Santa Cruz Sentinel, 1999 A Cretin in Paris By Barbara McKenna This story orignally appeared in the Santa Cruz Sentinel Travel Section.
To many, Paris is the City of Love but to me it will always be the City of Pigeons. Pigeons, in this city, are ubiquitous. Ask anyone who has ever tried to eat a baguette outside, and they will tell you. In fact, the main thing that distinguishes a native Parisian from a tourist is not the accent, but the baguette-eating strategy: Tourists are the ones who sit. I sat once. One minute I was there on this lovely bench, gazing dreamy eyed at the ornate buildings, the cobblestone streets, the majestic Seine; the next I was engulfed in a feathery cloud of carb-hungry demons. Ugly, aggressive, empty-eyed—they make the Notre Dame gargoyles seem like Euro-Disney poster children in comparison. After that experience I joined the ranks of the world-weary but wise Parisians. When I ate a baguette outside, I walked. ***** ***** ***** You speak. Your accent rears its ugly head. Poof—the look of waiterly disdain appears. You learn the truth in that moment. You are scum. Scum with a bad accent. My training ground for the French Waiter Treatment was a small Morrocan restaurant named, oddly enough, Oriental Feeling. When the waiter approached, I asked, in French, about the poisson du jour (translated on the menu as "Day Fish"). "What is the fish of the day today?" "C'est ça, madame, le poisson du jour." (It's just that, madame, the fish of the day.) "Yes, I know," in French, "but what is the fish of the day—what type of fish is it today." "Oh, c'est mulalalalala," he muttered with an annoyed look. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you." "C'est mulalalalala." "I don't recognize that word. Is there any other word for it?" By now I had annoyed the poor man beyond endurance. He contorted every muscle in his thin face into one colossal sneer. "Madame," he said, with an enormous sigh, "c'est le poisson du jour." "Bon, je l'aura." (Fine, I'll have it.) Well, the "Day Fish" turned out to be salmon. Most of the country refers to this as "saumon" (trust me, I made it a mission to find out). But apparently "mulalalalala" is the secret waiter word for it. I heard a few other secret waiter words that day—"idiot mulalalalala," "Americaine mulalalalala." The food was so good, not to mention the surprise bellydancing,
that we returned again. The next several times we arrived, the
waiter greeted us as if we were old friends. I wondered what changed
is attitude: Was it our compliments to the chef? Our persistent
friendliness? The large tip? ***** I can't begrudge the waiters their attitude really. Idiot foreigners in France are as epidemic as Mad Cow Disease in England. There was, for example, a friendly looking middle-aged woman I passed one day near the Moulin Rouge. I listened in illogical embarrassment (as if I were the one wearing polyester slacks and a clashing "World's Greatest Grandma " sweat-shirt) as she leaned in with a bright smile to a street vendor and asked, "Speak American?" To his mute look of annoyance she responded, in a much louder voice, "American? Speak?" I witnessed a number of people attempting to communicate in Shout-ese, mainly Americans and Germans. There seems to be some weird wiring in our brains telling us that communication is an act of physics: create enough volume and the meaning will simply penetrate the thick skulls of these obstinate foreigners. ***** There are almost more museums in Paris than ashtrays: Musee Rodin, L'Orangerie, Musee de la Monnaie, Musee Marmottan, Musee de Cluny, Musee Picasso. They all sounded remarkable, but, like most normal people, I can only take museums in little doses. The mere thought of the Louvre had my lids drooping and my feet aching. I did sit outside of it the day I twisted my ankle (hey! delicate ankles turn easily), and that was enough. Art by osmosis. The one museum I went to was the Musee d'Orsay. The entrance price of 40 francs ($8) seemed a little high, especially given my museum allergy, but once inside I had no complaints. Sculptures are tucked into every niche of the building— celebrating the beauty of the human body, the grace of motion, and, based on the number of busts of art patrons, the vanity of the rich. When I entered the Rodin courtyard I realized there is a difference between a great artist and a genius. Even Rodin's commissioned busts evoke character and life. And I stopped in my tracks when I encountered his sculpture of Balzac, which towered a good 20 feet above me. His flowing hair, the drape of his full-length robe, the confident posture, the handsome but amazingly prominent nose, gave an instant and intimate sense of the man—vain, charming, intelligent, powerful. I was also moved by the works of Degas. I'd always passed over his works, seeing nothing but a bunch of pale, fuzzy-looking ballerinas. But face-to-face with the pictures I saw curves, motion, beauty. His nudes are stunning and, while his fixation with butts is nothing uncommon, how he expresses it is. ***** Everything is smaller in France. The cute little cars, the sidewalks, the hotel rooms, the amount of fabric they use in women's pants. ***** Many of the structures in Paris and, I suspect, even many of the benches, flagpoles, and MacDonalds, are older than anything in America. But they're not only old, they were all made with an eye to beauty. Walking down the streets is like walking through a living, functional Louvre: Doorways, balconies, little bridges are all small works of art. One day I looked down while walking over the Seine and saw a 40-foot statue of a woman, her body turned inward toward the bridge support, her beautiful belly rounded and pouched in perfection, her expression soft and peaceful. No one on earth could see this part of her unless they happened to look down from my particular angle. I marveled at that—why build something to perfection that so few would see. After that I noticed many such places, beautiful but secret. ***** The French like to smoke. To a Californian, where smokers are relegated to dank little corners outside—50 feet from any walkway or entryway and usually next to noisy heating units—it's a shock to discover a place where one can find ashtrays not only in hotel lobbies and restaurants, but in bathrooms and elevators. I never walked into a place where I didn't have to peer through