This particular date is not as well-known as July 14th, November 11th or May 8th in the country’s history, but it is still a fondly remembered date in some circles. Of course though, there is also a certain controversy attached to its remembrance and celebration.

This particular September 4th was in 1870, and it marked the moment that a group of individuals in Paris proclaimed the beginning of a new Republic (the third) following the capture of Napoleon III by the Prussians in Sedan.

This proclamation brought to an end France’s second empire, but as it also coincided with the invasion of France by the Prussians, its constitutional laws weren’t actually voted until 1875. The September 4th date is therefore a purely symbolic one.
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The author at the scene of the crime. One of the bike's orange saddle bags is missing

I’ve always wanted to be inducted into the Legion d’Honneur, and last night I thought I might have the chance to do something worthy to the country of France (or at least to those of my neighborhood—it’s a start). At 3:30 in the morning a racket outside the window of my ground floor studio woke me up. Nudging my boyfriend from his quiet snoring, I listened for 10 minutes to metal clanking, a large chain dropping, and little grunts as things were pried open. Slipping out of bed, I peeked through a crack in my metal shutters and saw an old man riffling through the locked “coffer” behind the seat of a motorcycle. Judging from the sound, he was working his way down the line of parked motorbikes. Coincidentally, my boyfriend and I had the day before discussed that 3:30 is the quietest time of the night, since jets start taking off around 4, and then morning traffic starts up. Burglaries rise in August when so many Parisians are away on vacation, and here in Montmartre, the many staircases—like the one I live on—offer escape routes. So I called the cops. “An old dude is robbing all the moto coffers on my street!” I stage-whispered from my bathroom, so Geezer wouldn’t hear me. She asked me for a description (gray hair, glasses) and my address and if it was OK to call me back. Five minutes later, a van pulled up and three plainclothes cops approached the bandit. They spoke in quiet voices. After a few minutes my boyfriend wondered if they were really cops, since now they were shooting the breeze. Geezer even asked a cop about a possible mutual acquaintance. Through the shutters I saw one cop nose around a bike. “MARY HAD A LIT-TLE LAMB, LIT-TLE LAMB—” My phone blasted its annoying tune, scaring the bejesus out of me. I ran to the bathroom with it.  Maybe it was Sarkozy calling with the Legion D’Honneur for having caught a thief red-handed. No, it was the dispatcher. “The men say nothing seems to be going on,” she said. (J’accuse!) I wondered if Geezer had dropped his booty to a co-conspirator at the base of the staircase. The cops stayed for a few more minutes. They looked in Geezer’s bag, asking, “Does this belong to you? What is this?” Geezer answered, “I go through garbage bags.” The cops told him to “circulate” and everyone left. So much for my medal.

An Apache could steal, cheat, or kill if necessary to get hold of a pair of shoes that would enhance his image in the eyes of his gang or his lovers. The littlest scratch and the pair were thrown to the poor.

The Apaches were the street gangs of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, taking their name from American natives following a visit from Buffalo Bill to Paris in 1905. They haunted the eastern faubourgs of Paris, and were generally very young, partly because their life expectancy was so short. These were men who lived fast, drinking, partying and stealing, and they were immediately identifiable by the clothes they wore. Each gang was dressed slightly differently, often wearing something such as a red scarf that would be both a sign of belonging and a means of identification in other territories. However, certain elements were the same in all gangs. All wore a certain type of trouser, tight at the knees and flared at the bottom, known as a Bénard. These were named after the tailor who made them, a certain Auguste Bénard, and the word is still used in Parisian slang today to designate a pair of trousers (bénard, ben’ or bénouze).
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The structure can date its origins back to 1550 when it was created by the architect Pierre Lescot with sculptures by Jean Goujon. It was built in the form of a loggia, backing on to the Saints Innocents church (which today no longer exists). The ensemble was classical Greek in form, with three arcades. The fountain was a slow trickle of water distributed through mascarons at its base.

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The figures pictured here are the work of Arterra, specialists in santons out of Marseille. You can also buy them unpainted but I’m pretty sure they won’t turn out as amazing as these. And to my dear friend in Falls Church, I couldn’t decide what to get for you. You’ll just have to come for a visit and choose for yourself.

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Take for instance my brief trip yesterday to run some errands. I started out on the main boulevard near my apartment and made my way towards the Place de la Republic. While stopped at a red lightI turned around to see what two guys were yammering about and

 I found myself on the recieving end of an air kiss. Fast forward to the next intersection where I found myself on the recieving end of some crazy sound effects by the man that was crossing the street in front of me. Lastly, as I made my way back home and was parking the bike at the nearest Velib’ stand a man approached me and I initially thought he was going to ask me for a cigarette or a light or even some spare change. But non, I was completely wrong, this man asked me if I would be interested in joining him at his place. I’ll let you all guess what my response actually was.