My French neighbor—who delivers wisdom with the same nonchalance he uses to park in microscopic spaces—told me, “En France, il y a une révolution tous les six mois.” I believed him. I mean, this is a country that invented both crème brûlée and the barricade.
So when someone mentioned la bloquée (did I spell that right? I’m still workshopping my accents), I braced for drums, flags, and improvised poetry. I walked to French school in the morning like an intrepid reporter: notebook ready, eyebrows at “serious.” I noticed… the buses were running. The boulangerie was open. The croissants were flaky. But the school down the street was closed.
“Ah-ha,” I thought, “the revolution is very… punctual?”
Spoiler: I later learned some students simply don’t have school on Wednesday mornings. (France is delightfully committed to balance: childhood, culture, and the important work of eating snacks.)
Meanwhile, classmates whispered about a bigger police presence downtown. I did a quick diagnostic:
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Buses running? ✅
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Boulangerie open? ✅
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Sirens symphonic? ❌
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My neighbor carrying a placard? ❌ (He was carrying a baguette, which, to be fair, can also be used as a pointer in spirited debates.)
Conclusion: La révolution est en pause. Possibly on a coffee break.
What I thought “la bloquée” meant vs. what France meant
Me (A1-level dramatic): The country is gloriously barricaded!
France (calmly): There may be a grève (strike), a manif (demonstration), or a blocage (blockade) somewhere. Or perhaps it’s Wednesday.
In practice, “bloqué(e)” can mean “blocked” (a road, a campus, a gate). It doesn’t automatically mean flaming barrels and a chorus of the Marseillaise, though I confess that’s the movie in my head.
A tiny field guide for fellow étrangers
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Check the holy trinity:
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Bus (if it’s rolling, society persists),
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Boulangerie (if it’s open, civilization persists),
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Neighbors (if they shrug, all will be well).
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Words you’ll hear (pocket vocab):
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La grève = strike
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La manif = demonstration/march
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Le blocage / être bloqué(e) = blockage / to be blocked
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Le cortège = the procession of a demonstration
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Le préavis de grève = strike notice (heads-up before the heads-up)
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Le service minimum = minimum service (e.g., some buses still run)
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Etiquette 101:
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Say bonjour and keep it friendly; you’re a guest at France’s national hobby: having principles in public.
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Don’t cross a peaceful march to shave 30 seconds off your route. (You’ll live. Your pastry won’t get cold. Probably.)
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If in doubt, ask: “Excusez-moi, est-ce que c’est bloqué par ici ?” Smiles help. So does a baguette, for camouflage.
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My Aix-en-Provence reality check
On my “revolution morning,” I walked home with a pain au chocolat and the distinct feeling I had successfully participated in French civil society by not panicking. The buses hummed, my boulangerie sold me hope in laminated dough, and the closed school taught me the most French lesson of all: context matters. Schedules, strikes, seasons—everything has a rhythm here. And sometimes that rhythm is mercredi.
So yes, maybe there is a revolution every six months. But between uprisings, we take the bus, chat with the boulangère, and learn enough vocabulary to avoid accidentally chanting “Vive la brioche!” in a crowd.
Until the next bloquée (or Wednesday), I’ll be in class in the mornings, listening for sirens, and declaring any day with open bakeries a victory for the Republic of Breakfast.
Your turn: Have you ever misdiagnosed a Wednesday as a revolution? Drop your story (and your best “bloqué(e)” survival tip) below. Bonus points if pastry was involved.