‘Named a Chevalier of the French Legion? Me?’ — Reporter’s Notebook.
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Version 0 of 1. It was the last day of 2013, another overcast winter’s day in London at the tail end of a busy year, so I was a bit groggy when I checked my Twitter feed. And I thought it was a joke: A French friend, Pierre Haski, congratulated me on being named a chevalier of the Légion d’honneur. I asked Pierre if he was just having me on. He sent along a link to the Journal Officiel, the newspaper that prints French government laws and decrees, and I saw that it was no joke. I had no idea I was even being considered, much less that the French Republic would stoop to give me such an honor. No one had said a word; no one had asked. I have been writing about the country for decades, and had been The New York Times’s Paris bureau chief until July 2013, writing about France the wonderful and France the appalling and France the real country of real people and real problems, before coming to England as the London bureau chief. I was pleased, of course, and checked with my bosses at The Times to make sure there was no issue in accepting what had been already announced. And then, I dawdled a bit. The Ordre National de la Légion d’honneur was established by Napoleon in 1802 to honor those military and civilians of special merit. The order has five degrees of distinction, with the President of France alone holding the highest rank. I, as a chevalier, or knight, now hold the lowest, which I was awarded for “30 years of service to journalism.” Some 75,000 people are chevaliers, most of them, of course, French. But it is not enough to be noted in the official newspaper; a ranking officer of the Legion must induct you in the name of the republic. Some distinguished artists like Clint Eastwood and Tom Hanks are awarded theirs by the President of France, as were the British businessman and three American friends, including two off-duty American soldiers, who overpowered a terrorist on a French train last August. Neither a movie star nor a sudden hero, I had to organize mine. So, finally on June 2, I had the great honor of being presented the medal by Jean-David Levitte, one of France’s greatest diplomats, who served as ambassador to the United States during the Iraq War, to the United Nations and as chief foreign-policy adviser to two French presidents, Jacques Chirac and Nicolas Sarkozy. I’ve known Mr. Levitte for years. During the Iraq War, when I was editor of the Culture section of The Times, I asked him if he would sit down with me and Matt Groening, the creator of “The Simpsons” and the author of the phrase “cheese-eating surrender monkeys” (les singes capitulards bouffeurs de fromage) for a conversation for the newspaper. Matt and Jean-David were willing. But the French foreign ministry, the Quai d’Orsay, somehow thought it was a bad idea. So it never happened. I was also touched that the American ambassador to France, Jane Hartley, was willing to host the ceremony at her residence for a small circle of friends and colleagues, French and American, including two other New York Times alumni who have won the award: John Vinocur, a former foreign correspondent and editor of The International Herald Tribune, and Elaine Sciolino, my predecessor as Paris bureau chief. Great Times correspondents, Alissa Rubin, Alison Smale, Adam Nossiter, Celestine Bohlen, Alan Riding and Marlise Simons came, too, and some distinguished members of the opposition, like Sophie Pedder of The Economist, Chris Dickey of The Daily Beast and Jon Randal of The Washington Post, and a former intern in the Paris bureau, Elvire Camus, now of Le Monde. Even the entrepreneurial chef, Alain Ducasse, came along. Then Stephen Dunbar-Johnson, the publisher of The International New York Times, and Mark Thompson, the chief executive of The Times who happened to be in Paris, took my wife and me and a few colleagues to dinner. I had, of course, to give a little speech, which was heartfelt. I spoke about France, the United States, and the power, rivalry and resilience of our alliance. I talked about how our countries are similar in their ambitions — both revolutionary, both arrogant, both presumptuous, both universalist, each certain that it is a “city on a hill,” a beacon to the other, more benighted peoples. I said that I was grateful to be a small part of the cherished, rivalrous, indispensable friendship between the two countries. Then we lifted our glasses and toasted with decent French champagne. |