The Liberation of Paris

On August 25, 1944, the German garrison surrendered the city of Paris to the combined forces of the French Resistance, the Free French Army of Liberation, and the 4th US Infantry division. La Libération de Paris was not the end of the German occupation of France, and is not a public holiday (jour férié) in France, but it just so happens to commemorate the same date and location as my wedding. Did I mention I was married?

For a relationship that has been sadly defined, more often than not, by the vast distances between Ardis and I rather than the closeness we share, our wedding was so much more than an affirmation and celebration of our love; it brought together friends and family from around the world, and for two weeks we explored the neighbourhoods, sights and restaurants of Paris en masse. The camaraderie was invigorating and, at times, overwhelming.

These same bonds proved a heavy burden in the months prior to our wedding. Numerous administrative hurdles from three separate governments were strewn in our way, and for a long it seemed we would be unable to wed. It’s a story I’ll happily recount in person and, perhaps, even here at another time. For now, be satisfied knowing we eventually managed to pass every bureaucratic test and could greet each arrival with the news that the marriage would indeed go ahead. And that I was kicked out of the Canadian Embassy.

This was my opportunity to finally meet some of Ardis’ closest friends, Athena and Craig, who had flown in from Canada and disembarked in a timely manner, but at a different terminal from the one at which they’d told us to expect them. Meanwhile, Paul had flown from Australia and was struggling to reconcile the early weekday morning in Paris with his body’s firm insistence that it was late evening. The two of us made a beeline for the nearest airport bar and settled into a few pints. And so, as Athena and Craig realised their mistake and made their way to this terminal, they found me a little drunk well before noon. First impressions and all that.

I built on that impression the following day as we strolled around the Palais Royal gardens and along some of the beautiful galleries nearby. It was a warm and sunny day, mere wisps of cloud in the sky, and an idyllic setting in which to recover from jet-lag and become acquainted. We had begun comparing facets of Australian and Canadian culture, discovering unexpected similarities and differences, when Athena asked my opinion of curling; I replied that I was stoutly in favour of any sport that taught women to perform household chores (e.g., sweeping). Athena and Craig are not only kind enough to still speak with me, they have even been so generous as to let Ardis and I stay with them in Edmonton.

The days leading up to the wedding sped by. We lunched and dined with family and friends every day, and I took advantage of these opportunities to show off my (limited) French repertoire. We found time between meals to wander around this great city and show off some of our favourite nooks and crannies. Time truly does fly when things are going well; all too soon it was the evening before the wedding, dinner was done, and everyone was heading home.

Ardis spent the night with her parents, and the following morning Athena, Craig, and I walked over. Athena went upstairs and helped Ardis prepare for the big day; Craig kept me company on the streets until this was achieved. He suggested we have a beer or two—our first meeting clearly still fresh in his mind—but the nearby stores were closed at this early hour; instead, we discussed wedding-day nerves and other matters until Athena called us back to the apartment.

It was time for the tea ceremony. This required me to kneel down and offer tea to both of Ardis’ parents. As I began to pour the first cup, her father told me in a matter-of-fact tone that if the father of the bride refuses the tea, then the wedding cannot go ahead. His sense of timing was, as ever, impeccable. I placed my trust in the fact that her parents had flown from Calgary to Paris and that this would surely be one of the most inconvenient methods possible—for all concerned—to cancel a wedding. And so, apparently oblivious to my distress, he drank the tea.

I have heard a number of French people remark that in France, weddings do not start on time. I can vouch for that. Ardis and I arrived at the town hall (Mairie du 1er) and were greeted by a teeming mass of people; surely there were more than the 26 attendees present? In fact, we were short four people, three of whom needed to be physically present for the ceremony to occur: our witnesses (témoins) and translator (traducteur). All of whom were French. Bastien (Monsieur Traducteur) was the last to arrive, and between apologies he insisted that he had never been to a wedding that had started on time. His streak—a self-fulfilling prophecy—remains intact.

And so it was that Ardis and I climbed the “Stairway of Honour” (l’escalier d’honneur) to the wedding hall and realised that, despite our months of planning, we had no idea how the actual ceremony would proceed. Not that it mattered, the aide spoke English quite well and quietly guided us through each step. The reading of the civil marriage code (in French and, thanks to Bastien, subsequently in English) devotes little time to the spouses and instead emphasises the responsibilities of parenthood; les enfants (the children) were mentioned over and over again. Our exchange of wedding rings, on the other hand, was so quick that we had to reenact it for the photographer.

We were then handed the Livret de famille (family book) which combines the role of wedding certificate and birth certificates for any future children. It comes with sufficient pages for nine children and, in the words of the aide, “more pages can be added if needed.” One glance at Ardis confirmed that there would be no need. Oh, “and if you get divorced, that also goes in this book.” Thanks, we’ll keep that in mind.

Since we started late, the town hall was officially closed by the end of the ceremony, so we owe the staff our gratitude for allowing us to spill out onto the balcony (which faces the east end of the Louvre) so that Ardis and I could receive paparazzi treatment at the hands of our friends and family. When it became clear that the demand for photos would never end, our poor aide finally prevailed and escorted everyone back inside, downstairs, and out to the front gate. More photos were taken.

