They call it the “French scar”, an alarming wound on the cheek, which some teenagers inflict on themselves on TikTok just when an angry France bursts the floodgates of order. The protests have disturbed the peace of a country that, until the arrival of the yellow vests, seemed to have it all: grandeur, perfumes, cars, cheeses and a coastline that calls its cities Sud-Mer. “¡¡¡Impeachment!!! ¡¡ Cursed poet!!!”, read the banners of masked people in Paris, Nantes or Rennes, who threw cobblestones at the anti-riots and lit fires in the race.
More than three million French demonstrated against the new law that raises the retirement age by two years and sets it at 64. Amid clouds of smoke and piles of rubbish (due to the union strike) the demonstrators spit against the poetry of Macron, the one who named his party Renaissance when the popular perception today is of Déclin.
They are not willing to have a longed-for right, generation after generation, the real fortune of their life: retirement. Or, isn’t the French retiree at the campsite, with a blade of grass between his teeth and chubby happiness, a genre in itself? I remember my uncle from France, who, when he retired – quite young – used to escape to see us with a suitcase full of inventions and Le Coq polo shirts. He used his free time to discover acupuncture machines and collect clippings on vegetarianism, although, as he sat at the table shirtless, my father had to warn him that we were not yet “wild” retirees. .
From France then came the modern, while today refinement burns in its streets, using violence to defend an untouchable plot of the future. I don’t know if I will reach retirement, and if Escrivá’s ambitious plan will guarantee the party, but if there is no shielding, my generation can already be preparing for a hand-to-hand fight to defend their rightful handful of Monday sur- Wednesday
