I went down to the demonstration to get my fair share of abuse - The Rolling Stones
Count on shit happening. Have a Plan B. You know the drill: You’re in France.
I say to myself, “Here’s why Emmanuel Macron has no time for your whining about the regional TER train running 2 hours late: Jaunes Gilets, the Yellow Vests.” After a cloudy, rainy Friday, a warm, balmy Saturday presented itself as a perfect beach day. I packed my beach towel, trunks, sunscreen, hat, and beach reading and walked to the tram stop.
It pays to follow the local news, because little did I know today was a day for manifestation. The tram never arrived, so I walked to Place de la Comédie only to find 20 police vans lined up along the esplanade and a large area blocked off. I avoided that mess and headed toward the station to rent a bicycle. The road between the station and the Place was blocked off, and there was an open fire burning on a side street I walked down.
Coverage in the local news, Midi Libre:
I walked down to Antigone and had lunch at a lightly populated outdoor cafe. I kept having to swat flea-like insects off my legs and arms, and I remembered an article about the “fleas of Montpellier,” as if that’s something to be proud of. The fish I ordered was serviceable, and I declined the coffee and desert options to free myself of insect cohabitation.
Returning back to Place de la Comédie by way of the Polygone shopping mall, I emerged to see a full-on-tear-gas-bomb-riot-police protest going on. What’s worse, it was heading in the direction I needed to go. Ack! I went a very long way around that path and made my way back to the apartment and decided today is a great day for a “staycation.”
Good thing I left, because it wasn’t until 9:30 p.m. that the National Police cleared the square. The Place earlier this morning: tranquility.
Outside the train station later in the day:
No comments:
Post a Comment