The Homemoaner’s holiday.
Bon jour! Recently, Melissa and I were lucky enough to connect ourselves to a to a tour group bound for Paris, France! As a public service to our readers, and with possible positive tax implications, I am using this column to dispel some myths and suggest some truths about Paris and Parisian culture.
MYTH #1: French Food is rich and delicious.
We love shopping, but since the dollar has no value at the moment, we chose to blow our budget on food. After all, we do, as our groaning bathroom scale will testify, like to eat, so where better to disregard our diets than in the countless bistros and restaurants of Paris?
An average block on a Paris street, Rue du Chapeau Hamborg for example, goes something like this: on the corner, a sidewalk café, next a patisserie (bakery) followed by a pied-à-terre and then an eyeglasses store. The next shop is usually an ethnic restaurant: Japanese, Senegalese, Thai , Moroccan, followed by a shop specializing in a product that is unclear and, unless you know the language (and we don’t), mysterious. Finally, back at the corner, another sidewalk café. Now and then, there is something called a “Tabac,” which is a place you go, not only to buy horrible French cigarettes, but virtually everything else necessary to survive in Paris: subway tickets, phone cards, tiny little cups of espresso, etc.
This layout means that you have a minimum of three dining opportunities on each block of the city. In order to complicate things, each dining establishment displays the bill of fare on a chalkboard propped up on the sidewalk. On the one hand, this makes it easy to scope out the individual restaurants, but on the other, not understanding the language, we often had to make our selections based on penmanship.
The results were often surprisingly disappointing. We had about twelve meals in restaurants and probably only three of them were even vaguely mind-altering. Yes the sauces were rich, the vegetables properly cooked, but the results often left us underwhelmed and on one occasion, exiled to the hotel room for a full day suffering from “Napoleon’s Revenge.”
MYTH # 2. All Parisian Women are Beautiful.
This is true. So are the men and the pets. The denizens of Paris all dress fabulously, never a hair out of place. We were there in still chilly March, and every living organism within the city limits, including houseplants, wore a scarf. Since I did not bring a scarf of my own, I tried to find a shop where a Parisian might purchase one. When in Rome, right? I could not, for any price, find a decent scarf. There were plenty of scarves for sale on the street, but most of them were manufactured, off shore, for the tourist trade. I never once saw a Parisian wearing a scarf that said “J’taime Paris.” Not once. Also: there are no fat people in Paris. I tried to find one but the only one I could find was in the mirror.
MYTH #3. The French Make Bad Cars
Here’s the thing. The French took a bad political hit a few years back. It got so we started renaming things like French Toast, “Freedom Toast,” (The French call it Toast.) I think we might learn a lot from the French when it comes to national pride. The French try not to buy non-French goods. This is nowhere more prevalent than on the streets of Paris. Peugeot. Renault. Citroën. These are brands that prevail on French bumpers. While they have Toyotas, Hondas, Nissans – even Fords – the French buy French and they also buy small. Gas is really expensive. There seemed to be endless models of tiny little cars that have no trouble dodging around confused tourists in crosswalks. Easily 85 percent of the cars in Paris are French made.
Even the subways, which are efficient, safe and run on rubber wheels, are of French design. Are they badly engineered? I can’t say, but maybe we could learn something. I’m just saying.
Final MYTH: The Parisians are Rude
I was ready for this, but a seasoned tourist told me to remember to say hello to everyone I meet. In the shop: Bon Jour! In the street: Bon Jour! Bump into someone: Pardon! Someone does something for you: Merci!
Storekeepers love money. Anyone’s money, but when the little bell rings over the door, the first thing they say is, Bon Jour. Not “may I help you?” If the first thing out of your mouth is “How much is this?,” you have broken a cultural expectation. It is so easy to be polite. I believe Parisians have gotten this rude reputation based on their reaction to rude tourists.
More than once we were helped by passing strangers who spoke far better English than our paltry French. As long as we said “Bon jour,” up front, and “Merci,” on the way out, all of the Parisians we met were helpful, friendly, scarf-wearing people.
Non, c’est le tourist, with their backward baseball caps and t-shirts that read “I’m With Stupid.” With their flip flops flapping, their cameras flashing and their voices raised on the principle that, louder is easier to understand, it is they who are rude. And it’s embarrassing. There I said it.
Like our trip to Paris, I have run out of time. Merci.
Combien d'argent? WOW!
