Quatorze Julliet (or Bastille Day, as Americans have dubbed it) in Pau didn’t turn out to be festive in the way I anticipated. City workers busily prepared in the days before: putting up notification signs about road closures, dropping off and setting up tents and tables, constructing a small stage with lighting and sound equipment, all in the plaza below my windows. The one where tourists come to photograph the magnificent view of the Pyrénées and themselves in front of the big PAU sign (such signs have popped up in many small- and medium-sized towns throughout Europe. Potsdam has one, as does Angers). I was impressed by the city leaving overnight unsecured tables (tall, bar-style ones; waist-height service-oriented ones), some stacked, some set up, and most impressively, kegs of beer. No police presence, as there is for important football/soccer matches, but perhaps video cameras. As far as I could tell from my balcony perch, passersby simply ignored them.
In the morning, it was announced that fireworks would be postponed due to fire concerns during this hot, dry spell. The news disappointed me, since I’d heard they were spectacular, and I relish every opportunity to see a really good display (or even average – well to be honest, if I hear fireworks in the night, I pop out of bed and rush to various windows and even outdoors, if necessary, to see bits of magic exploding about the roof- or treetops).
Quatorze was, as it often is, a long, hot day, with scant relief toward sunset. The plaza became livelier as the day continued. Signs with beverage prices were posted, kegs were tapped, workers gathered, water stations installed. A very loud, late afternoon soundcheck suggested that I would be unable to sleep at my usual bedtime and that I would probably not like the entertainment.
I had dinner at a friend’s, whose apartment has a view similar to mine—a 180 degree view of rows of mountains: the low green ones behind the renowned wine-producing town Jurançon (just across the river Gave), beyond those, an undulating blue ridge that disappears in foggy weather, and (rarely visible in summer), the vanishing glaciers on the jagged peaks further distant, but not yet in Spain. A boisterous crowd occupied every seat at the cafés below, the kind of crowd that only happens during important sporting events—like when Paris Saint Germain plays Arsenal. I figured they might be there to watch the televised spectacle at the Eiffel Tower, one that combines digital projections with a sophisticated and awe-inspiring fireworks display. I had an incredible view of that in 2018 when staying at a friend’s apartment, which has a head-to-toe vista of the Eiffel Tower from a few blocks away, and whose terrace has a 360-degree view of the Paris skyline.
Afterwards, I walked to Place Royale, an oblong plaza along Boulevard des Pyrénées in front of City Hall, a space defined by four rows of mature trees and capped at the opposite end by a viewing platform built 100 years ago, with floral plantings and benches for sitting. It also has an elevator that take you down to the lower city (the Pau one visits is mostly situated on an impressive escarpment with majestic views to the south).
There, I found music I liked. A 10-piece band with a singer playing dance music. When I arrived, a waltz was playing and two couples and several toddlers danced. Although, by then, the sun had disappeared below the buildings, the near-suffocating heat continued. I couldn’t imagine dancing. The outdoor tables of the restaurants edging Place Royale were full and the crowd watching dancers and listening to music, grew. The singer sang old favorites, some of which (Piaf, Trenet) were familiar. She announced the dances, which included many tangoes, and waltzes, but mainly dances that I had never seen before: java, Bayonne, tupla, paso doble. Everyone seemed to know those. I succumbed to my urge to dance, and accepted the invitation to waltz with a gentleman whose expertise made my desire to dance stronger than my desire to refrain from the discomfort of the oppressive heat (which abated as the evening wore on).
Usually, after 1 or 2 dances, one thanks one’s partner and moves on. When I tried that, this gentleman squeezed my hand tighter and responded, “Why go? Are you disappointed?” Of course I wasn’t. I hadn’t had such an expert partner since before the Pandemic when I used to frequent (when in Paris) Caveau de la Huchette, now an impossible nightmare due to Instagrammers, who have chased all but the most intrepid regulars away. I explained that I didn’t know these other dances and he said, “follow me.” So, I did. Not flawlessly, of course, but competently enough.
He (I never learned his name), guided me with an assurance that enabled me to dance with eyes closed. It’s actually easier for me to follow when I’m not distracted by my surroundings and can focus on the music’s instructions to my body and surrender to the expert lead of my partner. Dance after dance, I began tentatively. But as I relinquished control, we became a single unit, like a pair of dragonflies (although obviously not mating!) on a summer afternoon. I truly could have danced all night. It was better than fireworks.
Walking home, I navigated through the youthful crowd at the PAU stage, where the band played popular (everyone sang along) covers unfamiliar to me. I observed the scene from my balcony until the music ended around midnight. It wasn’t the Quatorze I’d expected; it was better!
