Paris to Permit Women to Wear Pants

This just in from the Huffington Post.

A long standing law in Paris that forbids women to wear trousers, might soon be repealed, the Telegraph UK reports. Ten French ministers submitted a bill to parliament to get rid of the outdated law, which was put into place in 1799.

The law was amended several times: once in 1892 to allow women to sport trousers while riding horses and again in 1909 to permit them to wear pants while on bicycles.

French President Nicolas Sarkozy recently called on parliament to take a look at French laws that need reworking. The France pants ban is one of them.

CHAPTER 15: Paris Plage

Melody mentions the rumors on the street are that La Plage is going to open early this year. It's been unseasonably hot. We are sitting in the shade off Rue du Rivoli by the Louvre, hoping for a bit of a breeze to pick up and cool us off. Bernie is sprawled at my feet, panting heavily, his chest heaving up and down. Sweat runs down the back of my neck. I can feel it soaking the waistband of my pants.

Melody's shirt is missing several buttons and is soaked through to the point it looks as if she dipped it in water and put it on wet. I have a fleeting urge to take it off of her, wring it out and put it back on.

The smaller of the two Arcs du Triomphe, this one half the size of the Champs Elysee landmark, anchors the far end of the square and several people near us are in an animated conversation about the Diner en Blanc (White Dinner) which happened here last night.

Twelve thousand people descended flash-mob-style on this massive courtyard of the Louvre at exactly 9:30 p.m., all dressed in white, including fanciful boas and capes and summer straw hats and clusters of balloons and Venetian white masks.  Within minutes, they set up their all-white chairs and cloth-covered tables and opened picnic baskets filled with salmon and caviar snacks, miniature pastel macaroons and bubbling champagne.  Many of the tables were whimsically decorated with candles and white flowers.

It happens every year in Paris in a different public space, although last night was  the largest White Dinner by far. All very top secret and by invitation only. All very illegal. The location is kept secret until the very last minute when partiers gather in strategic locations and then receive instructions on where to proceed. Some even hire buses to stand by and then transport them to the spot. Bands play during the drinking, feasting and dancing. When the police show up, everyone traditionally pulls out white handkerchiefs and cheerfully waves them away. I'm told the police tooted their horns and just kept going last night. What else were they to do with 12,000 people?

The grand finale last night was the mass lighting of sparklers at 11 p.m., timed to coincide with the nightly lighting of the Eiffel Tower.

As I absentmindedly fan myself and eavesdrop on the conversation at the neighboring bench, Melody says, "I have an idea!" She holds up her index finger, surreptitiously wipes off the sweat beaded on her upper lip, then wags her finger at me. I notice she has another nasty-looking infection on her hand, a chronic problem. She says she gets them from her cat. .

"Let's go this year!" Let's go to La Plage when it opens. I've never had anyone to go with before." She smiles at me shyly.

La Plage is the creation of Paris' popular first Socialist and first openly gay Mayor, Bertrand Delanoe. It has been the summer hit of Paris since 2002.  A long stretch along the banks of the Seine is completely closed to traffic during August and then covered with 3,000 tons of trucked in beach sand ("golden sand," they always call it in the papers). They add palm trees in large pots and blue sun lounges and beach umbrellas. New attractions are added each year -- a climbing wall, cafes, a free library, volleyball courts, children's playgrounds, tai chi classes and lots of inexpensive ice cream carts.

There are diverse opinions about Paris Plage among Parisians. Some (mostly political opponents of Mayor Delanoe or those who are wealthy enough to vacation in the mountains or on the French Riviera ) think it is just a tourist ploy and would never go near it. Most love the novelty and repeat what the media says : "It's for all of us who can't go away for the summer."

It is French law that every citizen gets five weeks of paid vacation but many poor and working class of course can't afford to leave the city for that time and are forced to stay in the city during the hottest month of the year. They do complain bitterly.

"So -- what do you think?" Melody asks impatiently. And with that, I realize I've probably let this relationship go farther than I really wanted. I've let Melody have expectations of me. I've let her expect not just help but a friendship on a level that I'm not comfortable giving.

Yet she so much wants to go. "It's a great idea," I answer.

Then she drops the bomb. "I'm going to wear a bathing suit," Melody announces. I have to admit I feel a little shaken. Melody in a bathing suit may be more than Paris Plague or most anywhere else is ready for. I've heard Speedos and bikinis are the norm.

Melody lives in the moment more than most of us and it often makes her seem naive and childlike.  She is also somewhat haphazard  in her grooming and personal hygiene habits. It's just part of who she is, and it also relates to her economic status, which is barely-off-the-street. I think her little flat has only the kitchen sink for washing.

Yet understanding as I try to be, Melody in a bikini is a heart-sinking visual.

I once knew a homeless man in California who she reminds me of very much. He had spent his youth in Harlem but had been on the streets in Southern California since his 30's, and was now an underweight, elderly black guy with short grey hair. He had a surprisingly lovely singing voice and absolutely loved to sing. He would spontaneously sing for anyone. His favorite was "Old Man River" and he could really belt it out. What an endearing, gentle soul. He spent most of his days in the downtown San Diego Library, "looking things up." He actually came to our home a couple of times for potluck Solstice celebrations. The first time he just showed up at the door holding a single serving size of potato chips. I'd never seen him before. He said he had heard there was a potluck at our house and had taken the bus and walked several miles to get there. Another time, he showed up an hour early and sang for the entire hour until the rest of the guests began to arrive. 

To his great excitement, he found a social group of nudists. Before his first nudist picnic, he went to a thrift store and bought a gold chain necklace to wear. He thought if he was going to be naked at the party, he should wear a nice piece of jewelry. He also found a used game of Twister and bought it to take along to play with his new friends. The visual of Henry playing Twister wearing nothing but a gold necklace still makes me smile.

"But Melody, it's not as if there's really any place to swim," I say. "You can't swim in the Seine and that's the only water there, so what's the point?"  I happen to know there's some kind of a wading pool but I hope she doesn't know that as well.

Yet she remains adamant and even gets a bit pouty, the first I've seen this side of her. " I-do-not-care,"  she answers me, emphasizing each word equally. "It's the Paris Beach and I'm wearing a swim suit."

Then she adds she hopes I will do the same.

And what do I hope? I hope it will rain for the entire month of August.