Pointdevue is furious.
Last night, out to grab a bite with a neighbor. Our little old streets alive with perhaps 150 heavily armed police. Obama and Hollande and Royale and hangers-on dining at the 300 euro a head resto around the corner, L’Ambroisie. On the way home we halted among a crowd of about fifty eager camera-holders because the cop said they were about to emerge. Any minute. Pointdevue imagined Barack strolling in the park in the night breeze, and she shouting, Yo Bro from the South Side! Give ’em hell!
Finally motorcycle lights went on, a beautiful electric blue, and engines roared. Dozens of huge armored cars with American and French flags stuck on front whizzed by us. No one visible. Windows black. The dissed crowd cheered.
Pointdevue to neighbor: they are here to work for us, for the planet in need of leadership. Not for a night out in gaie Paree. Why not eat at L’Elysee, since the taxpayers already pay that cook? Obama– why not turn in early so you can be fresh and sharp in the morning?
The oblivion. The wallowing in privilege and self-congratulation. Business as usual. Rome never burns.