Work in progress
The early years of glorious chaos
La Bande 68 covers a very special slice of my history — officially from 1968 to 1975, but unofficially it has lasted more than sixty years, which is more than many marriages can claim. Some friendships started ridiculously early: for example, Patrick L. and I first met in primary school in 1959, when our biggest worry was probably who stole whose marbles.
Fast forward a few years and the whole gang somehow converged at the Lycée Corneille de La Celle-Saint-Cloud. This was ambitious, considering the lycée itself wasn’t quite finished when we arrived. For a while we were nomadic students, shipped off to various buildings in neighbourhoods where someone had found a spare classroom or broom cupboard for us. Finally, in 1967, we were released into the shiny new lycée. That’s where the core of what would become the mighty Bande de 1968 truly formed — in the legendary Form 2C. (The “C” was for science, though some might argue it really stood for chaos.)
A few of us lived close together, practically within shouting distance, but distance didn’t matter anyway: we all had mopeds. These noble machines allowed us to cross town with the grace and elegance of teenagers who believed themselves immortal. We could meet anywhere, anytime, and at speeds that would horrify our parents today.
Our headquarters — our Pentagon, if you like — was a small wooden cabin in Sem’s parents’ garden. We had a routine, almost a ritual. After school — and occasionally instead of school — we’d stop at one of the two local épiceries, both of which generously allowed our families unlimited credit. There we stocked up on bottles of Coca-Cola (I genuinely don’t remember if “Coke” was a thing yet), milk chocolate bars, and baguettes. Gourmet dining, Bande 68 style.
The cabin had a proud name: La Chaumine. Inside were bunk beds, a stereo, and a legendary coffee table that survived outrageous alcohol-burning experiments that really should have landed us in hospital. (More on that later — assuming the statute of limitations has expired.)
We listened to music — loud music. The Doors, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and anything else we could get our hands on. Bread and chocolate tasted divine, and since we were all smokers at the time, the air inside the cabin quickly turned into a fog thick enough to land an aircraft. Things got even denser when we decided we were sophisticated enough to smoke pipes. Spoiler: we weren’t.
We also had an important scientific document pinned to the wall near the door: the Homologation Chart. All the boys’ names ran down the left side, and next to each name, the list of girls they had kissed. For an entry to be “homologated”, it required a minimum of two long French kisses — and at least one witness. No kiss, no witness, no glory. We had standards.
We always looked forward to going to La Chaumine. People drifted in and out like a teenaged tide, but there was always someone there. It was our territory, our pride, our warm smoky nest.
And then, like clockwork, the evening finale: a knock on the door followed by Sem’s mother calling out in Norwegian:
“Sem, det er på tide at vennene dine går hjem. Du må gjøre leksene dine.”
We didn’t understand a word of it, but we knew exactly what it meant: The party was over — until tomorrow.
May 68
(Work in progress)
(Notes: Ecole Pasteur, Mai 68, Trips to Norway, To buy or not to “buy”, Honda,m the first cars etc )
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