A personal Magic Kingdom invaded

Most of us, if we are lucky, have one place in our lives we have seen that exceeds all expectations, that we keep in our minds like an escape hatch from the dreary routine of daily existence or failed dreams. France is mine, a personal Magic Kingdom. I know, I know. It's not perfect, never has been. But where else do you find a bakery every few paces and books sold in vending machines? Where else are meringues the size of catcher's mitts and city streets washed three times a day?
I was nearly 40 before I made a real visit to France. Once before, I had boarded the hovercraft in Dover and crossed the Channel to Calais, but that experience lasted only hours. I count as the first real time a three-day solo adventure in 1989. I was on assignment in Holland, but took the train to Paris for Bastille Day.
I made every mistake a rookie traveler can make in a place where you don't know a soul and don't speak the language. I used what little I remembered of textbook French from Auburn 20 years earlier, butchering my host country's language. But I found the French helpful and tolerant of my timid attempts at communication, contrary to what I'd always heard they would be. I was smitten.
I watched the Bastille Day parade on the Champs-Elysees, looking skyward as French military planes stitched the sky with red, white and blue contrails, and at my feet as children threw cherry bombs. The famous French joie de vivre was on display, ambitious teens improving their vantage by climbing into trees, adults kissing one another on public streets.
I had read somewhere it was best to arrive early for the fireworks. I was told to watch out for pickpockets, the only potential danger anyone ever mentioned.
I was at the Eiffel Tower by 3 p.m., carrying no money and with hours to wait before dark. It made for a long, dry afternoon, but it was worth it.
Never before or since had I witnessed such a spectacle. The grounds at the base of the tower slowly filled with people, and the fireworks were orchestrated with music that seemed to have a heavenly source. The grand finale lit the sky in time to "Jumpin' at the Woodside."
The crowd went wild. Then the crowd went home.
I've been back to France since, but something about that first dreamy trip tattooed me. I've celebrated Bastille Day, July 14, in some small way ever since, no matter where I happened to be. Good friends often laugh, but indulge me as I throw parties in Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia, all in the name of France and fun. Pale imitations, true, but a salute to my favorite of our allies.
It breaks my heart that terror has struck again in France, that people gathered to celebrate freedom and life have been butchered by fanatical madness. No longer is a pickpocket the only danger that French fear.
I grieve, of course, when terrorism strikes our own country, killing innocent citizens and eroding the confidence we used to feel. Safety in numbers, remember that belief? So many shootings so many times have inured us to domestic violence. Today I grieve with my French friends who so warmly welcomed me to a country adept at cultivating good and beautiful things in this tough, ugly life. Viva la France, always.