Being Parisian – One Week at a Time

It’s early morning, before 7 am, and the city is coming alive before my eyes. I’m sitting in the window of the Café Kleber, in the highbrow Passy district, within eyesight of the Trocadero and the glorious Tour Eiffel. As I sip my café noir I gaze across the street at the Cimeterie Passy, final resting place for many residents of this 16th arrondissement neighborhood, including noted Impressionists Edouard Manet and Berthe Morisot. I suddenly get a twinge of jealousy. Imagine that, jealous of dead people! And why? Because they did something I’ll never achieve. Their birthright included being able to live out their lives in this “City of Lights.” My dream is to do the same, but with no ability to speak the language beyond the niceties or tolerate the rigid social order required of most Parisians, I’ll be relegated to annual trips where I play Parisian for a week.

I’ve been told not to judge the French by the behavior of the denizens of Paris. Would I want foreigners visiting, say, New York City to judge all Americans by their experience with New Yorkers? No way. On my early trips to Paris I definitely had multiple incidents with rude hotel clerks, waiters (regardless what you were taught in high school French, NEVER use the word garcon when attempting to flag down a waiter), and shopkeepers. But through subsequent visits, I realized two things that changed my opinion on whether the French in general and Parisians in particular dislike Americans. The answer is a resounding non.

First, if one makes even the most basic attempt at speaking French - a bonjour when entering and exiting an establishment, addressing all by Monsieur, Madame, or Mademoiselle, and saying si vous plait and merci boucoup ad naseum – you will experience something foreign to many tourists: actual politeness. Secondly, it became clear to me as I paid attention to how Parisians interact that unless there is some pre-existing relationship, they are generally unfriendly to each other. So my advice to American tourists: stop lying about being Canadian and get a thicker skin – Parisians hate everyone, even each other. And yes, they do have a superiority complex. Justifiably I might add.

If I was Parisian I too would feel superior by virtue of being blessed to live in such a magnificent city. People plan a lifetime to visit sites in Paris that locals can take advantage of on a whim. Imagine being able to stop off at the Musee D’Orsey after work, take your noontime lunch to the Place Des Vosges or the Luxembourg Gardens, worship at Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur, jog or picnic in the Bois de Boulogne. In addition there are the countless restaurants, cafes, brasseries, wine bars, boulangeries, patisseries. Your favorites notwithstanding, someone will recommend a better one, and more times than not they’ll be right.

So I no longer have universal contempt for Parisians, but I still have pet peeves about Parisian life. Order a soft drink in a Paris café and the waiter will bring you a room temperature bottle or can and a small empty glass. Request ice and he’ll bring you a single small ice cube, two max. Request more and you’ll get another small ice cube. I guarantee you, no matter how unsatisfied you are with this miniscule amount of ice, you will not, I repeat, will not, request more unless you speak fluent French and have a particular affinity for public confrontation. Also in café’s, no matter how devoid of customers, they will never sit a party of two at a table for four, even if you request it. Café tables are best described as less than “postage stamp” size, and not every café encounter is one of romantic leanings, with leaning being the operative word. And speaking of postage stamps, most Tabac’s (small cafes that Parisians frequent for cigarettes, stamps, phone cards, etc) will not sell you stamps from Saturday afternoon through Sunday evening. There’s no law prohibiting the sale of postage stamps on weekends, but I went into four different establishments (there’s one on virtually every block or so) before encountering a person who understood that I wasn’t expecting mail to go out that weekend and therefore sold me stamps. Still, it felt like an illicit purchase, a postal French connection of sorts.

Wherever I travel I like to get the feel of the city in as non-touristy way as possible. As such, I’ve never ridden to the top of the Eiffel Tower, never taken a bateau excursion down the Seine, nor attended a burlesque show in Montmarte. However, no matter how much one truly believes they can fit in like a local, there will be instances that’ll prompt one back to reality and remind one of what they really are: the dreaded “T” word – tourist. For example, take my supermarket experience. The typical Paris supermarkets, with names like Casino and Monoprix, are slightly larger than a 7-11 store. The checkout routine is similar to that of any market in North America except there is no greeting, smile or small talk from the checker. I grab a small cart and saunter down the narrow aisles looking for particular products to bring home. I place these goods on the conveyor, the checker scans the items, requests the appropriate euros, gives me change, and then proceeds to stare me down. I assume her disdain is really directed at the box boy who’s nowhere in sight until I realize that I’m the box boy! I know this only because the customer behind me angrily motions in a series of hand signs indicating I must bag my own groceries. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Safeway any more.

One tourist area I make a special effort to steer clear of, the Champs Elysees, always conjures up dark images for me. This is due, in equal parts, to the famous photo from World War II of Nazi troops triumphantly marching down the wide boulevard towards the Place de la Concorde, and, the fact a Chili’s restaurant once sat near the corner of Avenue George V. Thankfully, it is no longer there, but I cannot shake this hideous vision from my mind. As a seasoned traveler, I fully expect to find the likes of McDonalds, Wendy’s and Burger King on every continent, but to find a Chili’s in Paris truly boggled my mind. Just who would’ve dined there? The Parisians live amongst the absolute finest in haute cuisine in the world, with literally thousands of choices. I can’t imagine any self-respecting Parisian coming home and saying to their spouse, “ Mon cheri, where should we go to dinner tonight? Tallivent, Le Dome, or Chili’s!” And if Billy Bob and Bobbi Sue come to Paris and dine at Chili’s, one must wonder why they didn’t merely go to Las Vegas, have their picture taken in front of the faux Eiffel Tower, and tell the folks back home what a wonderful time they had at “Paris.” Or stretch the truth even further and go to Paris, Texas. There’s a Chili’s there too.

As smitten as I am with Paris, it’s far from perfect. Travelers must be cautious in certain neighborhoods and guard their possessions in the Metro. Even though I’ve done my best to blend in (I consistently get asked for directions in French) I’ve had a couple of “incidents” in the Metro, which isn’t all that bad since I’ve ridden the Paris subway literally hundreds of times. If you look like a tourist (a camera around your neck, wearing a T-shirt depicting some festival in Omaha or the like) you’ll attract unwanted attention. Pick pocketing is a career choice in Paris, and for all I know it is organized and provides union benefits. I’ve known people who’ve had their wallets lifted from their pockets and purses without even a bump. And although panhandlers can be found in every Metro station and on every train, their style, by American urban standards, is not aggressive. That’s reserved for the pickpockets.

After each visit to Paris I convince myself to venture to other parts of Continental Europe. Within a couple of month of returning home I’ll start to research other destinations. I’ll spend countless hours on the Internet, gathering reams of paper on high priority destinations such as Venice, Innsbruck, Austria and Basel, Switzerland. I’ll also consider returning to other favored cities like Milan and Amsterdam, placing them in the mix for the next trip. But I’m only fooling myself. I’ll inevitably end up back in Paris, making the Café Kleber home base for a week. Alas, after seven trips the waiters finally recognize me and are moderately friendly. I’ll watch the vibrant city live and breathe. I’ll search out previously unexplored slices of the city, finding those recommended restaurants and shops that will no doubt be better than previous favorites. I’ll bag my own groceries at the Monoprix, buy stamps no later than Saturday morning, and continue the dream of being Parisian. Garcon, more ice si vous plait!