As the glow of the sun burns the last crisp notes from June air, we know that summer has officially begun. With this season comes the promise of plentiful opportunity to be outside. No matter what ville you call home, the influx of festival season is a time to congregate with the surrounding population and enjoy the fruits of summer.

Reuillois, as the inhabitants of Rueil Malmaison are called, amassed last weekend for the occasion of a European Jazz Festival. Being the first festival I’ve had the pleasure to experience since taking up residence here, I was anxious to show my support.

Lured by the quaint feeling of a village, contained within the limits of a city only 15 km from grandiose Paris, Stéphane and I didn’t hesitate to endorse the contract for our apartment after only having had one look inside. Situated equidistant from both the centre ville and train station, travel by foot is an appealing 10 minute walk to either destination. Hop on a bicycle and you’ll hardly break a sweat travelling between cities. Such is the way I spent my weekend; racing to and fro, I divided my time between the Dixieland Jazz Festival and an Arts de la Rue Festival in the neighbouring town of Nanterre.

The festivities kicked off Friday afternoon, welcoming troupes of performers and bands of musicians from all walks of Europe. I donned my favourite green sundress with oversized shades and made my way to the action. With outdoor stages scattered in choice locations throughout Rueil, I had my pick of music. Through a commercial passage, nestled outside the library, the Six City Stompers were warming up their instruments. Mothers with babies in tow swayed to the upbeat notes played by this young Danish band. Outside the Eglise, another temporary stage had been assembled. A local Patisserie lined its side with café tables and offered a menu of coffee and sweets with which to wash down your jazz. I was handed a ballot and asked to cast my vote for the band I deemed most worthy.

Each group apported a repertoire of classics: Louis Armstrong among others from the dawn of New Orleans’ Dixie Land Jazz movement. My mother, a Louisiana native, instilled in me a love of the Creole culture, and the music vibrated with a resonance of familiarity after the many visits I’ve played to belle New Orleans and her Jazz Festival. The second day of the festival closed with a Claude Bolling Big Band concert in the confines of the Bois Préau, our lavishly wooded park. The mature crowd lay on a blanket of luxurious green grass, united by an appreciation for melodies such as those composed by jazz great Duke Ellington as the sun set on Rueil.

Sunday was the decisive day for the talents who participated; winners nominated by public votes and those cast by a panel of judges would be awarded for their excellence. Spain's Mister Dixie Jazz Band stole the premier prix with their meilleur performance. The festivities kicked off with a parade that began at the church, snaked its way through town, and concluded at the park. After taking up post on a street corner opposite the Marie, I watched the parade bustle past. Not satisfied with a small dose, I cosied up to the horn section and joined the procession. Families in upstairs apartments took pause from dejeuner, framed by large open windows they danced in place. A percussionist without drum set instead tapped his rhythm on the light posts that strategically lined the parade route. And, at the head of the procession marched the Mayor, in striped official sash, squatty top hat and miniature umbrella, which he twirled in the manner of a NOLA stepper. At his side, the festival organiser directed the motley orchestra and scratched on a whimsical corrugated metal necktie.

Overpowered by sun and the heat that it generated, I pedalled home to rehydrate. After a brief pause I was out the door, headed in the opposite direction. I entered Nanterre through port of the Sunday market. Never short of glittery Moroccan goods at attractive prices and a wealth of fresh fruits and vegetables, I was only briefly distracted by the affairs that were being hawked. As I coasted down the cobbled streets, a skyline peopled by a larger-than-life foam population floated weightlessly overhead. Outside the park, various troupes had arranged their affairs and advertised approaching shows. A crazy kitchen-scape caught my eye, and I vowed to catch a glimpse of their spectacle when the hour arrived. With a promenade around the park I began the visual feast.

A couple danced robotically to the playful chant of Serge Gainsborough, noses pressed into newspapers with Mr. Magoo frame glasses propped on their noses. Behind the tulip-encrusted banks of a pond, a makeshift boxing ring was the setting for a melodrama. A man stuffed into woman’s clothes perched on a ladder top beckoned to a stringy super hero for her rescue to illicit the audience’s laughter. The scent of fresh waffles doused in whipped cream perfumed the air, and sticky fingered children grasped stems of barb a papa, Santa’s beard as the French call sugary cotton candy. Sitting on a red leather couch beneath shade trees was a suited character with a playing die for a head.

The art festival succeeded in creating an air of fantasy. As I exited the park, I was followed by a deadpan Mozart riding a mechanical grand piano adorned by a pirouetting ballerina. I waved adieu to the acrobats overhead, making their graceful vertical ascent, knowing that I would have to wait another year to experience the magic of a weekend such as this.