Compost Studios

The morning after our second night in Paris , we awoke in the wee hours to shouts in the street and the sound of people running. When the smell of smoke seeped into our room and we heard sirens in the distance, our first thought was that the recent riots and car burnings outside Paris had erupted in the center of the city. We didn’t show our concern for fear of alarming the children, who were excited to see a posse of emergency vehicles and fire trucks gathering in the street beneath our apartment. We were privately thinking we might have to find a hotel or worse yet, go back to Brussels .

Like characters in a movie, we opened the casement windows and hung our heads out to see what we could see. People were walking calmly down the street and while the number of fire fighters and police was rising, no one seemed to be displaying a sense of urgency. I didn’t see a crowd or evidence of rioting, but what was burning? Is it a car? Several? Why were they closing down the street?

Craning our heads in the opposite direction, we can see a ladder truck illuminated by neon lights preparing to reach a window on the third floor of the adjacent building. The firefighters don silver helmets and carry long batons. A small group of people huddles in the street, one woman is in pajamas and they’re all being questioned by the police. They look to be in their 20s. A brown-skinned man is carried away by two officers, and I wonder if he is injured, drunk, or under arrest.

Fairly certain we’re dealing with an apartment fire and not a riot, we decide to get dressed and hit the sidewalk just to be safe. The fact that no one has been systematically evacuating our building is encouraging, but E doesn’t want to take any chances. We hastily pack our bags but leave them in our apartment, not wanting to have them marking us as tourists on the dark street.

In the stairwell we can smell smoke but don’t see any signs of fire in our section of the building. We exit the building, expecting to be approached by emergency workers directing us somewhere, but we’re ignored. We see that the restaurant below our apartment has been turned into a triage area of sorts, but only two people seem to be receiving medical treatment, one is an old man getting oxygen, the other a young woman wrapped in a blanket. The rest look like college students taking a coffee break after a long night of studying (or partying).

We wait dutifully outside, chilled in the pre-dawn cold. So many sirens and flashing lights and yet so little drama. There’s just one blackened window oozing smoke. We’re amazed there seem to be pedestrians on the street who are just passing through. What are they doing out at 5 a.m. ? We thought New York was “the city that never sleeps.” Clearly Paris can also claim that title.

Finally, when it becomes apparent that the emergency workers are winding down operations and starting to fill out paperwork, E approaches a police officer and speaks to him in French. Is it safe to go in the building?

“Oui, oui, oui. C’est bon. C’est bon.”

No further explanation. He returns to his clipboard and radio and we head to our apartment.

As we push our weary bodies up the curving staircase, it occurs to me that the children will probably forget most of the famous art and architecture they’ve seen in Paris , but they will ALWAYS remember the fire trucks, police, and excitement of a smoky street scene on a winter night. There’s more than one way to have a memorable holiday.

E-Grrrl must have been reading my mind. She turns to her brother and says wistfully, “Our first real fire!” and then looks at me and says, “Can I have a croissant?”

No emergency is big enough to stand between her and her appetite. We know we should go back to bed but instead we unfold the wax-paper bakery bag, grab the croissants, put the kettle on to boil, pull yogurt from the refrigerator, and wait for the sun to rise.