19:36, 24 minutes until the announcement. His victory was expected, and welcomed in some way. Whether this was as an antithesis to what was already there or because of his own work was certainly open to debate but the fact of the matter was this, the chant went “Sarkozy, c’est fini!”. Despite that though I feel a rush of election fever within me and I can feel the sense of occasion that awaits me.
In this light, I eagerly drag my friends to Rue Solferino, where the heart of the Parti Socialiste resides. 19:47, we walk down Boulevard St Germain where crowds of people are already amassing and the buzz grows. Flags are everywhere, French ones, Parti Socialiste ones but also Fronte Gauche and even one or two flags from the Parti Communiste. The crowd is an electric mix of ages, types, genres and backgrounds but they have a definite sense of ordinary about them. Ordinary not in a derogatory way but in the sense that I find myself surrounded by the everyday man and woman, to be cliché, the workers of France or at least that’s the way it seems.
The noise grows and the people move in as 8pm approaches. We desperately try to check results as the time approaches but signal is down and we have to rely on the hearsay of the crowd. Me and my friends form a chain to head closer to the action. We’re aiming for the red balloon, the balcony and the screen. Then, it starts: “cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un!” (I countdown too of course) then cheers and elations have rupture across the crowd and I find myself joining in with that too. At first I’m restrained, I’m not French after all and I think I only supported Hollande because I was sick of Sarkozy’s politics and personality. We look over and balloons have been released and soon champagne is being opened. “On a gagné” start the chants!
We continue pushing forward to the centre of the action, to try and hear Sarkozy and Hollande on the big screen. Eventually any kind of real view is impossible but the crowd guide us through who was there. Silence means nothing interesting, Boo means Sarkozy, quiet cheer for someone or something socialist,and a loud cheer for Hollande. After a while though we wonder what to do next and head towards the Marais in search of a screen and a drink.
On the way though, I see the new crowd amassing at Bastille and crowd fever starts taking me over again. I have this innate desire to follow them and after a detour I find myself drawn back in along with my friends. By this time, I was less restrained. I was cheering, screaming and shouting. I had truly been possessed with a sprit of occasion. I see people climbing on bus stops, clambering up the statue in the centre of Bastille, I see people almost violently joyous about the arrival of the new president.
I’m brushed against 5 people at the same time, the smells not great, I can’t hear what’s going on and I’m struggling to read the subtitles on the screen. I start to talking to my fellow crowdsmen and excitedly awaiting the next person to speak. I discover that the words “Hollande, République, liberté, gagné et France” send the crowd wild and find myself doing the same.
Despite the lack of clarity, the jolting and jiving. The sea of people that created strong currents of movement pulled me along that night, and for whatever reason I found myself right inside the Socialist crowd.