And now everyone else was free to roam Paris until the wedding dinner; Ardis and I spent the afternoon under the direction of Wendy, our extremely warm and gracious wedding photographer. Despite the dusty wind and our fatigue (having slept little in the preceding week) Wendy managed to walk us around central Paris and take a fantastic array of photos. We then stumbled blearily back to my apartment.

My parents had staked out my apartment from an adjacent cafe, and as parents-in-law are wont to do, they had spoken to Ardis’ parents earlier in the day. The morning tea ceremony had been mentioned, and my parents would not pass up the perverse pleasure of making me kneel, offer them tea, and thank them for raising me. All of this was supervised by Ardis’ parents, in what little space we could fashion in my apartment. My thanks were muttered with reluctant sincerity. I would later discover that the knife had been twisted further; Ardis’ brother Dominic had readily agreed to photograph the entire affair and had done so from an angle that hid Ardis behind me, appearing to leave me solo in my prostrations. I have vowed that my brothers will be forced to submit to the same procedure should either of them marry.

I believe we actually pushed our parents out of the apartment rather than letting them tidy up, such was our exhaustion. Ardis was out cold only moments later, while I was unable to fall asleep but too tired to function on any meaningful level. What precious little time we had to ourselves I spent staring blankly at my laptop, trying unsuccessfully to follow the plot of a television show I know by heart. All too soon it was time to wake up (as best we could), change into traditional Chinese garb, and make our way to the restaurant (La Rose de France) to get everything in order.

When I say “get everything in order”, I should point out that the restaurant staff did all of the hard work. We divided the bouquet into several cuttings, one for each table. A passing family decided that this looked pretty and the husband, taking me for a waiter, approached and asked (in French) about a table. This caught me by surprise and it took me a second to begin preparing an answer in French; one of the waiters hurried up and succinctly explained that the restaurant was closed for a private function, and I had an “ah-ha!” moment when he said “privé”—right, that’s the French word for “private”!

Our other task was to assign everyone a seat. For the past month we had scoured the stalls that line the banks of the Seine for postcards that recalled specific associations with each guest, and wrote a message on each; these postcards were then placed on the tables, one at every setting. It was up to our friends and family to search the tables and find their postcard. We left ourselves a tiny table for two, slightly separated from everyone else, and visited a different table between each course (glasses in hand).

I owe Julien for recommending this restaurant to me; anyone who visited me in Paris was taken to La Rose de France for dinner. I am not alone in thinking that they outdid themselves for our wedding dinner; we still reminisce about the duck (magret de canard, which I chose almost every time I ate there). Poor Ardis saved her favourite dessert for last (Charlotte au chocolat) only to find she had no room left, which rankles her to this day.

As everyone ate and talked, Ardis and I sat back in sheer relief and were almost struck dumb with the realisation that our only remaining obligation was to enjoy what we had wrought. At that moment, a strong wind gusted into Place Dauphine and began lifting wave after wave of dust into the air, tearing at the awnings of the restaurants opposite us until they cracked like whips. Everyone was aghast, and our first thought was that we could not possibly all squeeze into the tiny interior of the restaurant. But fate smiled and the wind only barraged the far side of the square, forcing unlucky diners inside but leaving us free to sit on the street and listen to two wandering musicians, cello and trumpet fashioning a graceful and impromptu accompaniment to the evening.

As the evening wound down, digestifs were offered; a small glass of a strong spirit (so much more poetic in French; l’eau de vie translates literally as water of life) is said to aid digestion. I had foolishly told several friends to try armagnac, a French spirit similar to cognac, of which I had become quite fond; thanks to this recommendation, when it came time to nominate my drink of choice I was told that all of the armagnac had been served. With friends like these …

The eau de vie may have fuelled the more boisterous amongst us (Julien, Karen, Thibault, Mélanie, je pense à vous!) and, as the waiters began clearing tables and informing us that we had reached the hour where, by law, they could no longer remain open, the chants of discours! (speech!) began. I wasn’t the only anglophone who was bemused, since discours! and disco! sound quite similar to our naïve ears. Offering our sincere thank-yous to everyone was certainly the lesser of the two evils; no number of digestifs could have convinced me to dance on the cobblestones, and Ardis would never have joined me in her heels.

And so we trickled out into the Parisian night in different directions, looking for cabs, the nearest metro, or (like us) happy to stroll home. Our French rabble-rousers accompanied us on their way to the Pont Neuf metro and told us about French wedding customs; we thus have it on dubious authority that whoever catches the wedding bouquet must get married within the following year. Since there were only two unmarried females present, one of whom was James’ six-week old daughter Adriel, Thibault was greatly relieved that we had instead divided the bouquet amongst the tables. And so Mélanie lamented to the empty streets—in what was possibly her best English phrase of the night—“Thibault doesn’t want to marry me!”; poor Thibault hastened to clarify “… yet!”

We walked the final blocks alone, arm in arm. Weary to the core, but so thoroughly content and buoyant, in a way I’ve never been before or since. We find it salubrious to reminisce about this hectic, frantic time. I dare say we always will.

For all of these reasons, I have no difficulty remembering that the Liberation of Paris occurred on the 25th of August.