a thick cloud of gray smoke, but if I had, I would have immediately assumed I was in either an intensive care ward or a storage room for flammable materials. One day I attended a rehearsal by a local band that was going to perform on television that night. The studio was littered with ashtrays the size of toilet bowls, which were overflowing after only two hours of practice. During the dress rehearsal, one of the tech-guys thought it would be cool to flood the backstage with fog. He shot it out at the musical climax and, I'm sorry, but no one could tell the damned difference. ***** I moved midway through the trip from a very quiet French neighborhood in the Bercy (known to the hip as the 4e arrondisment) to Montmartre, three blocks away from the Moulin Rouge. Traffic, tourists, and the price of batteries all increased tenfold there. So did my supernatural encounters. My hotel room looked out over the Cimitiere Montmartre. At roughly 5 each morning I was awakened by the strangest sounds of granite scraping against granite. I would listen as first one, then two, then maybe, finally, five episodes of this granite-dragging sound occurred. Many artists are buried there—Zola, Dumas, Degas, Stendhal, Offenbach. Typical. You can never shut an artist up. ***** When I was there, there was talk of exhuming Jim Morrison's body from the Paris cemetery where he is buried. He attracts too much traffic, according to the caretakers and, apparently, his contract was about to, er, expire. You'd think a guy could get a break, at least in death. But. if he can't, I propose they invite Jim over to Montmartre— they're used to that kind of activity over there, day and night. ***** The French seem much more matter of fact about both death and sex. Cemeteries are tucked in neatly among (and below) the dwellings of the living; as is the Moulin Rouge—Paris's thriving red light district. During the day, mothers pushing strollers and elderly women with string bags full of groceries mix with men on the make. At night, well- heeled tourists coming to see the show at the Moulin Rouge mix with men on the make. In fact, just about everyone in Paris seems to mix with men on the make except for sex workers, who prefer to stand in doorways smoking and displaying their attractive tattoos. The Moulin Rouge is a mere two blocks from the cemetery. Block after block of buildings offer nude dancing and sex paraphernalia from every other doorway and in between are restaurants and the traditional shops—the bakery, butcher, poissonnerie (fish shop), fruit stands and, glorious shops dedicated entirely to chocolate. The fact that cemeteries, whorehouses, and chocolate shops thrive in such proximity was both disturbing and comforting to me. *****
The attitudes of French concerning sex were strikingly different from those of average Americans. "Monicagate/Zippergate/Cigargate" broke while I was in Paris. I caught a little of the American perspective from England's news channel, but heard much more from the French news channels. While Ted Koppel moralized, I heard more than one French commentator describe the situation as a tragedy. Not because Clinton had done anything wrong, but because the work of an outstanding leader was being undermined simply because he liked a little bootie on the side. I don't think the French thought so highly of Clinton as a leader until they found out about his kinky side. That news seems to have hoisted him in their esteem quite a bit. This makes sense. When Francois Mitterand died, both his wife and mistress attended the funeral. L'Evenement, a mainstream French magazine, featured Clinton on the cover that week. Spread across the cover is woman's underwear-clad torso, with a small Bill Clinton crucified onto her body, wearing an American flag loincloth and a pained expression. ***** Still, I preferred the Metro to the roadways, and took it almost everywhere that I didn't walk. The system is easy to figure out, even if you don't speak French, and you can count on the kindly Parisians to push you out the door at every stop so you don't have to worry about bypassing your station. ***** Here's another thing the French can do well—toilet paper. In many public places it is pink. It's such an optimistic gesture. ***** Many things are expensive in Paris, but not everything. A loaf of bread is cheaper than a postcard and a decent bottle of wine can be had for less than a 12 oz. can of Coke. Of course, the postcard and the Coke are expensive. My friends were understanding about me not writing—not only was it costly, but who could put together a decent sentence after taking advantage of the great wine prices? ***** I did some bike riding in Paris. The government has a program they call "Petit Dimanche" (Little Sunday). Every Sunday the roads alongside the Seine are closed to cars and the bicyclists and roller bladers turn out by the score. It was a nice break from the traffic and not much compares to whizzing along the Seine, passing underneath the Louvre, Notre Dame, and the Eiffel Tower. My only real altercation occurred that day. It happened when I pedaled along on a pedestrian-filled sidewalk on the Pont Neuf. I rolled along slowly with the crowd, getting stuck at one point behind two teenage boys and their mother. The boys tried to nudge her over for me but she ignored them intently. After a minute or two, I said, "Pardon, Madam." She'd been waiting, itching for me to ask. She turned and snarled, in French, "This is a sidewalk, idiot. This is for pedestrians. If you want to use it you can get off and walk." "Madame, I have always be waiting patiently for a safe moment to pass by you," I said in my perfect French. I liked the sound of it so much, I prattled on. "I have been waiting, all this time, Madame, and now, because of your generosity, I am going passing. And, also" I said creeping by, "I thank you for your kindness. Merci, Madame. Merci." She spat out a few furious insults to my back as I moved on, persisting in my annoying cheerfulness by thanking her again. It was a happy moment. Of course, I knew I shouldn't have been riding on the sidewalk, but my guilt evaporated in my elation. I had been obnoxious and I had done it the language of the masters. At that moment, I felt like a true Parisian. After that I went out of my way to try and get French people mad at me. . . . if only I'd had a few more days. ***** |
