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Oh, They Were So Very French

Among Americans, the French have a reputation for being rude, brusque, uncooperative and inhospitable. In fact, the American movie "French Kiss" is loosely based on the belief that France is not necessarily a safe place for single young American tourists.

I wonder what kind of reputation Americans have among the French.

I had a wonderful time in France. I was only there for four days, and only in Paris for that. I stayed in a two star hotel that was neat as a pin. I had coffee and croissants and yogurt for breakfast every morning care of my hotel, even though I got up late almost every morning. The coffee and the croissants were excellent, and I was even able to get honey for my yogurt, once "bzzz bzzz" was translated into something the waitress could understand.

I found the French to be uniformly helpful Ð although they did not uniformly speak English. I can say perhaps five things in French: If you please; do you speak english; thank you very much; good day and good evening. I found that with that much French, people were smiling and willing to extend themselves, even if they knew only a little English.

Now, lest you think I am a pretty young thing that would be swarmed with well wishers where ever I go, my fragile ego aside, I should tell you that I am a matronly 40 year old woman with the figure of an Indian squaw Ð whom I happen to be descended from. I have a youngish face and a warm smile, but that's about it. None-the-less, even I felt beautiful in France. The men were flirtatious, the women were sweet, and everyone seemed to be carrying themselves with an unhurried grace from one place to the next. In France, people do not frantically rush from one point to another as they do in the US. They stroll.

Jessica, my hostess, and I sat on the steps of the Louvre and people watched. The Americans were easy to pick out of the crowd. They were out of pace with the rest of the traffic, hurrying around it. They spoke loudly enough that their conversations could be overheard from a great distance. They wore brash, bright colors. The natives gave them a wide berth Ð as did we, after a time.

The first American tourist we met on the street was a young woman struggling to read a street map. For Americans, European streets are a nightmare, because we are used to having things clearly marked on the sidewalk corner Ð not tucked up on the sides of building under the awnings. We asked if we could help her and she backed away, frightened. "No," She said.

We offered a second time, explaining that we were tourists ourselves but we had gotten to know the neighborhood fairly well.

"NO!" she said. Well, after that we left her to her own devices. We learned the neighborhood by asking people for help every couple of blocks. We couldn't help but wonder what her experience of Paris would be.

In Paris there was music everywhere. I suppose this is not quite so quaint as it sounds, because it is a form of begging. Musicians get onto subway cars, play music and pass their hats along the car until the next stop. But it does give the city a more magical air than the homeless begging in New York. I do not know the average income of these street musicians and whether or not they make enough to take care of themselves and their families. But they played their instruments quite well.

In Paris everything smells like something. The shops and cafés have their doors open and the street vendors have their wares in the open air. Walking down the street you will be surrounded by the smell of cooking chocolate, then of course magnificent bread, coffee, garlic sautés, ripe fruit, aged cheese, tobacco, flowers Ð and people; the people in France smell like people, not like soap or deodorant as Americans do.

There are little civilized differences between France and the US. In the US, when you buy strawberries, they will be either unripe Ð so as to be spotless, or arranged carefully spot side down. On the streets of Paris, I bought a bag full of ripe strawberries, and they had been carefully pared, spots and all, so they were perfect and ready for eating. We bought fruit and bread and cheese and had the most amazing lunch sitting on the lip of a fountain in the middle of a market Ð for a handful of coins. In the US we would have been eating bad burgers on a plastic bench.

Unless you're in Seattle, by the way, which is one of the few places that maintains a daily farmer's market in the middle of downtown, called Pike's Place Market. You can get good coffee, French bread, a bit of cheese and a handful of fruit there too. You can even sit in the park and eat your treasure overlooking Puget Sound. There are two slight drawbacks. The food won't be quite as good Ð aw who's complaining Ð and more importantly, you won't have the time, unless you're on vacation in the US. These little open air markets seemed to pop up everywhere in Paris. It was a way of life, not a special trip to the waterfront. Oh, and in that little park over looking Puget Sound, you will be surrounded by homeless people who won't be playing music.

We had a café that became our regular haunt. The waiter loved us Ð he said we were his favorite customers. This despite the fact that we tended to stay at our table for three hours at a stretch Ð Jessica and I never ran out of things to talk about. His pleasure in our company might also have had something to do with the fact that we tipped him 15% on top of the 15% gratuity that was automatically figured into our bill. We didn't know.

I sprained my ankle mildly and the woman at the front desk of our hotel wrote out instructions in French for us to take to the "chemist" to get something for the swelling. The chemist was very helpful, and got us just the thing Ð an unusual topical cream that had something like Tylenol in it. May have been aspirin for all I know, but it worked.

There is something called the French Paradox, which is the wonder that the rest of the world has about why the French can eat and drink such rich foods and stay so slender Ð well it didn't seem any great secret to me. A couple of days on their subway system practically did me in. Flights and flights of stairs, just to change trains. At one point I was struggling with my suitcase up three flights of stairs and a sweet gentleman behind me just picked it up and carried it to the top.

The French police helped us find our way through the city subway system to the train station. A sweet Frenchman offered to walk us to a post box when we asked his where we could mail a letter.

Towards the end of our stay, it felt like we were blending in a little bit. We knew how to use the subways and the toilets. We walked at the pace of the people around us. In fact, I looked so much like a local that, while I was standing in front of a café, waiting for Jessica to join me, a family of Americans shoved me aside without a word to get at the table I was standing in front of. (Mind you, there were a dozen other tables, but to be fair, this one was in the sun.) After having pushed me aside, the woman looked up at me and asked, in English, "Do you speak any English?"

I looked at her like I didn't know what she was talking about.

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