Sundays in Paris can be melancholy.  In this paradoxical city, amorous couples play out their carnal desires to the backdrop of the awesome archways and terrifying gargoyles of churches, and bars spill out onto streets named after a seemingly endless string of saints.  Sundays retain a certain sanctity, one vestige of the Church's influence in a nation in which at least three quarters of the population are of Catholic origin.  But today's observation of a day of rest has little to do with religious faith.  Rather, it was born of the contemporary battle against the evils of the 24-7 American life, where a frenzied population seems never to stop working.  The modern French are most preoccupied with social concerns, and in the civic religion, free time is sanctified.  So, while the majority of contemporary French are not practicing, Sundays remain holy.  They are dedicated to afternoon-long lunches, family, and precious repose before the start of another 35-hour work week.

This imposed day of rest in Paris is a kink in my non-stop rhythm, still run by the New York compulsion to fill every hour with activity.  I feel off-balance as I walk past storefronts locked away behind metal gates and cafes that sit dark and empty until late afternoon.  The absence of crowds in the streets awakens my danger alert, which has always worked on the simple rule that you are safe as long as you are surrounded by people.  Separated from my family by an ocean, and with an ever-changing patchwork of friends and acquaintances in Paris, I become acutely aware of being a foreigner.

The weekly roller randonnées have been my saving grace for the Sunday blues.  Since the mid-90s, a Paris sporting organization has sponsored an afternoon circuit for skaters (though in-line skating really took off during the transportation strike in the winter of 1995).  Each week, the tour snakes down a different itinerary of streets, causing traffic jams and forcing pedestrians to wait patiently until the thousands of skaters have passed.

Before take-off at 2:30, hundreds of enthusiasts gather in front of the futuristic Opéra Bastille to lace up and strap various combinations of protective gear onto elbows, knees, and heads.  The sea of skaters sets into motion with a communal heave, and the grunt of thousands of rubber wheels pushing off against the pavement.  The participants soar through the city, hindered only by slower randonneurs or a fallen skater in their path.  The roller machine's approach, like a whispered invasion, can be heard from blocks away.  The streets are swept perfectly free of motor traffic, save the pair of ambulances that bring up the rear at the back of the mass.  Uniformed police, themselves in inline skates, escort the group, wearing elbow and knee pads over their blue uniforms and helmets bearing the word POLICE.

As this unstoppable army rolls across Paris, cars idle at intersections.  Pedestrians wishing to cross the street huddle in awed clumps, their path violently bisected by the thousand-headed monster on wheels.  They adopt expressions of amusement, resigned patience, or utter frustration as they wait for the sea to rumble past and the streets to reopen.  Many gawk as if at a parade.  One woman's poodle, driven mad by the unending flood of moving objects, barked fiercely as he tugged at his leash, driven to chase each one.  Impatient pedestrians who dare an attempt at cutting through the onslaught are pushed aside by skaters.  Other times, they are grabbed by security, and escorted back to the safety of the sidewalk.  Always, their temerity is met with indignant hollers.  Often, the least likely characters prove the most intrepid.  One Sunday, as I huffed up an incline, I caught sight of two nuns, no younger than sixty-five and no taller than five feet, weaving their way through the pack, smiles of passive oblivion on their lips.  They, perhaps by divine providence, made it across without a scratch.  One week, a wedding party, their cars decked out in pink and white crinoline, laughed as they watched us roll by; they were showered in return with shouts of congratulation.  If drivers so much as dare to honk their horns they are met with gleeful screams of protest from skaters, emboldened by their reign of the roads.

Another, more vicious, version of the randonnée is held on Friday nights.  This tour is recommended for "experts" only, and is more a race than Sunday stroll.  One balmy night at the end of August, I joyfully careened, amidst a sea of adrenaline-pumped enthusiasts, down avenues normally choked with traffic.  The lights of the city wove together into a blur of colorful streamers, feting our passage.  The majestic Notre Dame, bathed in floodlights, looked on as we passed, and the bulbous lamps dotting arched bridges reflected in the Seine.  We rolled past the sleepy working class quarters of Belleville and Ménilmontant, and the grand apartment buildings of the quartiers chics, a warm light emanating from living rooms I imagined to be animated by the chatter of a well-bred family sitting down to dinner.

As I flew, invincible, from street to street, I was imbued with this uniquely Parisian magic.  Like so much else here, this event seems a paradox.  In Paris, the tyrant cars stop for nothing – not even, quite often, for red lights.  Yet twice a week, skaters become the kings of the road, and motorists are forced to take a backseat.  Still, even among the skaters, the Latin hot-bloodedness is evident.  Men try to prove their virility by zooming as fast as they can.  Often, they push themselves beyond what they are capable, spinning out of control.  Their bigheadedness causes neither shame nor concern for danger, and is the cause of frequent accidents.  The streets, empty of motor vehicles, feel as perilous as the infamous rond-point circling the Arc de Triomphe, about which cars whiz at 65 mph. 

On the Sunday of my twenty-fourth birthday, the sun was shining, and it felt more like early September than the last weekend in October.  I feverishly peeled off the layers I had put on that morning and rolled up the sleeves of my cotton shirt before the course began.  I had to squint as I soared down the boulevards.  The Seine was like a sheet of silver metal, radiating the sun that reflected off it.  Ellen, my weekly partner, turned to me as she rolled along.  "Isn't this perfect?" she asked.  "To spend your birthday here, in Paris, the sun shining, and rollerblading over the Seine with the whole city before you?"  Her eyes shone as a warm smile spread across her lips. 

A member of my writers' group, Ellen is in Paris for her sabbatical year, writing a memoir about her mother's year in France before the outbreak of World War II.  She, like my mother, is a math teacher.  Still, Ellen seems ultimately cooler as she navigates the city streets in her rollerblades, making her way down the sloping roads with confidence; my mom would be too terrified even to lace Rollerblades onto her feet.  During our weekly ritual, Ellen and I talk about the strange sadness of Sundays.  Together, they don't seem nearly so bad.  As we huff up hills and fly down sloping streets, we try to make sense of the world.  Ellen speaks to me about her teenage daughter, and about her own mother.  She listens to my doubts about my life decisions, and she confides in me about her own personal struggles.  And it is in these moments, skating past the monuments and evoking the beauty of this city with another American, that I am reminded of the importance of finding friends when you are far from home; of making a surrogate family for when the blood ones can't be by your side.

That particular Sunday, Ellen overheard me tell a friend who had phoned from New York that I planned to spend the evening at home, alone, and she invited me to dinner at her place.  "It was meant to be," she grinned, explaining that she had bought a special cake from the market downstairs.  The gâteau was to complete the meal she had planned for her daughter and two friends who were visiting from Indiana.

And so, after spending the afternoon rolling about Paris and discussing God, relationships, and the uncertainties of the future, I went home for a shower before hopping on the metro to Ellen's.  I spent that Sunday evening not alone, but in a toasty home filled with laughter and the comforting smell of a country meal.  The walls of the apartment were lined with books and the rooms bespoke of the comings-and-goings of family.  I spent the night of my 24th birthday in Paris, in the company of a friend who is like a mother, and three teenage girls from America.  Their laughter and giggles reminded me of the way I used to be when I was their age.  I returned home that night with a tummy full of fresh food, cake, and wine; two books under my arm that I was to return when I was through reading; a hint of aches from the afternoon's workout; and plans with Ellen to meet at our usual spot for rollerblading next Sunday.

Mail:  GParnes@Yahoo.com

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