Le Grand Ballon Orange

Starting in the 1990s, I wrote for an Orange County, California newspaper that covered both current events and community businesses in and around Southern California.

This true story is of a Brazilian scion of a coffee plantation and his aerial feats that he accomplished over the city of Paris, France just before the turn of the 20th century.

This story was first published in 2004.

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Anyone who has driven north or south bound on California Highway 133 has seen it. That brightly colored oversized orange sphere east of the highway aptly named, The Great Park Balloon.

This French designed and manufactured helium balloon is permanently tethered to the ground, giving passengers a spectacular view of the surrounding landscape. Though the balloon is only allowed to float 500-feet in the wild blue yonder, the experience has attracted thousands and thousands of thrill-seekers.

Now let’s imagine for a moment that you’re back in Paris, France around 1899.

With the breeze at your back, you maneuver the world’s first homespun hydrogen dirigible with the aid of a 3 ? horsepower motor, equipped with a propeller and a steering rudder to the infamous Ratatouille’s 5-Star organic café for some brunch in downtown Paris.

While casting silent shadows onto the streets and rooftops of Paris below, you begin your descent by discarding 10-pound sandbags below; where hopefully no horse carriages or people are standing and staring.

You politely bellow down to the nearest Monsieur or Mademoiselle standing on the cobblestone streets, to grab hold of your trailing rope and tie-up your air-borne basket to the nearest gas-lamp post.

After carefully scrutinizing the charming menu, that was retrieved by lowering and raising a taut string attached to a straw-woven basket, you and your darling place an order to the well-rounded Master Chef, while bobbling ten-feet off the ground, marking histories first fly-thru restaurant;

“Oui Monsieur, Bonjour, Oui Monsieur, Oh … Oui… two orders of your eggs-benedicts, one sunny-side up, the other sunny side down with lightly toasted wheat bread with butter and marmalade jelly, minus the crust, and … a bottle of your vintage 1877 Domaine de la Grange Chardonnay on ice, with two of your exquisite long-neck crystal glasses and some additional napkins.”

“Oh and Monsieur, please, … please, will you send up a bottle of artesian water for my precious little four-legged Sabrina, she’s currently panting/signally that she’s a tad thirsty from the dry summer breeze.”

Sounds too Jules Verne or romantic to be true?

Well, it’s not.

Meet the dashing and debonair Alberto Santos-Dumont, a wealthy scion of a Brazilian coffee plantation grower, whose turn-of-the-century feats in the skies over Paris made him one of the most popular figures on both sides of the Atlantic.

Alberto would sashay his latest prototype dirigible high above the winding Seine, sail along the shores of the Mediterranean, skim over the towers of Norte Dame and glide in swirling figure eights around the Eiffel Tower.

Intent on building magnificent flying dirigibles for everyone, Alberto had envisioned that the friendly skies of the world would one day unite with the ground, oceans, and rivers as a viable means for commuting.

Being the toast of the civilized world, Alberto dined in fashion with some of Europe’s reigning King’s and Queens, including such international dignitaries as, the Rothschild’s, H. G. Wells, Thomas Edison, and Teddy Roosevelt.

Alberto’s dirigible prototypes eventually evolved into a heavy-than-air airplane. The Brazilian’s first successful flight of 37 feet in his incredible flying machine had been preceded by Orville Wright’s 12-second flight by almost three years.

The Wright Brothers had been so secretive of their initial flights, that the over-anxious French press erroneously placed a victory wreath around Alberto’s neck as the man who conquered the air.

The celebration of Alberto’s airplane feat, however, went plunging down like the Hindenburg, when news about Orville Wright’s powered-piloted flight at the wind-swept beaches of Kitty Hawk North Carolina finally made its way to France.

I plan on taking my family to the former El Toro Marine airfield here in Southern California, and take the vertical thrill ride on the beautiful, beautiful balloon minus our chihuahuas; as they’re not allowed onboard as per balloon committee regulations.

However, we’ll carefully pack a straw-woven basket fully equipped with some fresh homemade French croissants, a jar of marmalade jelly, plastic cups, plenty of napkins, and a bottle of cooled Perrier water.

When the le grand balloon orange extends itself up, up, and away to its 500-foot limit, we’ll pop open our Perrier and offer a 21-century toast to the memory and feats of Alberto Santos-Dumont, while pretending of course that we’re hitched to a gas-lamp post high over the rooftops of Paris, just north of Southern California’s 405 and 5 freeway interchange.