What a riot!

Oh the French spirit!

While Americans are anxiously following the weekly rise and fall of the Dow Jones industrial average, flocks of French are demonstrating in the streets of Strasbourg, happily torching buildings in the name of anti-capitalism.  

What better way to lift oneself out of depression than grab a handful of stick and stones, a can of gasoline and join another few thousand optimists to fight the rubber bullets of the French riot police?  All in the name of a lofty ideal?  I love my country of origin.

Civil disobedience is a favorite French pastime, right after food, sex and soccer.  I last found myself caught in a French demonstration on the plaza in front of the Notre-Dame cathedral in Paris a few years ago.  I had been absorbed in the architecture of the cathedral and hadn't paid attention to the thickening crowd around me.  Next thing I knew, I was being swept to the side of the some union protest or another, facing three rows of policemen in full riot gear: all-black uniforms, full helmets, batons and shields.  The rush of adrenaline was far greater than any of the paintballing games I had ever participated in.  The prospect of having my skull crushed by a rubber baton gave me a clarity of thought I had not felt since I had set the kitchen afire while trying to fry potatoes (another great moment in my life). 

My reptilian brain took over.  I wiggled my way out of the crowd and headed for the safety of a side street as the first volley of insults was being exchanged.  I sat in a cafe and ordered hot chocolate.  I asked the waiter what the demonstration was about but he didn't know and didn't seem to care.

When half of France seemed to be burning up last year, I called my parents to ask how things were going in our hometown.  "It's pretty quiet really," my mom said.  "They set fire to a cultural center and some cars but not much really."

Ah, the French nonchalance!