LES CHAMPS-ÉLYSÉES
(music by Michael Wilshaw, French lyrics by Pierre Delanoë) performed by Joe Dassin
Je m'baladais sur l'avenue le coeur ouvert à l'inconnu
J'avais envie de dire bonjour à n'importe qui
N'importe qui et ce fut toi, je t'ai dit n'importe quoi
Il suffisait de te parler, pour t'apprivoiser
Aux Champs-Elysées, aux Champs-Elysées
Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées
Tu m'as dit "J'ai rendez-vous dans un sous-sol avec des fous
Qui vivent la guitare à la main, du soir au matin"
Alors je t'ai accompagnée, on a chanté, on a dansé
Et l'on n'a même pas pensé à s'embrasser
Aux Champs-Elysées, aux Champs-Elysées
Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées
Hier soir deux inconnus et ce matin sur l'avenue
Deux amoureux tout étourdis par la longue nuit
Et de l'Étoile à la Concorde, un orchestre à mille cordes
Tous les oiseaux du point du jour chantent l'amour
(x 3)
Aux Champs-Elysées, aux Champs-Elysées
Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées
J'avais envie de dire bonjour à n'importe qui
N'importe qui et ce fut toi, je t'ai dit n'importe quoi
Il suffisait de te parler, pour t'apprivoiser
Aux Champs-Elysées, aux Champs-Elysées
Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées
Tu m'as dit "J'ai rendez-vous dans un sous-sol avec des fous
Qui vivent la guitare à la main, du soir au matin"
Alors je t'ai accompagnée, on a chanté, on a dansé
Et l'on n'a même pas pensé à s'embrasser
Aux Champs-Elysées, aux Champs-Elysées
Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées
Hier soir deux inconnus et ce matin sur l'avenue
Deux amoureux tout étourdis par la longue nuit
Et de l'Étoile à la Concorde, un orchestre à mille cordes
Tous les oiseaux du point du jour chantent l'amour
(x 3)
Aux Champs-Elysées, aux Champs-Elysées
Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit
Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées
Everything about what I'm about to write feels obnoxiously privileged, but it's the facts, so here goes: I'll be turning fifty next weekend, and when Dave asked me how I want to celebrate it, I told him that the last thing I'd want is a bunch of people coming over, singing while I blush and wait to blow out the candles on my cake like a six-year-old. When it comes right down to it, I said, I'd much rather go away for the weekend than have a party. Because I work in retail and this is the busy time, I felt really lucky to have my request for the weekend off approved, and when the schedule came out for this week, I was surprised to see that they had incidentally given me a three day weekend; as a matter of fact, I was scheduled for three days off, one on, then three more off - trade away that one shift and I'd have six days off in a row - and that's enough to really go somewhere. That accomplished, Dave asked where I'd want to go if I could go anywhere, and I chose Paris. We leave tomorrow.
This has me over-the-moon with delight and gleeful anticipation, but it feels like such an obnoxiously absurd way to celebrate a birthday. I ended up telling a couple of managers at work that I would be going to Paris because it will, obviously, get back to them - they were both open-mouthed with surprise but very happy for me - but not many of my coworkers really know; I don't know how to casually mention it to my fellow minimum wage, part-time employees who are running off their feet with exhaustion this time of year; there's no way to make it sound not obnoxious. I guess they'll put it together when they see my selfies from the Champs-Elysées on Facebook. (Gosh, I feel like a brat saying that.)
I chose this as my song this week because my daughter was singing along to it (terribly) not long ago (she really only got the à midi ou à minuit part right), and I put that picture of me with my brothers up there because they came over the other night to sing to me while I blushed and waited to blow out the candles on my cake like a six-year-old. When I tried to protest this plan, Dave insisted that I was going to have to have my cake and eat it too. How obnoxious.
