Eoghan Harris: From pleasures of Paris to Provo propaganda
To Paris, for the Mayday march. Somehow my spouse thinks we're here for a weekend break with the Travel Department. But, as I point out over lunch in a left-bank restaurant across from Notre Dame (not a patch on St Peter and Paul's Cork) we veterans of the '68 Paris riots become more vibrant on Mayday.
Back in '68, I boast, as Gwen signals to the waiter to bring the crème brulee, I spent my days dodging the leaded capes of the CRS, and my nights meeting cynical Communist Party workers from the Renault plant who dismissed the riots as just another form of student foreplay. The Renault workers were right.
After the crème brulee I lapse into a sugar coma. When I wake, Gwen -- who had been watching the television in the bar -- gives me the grim news that the numbers of socialist marchers are down while the numbers of National Front marchers are up. I console myself with another cognac. That left-bank café is as far left as I get on Mayday.