at Versailles will agree that perhaps never in the history of strikes did one turn out to be more convenient and helpful. Look Ma! No crowds!
And so, what would their latest visit here be without a grève? Wandering from my apartment up through the Marais, past City Hall (pictured above), we stumble across this -- the latest strike. Public school teachers in Paris are striking over the increasingly absurd* (decreasingly logical?*) change in school scheduling next year, euphamistically referred to as a reform in the "rythmes scolaires" -- school rhythms. The Mayor of Paris has decided to accept President Hollande's proposal as of Sept 2013. Voluntarily. For God-knows-what reason. Certainly, it can't be for political reasons, as he is opposed on this by literally all fronts: parents, teachers, right-wing, left-wing, all political parties, various labor unions, and every child aged 5-12. This strike looks less like a Gallic shrug and more like a really outraged manifestation (demonstration, that is). The police nearby are not amused. Probably because they have kids and hate the stupid new schedule, too.
*The proposal is now down to getting out of school one hour earlier, but only on Tuesdays and Fridays, then making that up by adding 9-11am on Wednesday mornings, or possibly Saturday mornings, thereby pissing off every possible constinuent and not achieveing anything in terms of academics (worse off), personal rhythms (worse off), and budget (more money spent by schools in terms of staffing, yet no more money earned by teachers). It's a lose-lose-lose, so I can really see why they're striking. Or maybe I'm just getting more French (Gallic shrug, puff puff).
When I was a young child living in Rochester, NY, we had an exchange student for two months from France named (of course) François. For a whole summer, my parents took him here and there and showed him the best that upstate New York has to offer (and before you make that sarcastic retort, there was plenty that was great). He said nothing, and our family assumed he was painfully shy. Then, when they got to the airport to drop him off, the flights were cancelled because the French baggage handlers were all on strike. (Gallic shrug. "Eh, no, we will not unload your bags today." Puff, puff.) Since some families lived too far from the airport to make the round trip home and back the next day, my family offered to take a couple extra French students for the night. Now that he had two French-speaking teenage girls in the house, François suddenly came to life, and he excitedly showed them a slideshow of his summer, gushing about all the great things he'd done and seen. This is where I first learned how to say "chutes Niagara!" and where my parents first realized he was not a sullen teenager but rather very bad at English.
A decade or so later, they took a silver anniversary trip to Europe, their first. One day, they wanted to go to Versailles and, in a very uncharacteristic move, actually shelled out the big bucks for a tour guide to take them from Paris for the day. Needless to say, when they arrived at Versailles, the ticket takers were on strike (Gallic shrug. "Eh, no, you may not see the palace today." Puff, puff.). Their tour guide, a French-woman through and through, took one look at this situation and said, "Well, we'll do the gardens first, and they'll probably be back at work after lunch." All the tourists who had taken the train to Versailles by themselves turned right around and went home disappointed. Meanwhile, my parents enjoyed the gardens and a relaxing lunch, then had something nobody in history since Louis XVI himself has had....Versailles palace to themselves. Anybody who has battled the tourist throngs at Versailles will agree that perhaps never in the history of strikes did one turn out to be more convenient and helpful. Look Ma! No crowds!
And so, what would their latest visit here be without a grève? Wandering from my apartment up through the Marais, past City Hall (pictured above), we stumble across this -- the latest strike. Public school teachers in Paris are striking over the increasingly absurd* (decreasingly logical?*) change in school scheduling next year, euphamistically referred to as a reform in the "rythmes scolaires" -- school rhythms. The Mayor of Paris has decided to accept President Hollande's proposal as of Sept 2013. Voluntarily. For God-knows-what reason. Certainly, it can't be for political reasons, as he is opposed on this by literally all fronts: parents, teachers, right-wing, left-wing, all political parties, various labor unions, and every child aged 5-12. This strike looks less like a Gallic shrug and more like a really outraged manifestation (demonstration, that is). The police nearby are not amused. Probably because they have kids and hate the stupid new schedule, too.
*The proposal is now down to getting out of school one hour earlier, but only on Tuesdays and Fridays, then making that up by adding 9-11am on Wednesday mornings, or possibly Saturday mornings, thereby pissing off every possible constinuent and not achieveing anything in terms of academics (worse off), personal rhythms (worse off), and budget (more money spent by schools in terms of staffing, yet no more money earned by teachers). It's a lose-lose-lose, so I can really see why they're striking. Or maybe I'm just getting more French (Gallic shrug, puff puff).
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