The French revolution’s kick off is celebrated every 14 July with a very long (televised) military parade on the Champs Elysées [stifled yawn]. Good old Chirac showing off his tank and plane collection. Boys will be boys.
The ‘festivities’ start the night before with firemen’s balls [insert double entendre here] held in fire stations nationwide. These are allegedly a good place to pull if:
a) you can stand the distressing music (think bad wedding dj and multiply by a cringe factor of 10),
b) you are partial to being groped by lairy, pissed Frenchmen, and
c) you are not too worried about someone puking on your shoes.
The next day Paris will smell even more strongly of urine than usual, as to a Frenchman, heavy drinking = a licence to relieve himself anywhere he chooses. If you are lucky, he will turn his back before he gets his hose out and your feet will not be on the receiving end of an unwelcome golden shower.
I’m at a loss to explain how any of this is related to the storming of the Bastille.
Personally, as the babysitter and her Dior handbag [more about her another time] have gone on an extended holiday I have a watertight excuse not to get involved in the ‘revelry’…