The retiring type – The Economist
The early morning breeze would send a chill down your spine, if the latter wasn’t already being snuggled by a fellow traveler’s bulging gut, and the inability to pinpoint who’s hand has been firmly clamped to your ass over the course of this excruciating ordeal only has you hoping it doesn’t belong to the aforementioned man/woman sporting the bountiful midsection. It is earliest morning, and all have scurried to the train stations in hopes of getting a head start on the rest of the population only to realize they didn’t have a monopoly on that idea. Far from it actually, any ill-advised, brusque movement like the re-coiffing of one’s hair on this train platform would have the unfortunate domino-effect consequence of sending another commuter tumbling onto the tracks. It is that time of the year again in France, that which brings people closer together than any other, when public-sector breadwinners unite to voice their displeasure/get a day off work. As the early-bird railway patrons despondently await the unlikely train that might decide to travel their way, and suicidal fantasizing escalates, some wonder why they didn’t stay home while others speculate as to why they still live here. But, just as knees begin to buckle and nicotine levels in the blood start to dangerously dwindle, an osmotic sound. The rails jitter, and in the foggy distance, a pair of headlights, and, admittedly foreseeable, a train. Feet begin to shuffle, eyes cast suspicious looks onto hopeful neighbors equally eager to seize their hard-earned ticket on the capital-bound transport and out of this smothering human quagmire. As the train finally commences its screeching deceleration, those fortunate/unfortunate enough to be on the edge of the platform begin to push back, threatening those behind them who would dare push forward. The train comes to a grinding halt, and its doors open, exposing only the harsh reality of cars already overflowing with people, little keen on ceding their spots. Both sides stare at each other, envy on one hand, pity on the other.
It was once again a commuter’s worst nightmare in France as union members all over the country reaffirmed their unyielding commitment to idleness. The disturbance surfaced when President Sarkozy announced his plans to raise the minimum age of retirement from 60 to 62, in order to alleviate stress on the pension system. After all, in a country where asking “what you can do for your country” rarely comes to mind, the phrase “love it or leave it” is rarely uttered, lest a mass exodus expeditiously take the road to El Dorado. Of course, one has to empathize with the average 59-year old Joe who already had his eyes set on the perfect retirement haven. It is the French way to demonstrate one’s disapproval with the system, and although such manifestations impede on the rest of the population functioning normally, not to mention much of it is political opportunism from the left, the sneering international press should understand that many simply want their destiny in their own hands. In the end though, the French never really wanted to go to war, and now, they are not really impassioned with working either. Perhaps the French are onto something. After all, if one is meant to fight for his right to work, then shouldn’t they be able to take a stand for their right to smoke a cigarette, sip on a glass of Château Latour and just take it easy?
Note-worthy: “Train drivers, teachers, post-office staff, air-traffic controllers, and other mostly public-sector workers, some wheeling children’s buggies, others banging festive drums, took part.”
Le Razor's Edge 