My Secret Oasis

Of course, Paris is a vibrant city. But some days, especially when the sun is shining, you need to escape the bustle. During the extensive renovations of Paris undertaken during in the late 19th century, Napoleon III had public parks created in each corner of Paris. I’m lucky enough to live near the “northern park”. -- probably the least well-known to outsiders.
Not only is it family friendly, but it also contains the history of several centuries of Paris in a nutshell.
There are four ways into to the Parc Monceau but I usually use the majestic main entrance.



Two sand and gravel “allées” bisect it.



There is also a circular path around the outer edge and, within the circle, smaller paths which make you forget how close the city traffic is.



Lining all these paths are green benches. People sit snoozing or reading Kant, the latest Danielle Steele or Paris Match according to tastes. Families or friends in twos and threes enjoy the fresh air, the flowers, the trees, the latest gossip – or the free WiFi.



In the areas between the paths, groups of families and friends relax on the grass – a triumph of democracy. Until a few years ago, the disapproving residents of the elegant apartment buildings that surround the Parc required guards to patrol regularly, moving people on. A compromise was eventually reached. From October until April the grass “rests”. From April until October more modest apartment dwellers can enjoy the soft green carpet.









The Parc Monceau is the neighborhood children’s “back yard.





Another attraction is the duckpond.



But I promised you history, so let us stroll through the Parc again,looking with different eyes.
Beside the main gates, there is a large stone rotunda, prosaically housing the public restrooms.



Its past was grander. This is one of the few remains of the Wall of the Farmers General which surrounded Paris until the French Revolution. Unlike today’s gardeners



these “farmers” had no tractors or hoes. They were tax collectors. Anyone desiring to enter Paris with merchandise had to pay tax at places like our rotunda. The wall has long since disappeared but the tax was only abolished in 1948.
I used to wonder how old the park was. A pyramid stands next to one of the walkways



and the ruins of a Greek temple partially surrounds the duck pond.



But, I found out,these are just an architect’s nod to exoticism as are the romantic grotto, bridge and waterfall in the Parc's heart.

Louis XVI’s cousin bought this land in 1769 in what was then a pleasant country area just outside Paris. He continued enlarging and improving his private park until 1778. When the French Revolution began, it was declared a National Treasure and became the scene of popular fairs and entertainments.
In the southeast corner of the Parc, a small plaque commemorates the world’s first successful parachute jump. On 0ctober 22^nd 1797, just about the time that Napoleon I was coming to power, André Jacques Garnerin, a Parisian military man, jumped from a hot air balloon at 3200 feet and landed safely in the Parc Monceau. Can you imagine the crowds that day?
The city of Paris acquired the Parc in 1860 – smaller the original since half the land had been returned its original owners – but enough to allow us city-dwellers to enjoy a sunny day.

Tradition!

Each season brings its rituals and traditions. One such, in the pre-schools and, sometimes, the elementary schools of France, is the celebration of Carnaval. On the appointed day, the whole school dresses up and parades through the streets of their neighborhood with music, confetti and noisemakers. In the real world, Carnaval takes place sometime between the end of Christmas and the beginning of Lent.
But the Education National’s version combines practicality with ritual and takes place later in the school year – when the weather is more likely to be sunny. A popular time for it is the day before Spring Break
Tne characteristic of a tradition is that sometimes the why of it is lost in the mists of time. I asked several teachers how long Carnaval – linked, after all to a Catholic religious observance -- had been going on in the adamantly secular French schools. No one seemed to know. But each year, when the time comes, it happens.

Carnaval requires a lot of organization. Teachers decide on the costumes for their class and help little hands cut; color and glue the parts together. The school’s principal coordinates with one or more neighboring schools that will participate on the same day, finds the musical group that will lead the parade (or this year the car with loudspeaker)

and informs the city so that police can be detailed to the route and traffic stopped for an hour or two.

Parents are recruited to help the principal and the police with traffic control

or walk in the parade with the children to keep everybody together.

The fun of a tradition has to be learned --- as all parents who have ever pulled a distraught toddler off Santa’s lap know. The three year olds I read to on Friday afternoons have already learned a lot this year. By now, when their beloved teacher tells them it’s time for a story, they go sit in the “story circle.” When she tells them it’s time to string beads, they go to their group tables and string them. During the last few weeks, though they have obligingly made Carnaval costumes and learned a Carnaval song, they still had no real idea of what they were preparing for. But when Christine said that it was time to dress up in their costumes, get their faces made-up and walk in the street singing their song, they obligingly got ready.

Some seemed to understand more about the fun of this than others.

But all understood about holding your buddy’s hand.

About 300 children and 100 adults took to the streets on a sunny spring morning.

There were spurts of joy – when the little ones saw a neighbor watching at the window, for example.

And it’s always fun to blow a whistle! (Though there is some learning involved here, too. One of the little girls put the whistle in her mouth and squealed instead of blowing. “Shanone, blow out the candles on your birthday cake,” I suggested. It worked!)

Mostly, this year, it was just a very long walk.

We grown-ups know, though, that next year will be different. Just look at last year’s little ones.

And siblings are waiting in the wings. In a year or two it will be their turn to discover the joys of Carnaval.

Brownies ...... and Cookies

It’s the end of a season. No, not yet winter. Though the calendar says it’s been spring for two weeks already, it's still hard to believe here in Charlottesville. But, if you know any little girls or their troop leaders, you know that February and March are the Girl Scout Cookie season.
In early February, when I saw posts from my cousin in California, (mother of a brownie) and my friend Melissa (Troop leader of Troop 42 in Charlottesville), I was transported back in time and place to my own Brownie days in Oakville Ontario – more years ago than seem possible.
I was a Brownie for a long time. My mother became Tawny Owl (assistant leader) of our local pack, persuaded by her friend who was Brown Owl. (leader), when I was three or four and I went with her to the weekly meetings as the pack’s “mascot.” What I remember most about those early years is sitting beside the Magic Toadstool by the Magic Pool as the Big Girls danced around me singing their Six Songs at the opening of each meeting

At last I was seven and could become a real Brownie and dance around the, now Mascot-less, toadstool myself. I learned semaphore and how to tie knots and sang the Brownie songs I’d known for years -- but now with my friends.
And once a year we all proudly went door-to-door in our uniforms

to take cookie orders. (Maple creams were my favorite.)
There were Brownies and Guides in Jamaica but, as a teenager, I wasn’t interested. Especially when I found out that the leader of the local troop was my dreaded Math teacher. And, as far as I know, no one sold cookies of any kind to raise money. It was at college in Ohio that I discovered the joys of Thin Mints.
Brownies in college towns have it made. One sweep of the dorms and the entire troop can go to camp – twice!

Melissa’s Troop also has the good fortune to live in a college town. They sell their cookies every Saturday in February and March either in the activity room of the apartment complex where the girls live

(“They’re $3.50 a box but you can get 2 boxes for $7.00!” say the eager Brownies.)

or on The Corner near UVa Grounds (the Campus) where they attract the college crowd, indulgent tourists – and, on one lucky day, Mr Jefferson, himself..

The 21^st century Brownies of Charlottesville are different in many ways from the mid - 20^th century Canadian Brownie that I was. There are no magic toadstools or uniforms. There are different age groups with different names and the youngest, the Daisies, at 5 and 6 are younger than Brownies ever were in my day. The older girls learn about environmental issues and how 911 operates instead of how to tie knots and send semaphore messages -- much more useful. The Daisies learn that they are part of a big international group of girls who are all connected.

But the good deeds are the same.

The promise (slightly modified from the one I knew) is the same.

The love is the same.

And, of course, there will always be the cookies.