National pride is a palpable thing in France. The suburban hotel, just outside the city of Grenoble, displayed regional products in a glass case—Chartreuse, honey, and another food product that was probably spreadable, but unfamiliar to me. The cars are smaller, the bike lanes and footpaths more generous and prolific; the attitude towards being outdoors feels very different, maybe it’s a function of the general pace of life. I do not recall encountering a single French person who was in a noticeable rush to go anywhere, and besides the rude driver in the Audi who cut me off while biking, I did not hear a single car horn.
I wonder how many French people consider these markers of their culture—the pace of everyday life, the way they interact with others in public, the methods they use to get around, the things they spend their Euros on. As an outsider, a foreign visitor, I felt a degree of intentionality that was new and unusual. Perhaps it was the jet lag.
During our trip, there were precisely two French people who struck up a conversation with me, showing more than cool and polite indifference. While waiting in queue for the water closet, an older man asked where I was from.
“Seattle.” I said. He was confused.
“Wash-ing-ton… Washington State… See-at-ull.”
He nodded knowingly; now he was following. The older Frenchman explained that most people in his country learn English by reading, and so Seattle, to them, is See-ah-tell. I said farewell and joined our group at the launch area.
Another afternoon, I took a scooter and went looking for lunch. I happened upon a shop near the hotel that sold pastry, bread, and coffee. I pointed to a sandwich labeled La Parisian—a baguette with meat, cheese, and a few pickles. The young woman at the register could tell I was a foreigner and launched right into questions.
“Oh, yes… I am American. From where? See-ah-tell.”
Her eyes widened. I could tell she had more questions. She asked what I thought about the mountains that surrounded us, a questions I didn’t expect, but was delighted to answer. I put my hand on my chest:
“It is beautiful here… your country, the landscape—it’s amazing. I love it.”
I told her I was here on a flying trip and she encouraged me to be safe. In France, everyone knows what paragliding is—parapente (pronounced par-A-pont)—because it was invented in their country. Another customer walked into the shop, but her interest was still fixed on our conversation. She asked what I did in See-ah-tell and I said that I was a writer. You can change your occupation when you’re on vacation.
The alpine countryside is peppered with little towns and villages, connected by winding and well-maintained roads. The places we drove to in rented Renault vans showed no signs of neglect or decay; the buildings were rarely fancy in appearance, often historic and old, but visibly improved over time, modernized. I wondered if the landscape and grandeur that surrounded every home and every vista played a role in national and local pride, if appreciation of natural beauty motivated and inspired the French people.
We flew from Alpine peaks—over towns and lakes, through valleys, along ridges and rock faces, above forests. I am becoming more comfortable in the air, there’s more bandwidth for planning and communicating; I am no longer a beginner, but steadily, slowly progressing as an intermediate pilot. In flying, like writing, mastery is a moving target, a continual process, an pursuit that requires time, attention, and guidance.
A friend of mine—Maddy—is working on a piece about community, from the perspective of women, in a sport that is male-dominated. Paragliding, like all air sports, is also dangerous. Recently, a high profile pilot died after an incident during a competition, which has shaken the community. There were two other intermediate pilots in our group—my friends Kay and Hakan—the three of us are not anywhere near international competitors, but we love this endeavor enough to take safety seriously, to fly in a manner that is aligned with how we were trained.
The final days of our trip coincided with the Coupe Icare—a multi-day festival celebrating flight. We sat near the launch at St. Hilaire and watched a trio of planes perform acrobatic maneuvers. The announcer spoke in French as soaring music played. I felt a wave of emotion, like I was witnessing something rare and beautiful, surrounded by a crowd of people who were similarly dazzled, deeply proud of their country’s history with flight, spending the day with friends and family celebrating alongside paragliders and planes adorned with red, blue, and white. I thought about what it means to be proud of where you’re from, how being in a community is a deeply human need, but increasingly rare in the non-digital spaces of our lives.
I waited to board the first leg of the journey home, sitting in Geneva, next to a member of our group, a long-time, accomplished pilot. He complained—the trip wasn’t what he expected, there were too many beginners for his taste. He wished he could have done more epic flying, that the radio would’ve been quieter, with less real-time instruction.
We flew from Geneva to Amsterdam and then back to Seattle. I decided to keep the seat back screen off and finished the book I’d been reading, and then started another. Sitting on the plane, I thought about our last day, how Kay wondered aloud if she’d been misguided in offering advice to the brand new pilots who we flew with, if she’d overstepped in some way by giving feedback on their flights, particularly when they made questionable choices in the air. Mentoring less experienced pilots, offering constructive feedback, building trust in the air and on the ground feels fundamental and necessary. We worry for them—we’ve been doing this long enough to see the cost of mistakes. You were right to give them advice, they are safer for it; they thanked you, rightly so.
We are fortunate to have friends and instructors who care about us, and the community we are in together as pilots—I am proud to be a member.