I’m not really sure what to say about this French custom except it’s fascinating.
Every year the nights before and of Bastille Day, about 40 firehouses in the city open their doors to anyone and everyone and throw the craziest parties.
Melissa and I braved the crowds, and it was a scene, to be sure. Gay and straight (firemen, don’t you know), hipsters and dorks, kids and gramps, the fabulous people and the B&T crowd (I even saw France’s version of the Jersey Boy—trust me, he exists). We were mostly slack jawed all night. Melissa because she couldn't imagine what would happen if there were actually a fire in the city. Me, because the crazy Swede was there.
The bands are Vegas-like cover bands and, man, do the French like their disco and kitsch. The crowds were going wild.
This one pompier, in particular, was too.
(Pardon the crummy photos - my camera is acting up again.)
As Melissa said, the French really do have a certain joie de vivre. It was fun to see everyone cutting loose—no shame, no judgments, no concerns for tomorrow. Though I do wonder how many of these people are still in bed right now.