It has happened to me more than once in this region of France known as Beaujolais: someone asks me what year I am. The first time, a confused look came over my face. At 47, I’m not used to people asking me when I graduated from high school (the closest correlation I could make to the question), but come to find out, that isn’t what they’re asking. They want to know the year I was first a conscrit. I was born in 1975 so the answer is that I’m a 5. In this region, there is a sacred and rowdy tradition of celebrating le conscrit, a tradition dating back to 1880 to celebrate when a 20 year old man is required to go off and do his military service (no longer a requirement here in France, although it only ended a couple of decades ago). Nowadays, in most villages, men and women celebrate.
This weekend, the neighboring village of about 2000 inhabitants celebrated their conscrit. Different villages celebrate on different weekends which means that the local youngsters can go village to village partying all winter.
We arrived in the village just as the parade was beginning. It was a riot of color, confetti and chaos! Little boys throwing firecrackers everywhere, blaring, competing music, locals lining the main street, and the floats pulled by tractors, lurching slowly by. It was evident that the celebrating and drinking had begun hours before, and everyone was deep into the revelry when we arrived. As it is 2023, this year, all decades of “3”’s were celebrating, those who turned 10 this year, 20, 30, 40, and so on. Each decade had their own themed floats and they were dressed in costumes to match, wether it was the 10 year old minions, 30 year old cross-dressers, 50 year old Wild Wild Westerners, or the confusing float of the 70 year olds (I still haven’t identified their theme). What was evident was that they were all having fun! We followed the floats and the crowd, with confetti raining down for an hour, coating every possible surface. The parade ended at the parking lot next to the lovely village church where the “2”’s (those who were celebrating 20, 30, 40, etc.) last year, had ignited a massive bonfire, threw on a coffin, and were burying their last year, a nod I suppose to those who were drafted into military service and never came home. As the sparks rose high into the sky, the big fireworks began. The 2’s danced round the fire, linked at their elbows, passing the torch to the 3’s.
Each decade dons a color to represent their age, typically a ribbon they wear around their hat, but also the color of a beater car, muffler removed, spray painted with their names and meant to be destroyed over the weekend. After the parade, the 20 year olds arrived with their cars, jumping and dancing on top as they rolled perilously down the street and others came running to try to join them on the hood. The conviviality and absolute revelry was something I’ve never quite witnessed and I kept wondering where the police were, thinking of what would be required or not even tolerated at a public parade/festival in my little town in California. One of the stereotypes that Americans love to perpetuate and talk about it is that because the French (or Europeans in general) give alcohol to their kids starting at young ages, there is nothing forbidden about alcohol and consequently they learn to drink in moderation so drunkeness is very rare in Europe. Well, this festival heartily disproves that stereotype. And if that isn’t enough to make you think differently, just ask my 21 year old son who went to university in Belgium for the past two years.
The festivities continued throughout the weekend, with a ball in a portable “disco” after the parade, a mass on Sunday morning, followed by the “wave,” a parade where each decade, dressed beautifully, holding bouquets, and sporting their ribbon wrapped top hats, danced, arm in arm down the main street with more confetti being fired out over the crowd from big cannons. Later in the afternoon a banquet was held, as the celebrating continued into the evening hours.
It was a loud and lovely celebration of life and debauchery! I found it surprising and wonderful, a beautiful ritual of connection to a place, a way of signaling a belonging not just to today but to that village throughout the years before they were even born and hopefully after they die. But more than all of that, to see each decade dancing together in waves was a striking visual reminder of where we have all been and where we are all going. This festival is a testament to the people's love of life, their culture, and their community.
© 2023, Simon D. Webb • thedensecompany for BlueStoneBlueOcean
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