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An American Monolinguist in Paris
Paris, France

Parisians…they live up to their stereotype. They dress well, eat well, relax well, insult well, snicker well make me feel obsolete well.

Riding the metro in from the airport, Ellen and I learned the lesson “How to pack five million people into one train car” subsequently followed by, “How to take out four to six people fumbling for the exit before the doors shut on you wearing a 5000 cubic inch backpack stuffed to the gills.”

You see, I was smart. I parked myself next to the door refusing to get shoved to the back of the car by the “slim efficient carry-on people” like Ellen. I squeezed out no problem. It was watching her struggle and take out a 3-year-old as she bolted towards the door that I came up with the title of our traveling memoirs. UNDERDRESSED AND ALONE, the tale of Two Dumb American Broads abroad.

Gravedigger in Montparnasse

We came up from underneath the bowels of Paris at Ile St. Louis, Notre Dame. Beautiful, cold and stinky. It is funny to me the steps that lead down to the Seine, is it for drinking? Bathing? Is a picture of romance really gliding in a boat on that stuff? In weighing the risk of falling in, or getting splashed with even a drop, I would just as soon keep a safe 30-foot distance.

Our first rude encounter with the native inhabitants…we went into an Asian diner and sat down. Ellen and I were talking, sharing a bottle of wine, when I heard a couple next to us say “English Speakers” and in the same sentence “Kentucky Fried Chicken”. Yes. I am paranoid. But I believe that it is not hard to argue the likelihood that those two phrases uttered in such close proximity to each other and ourselves a, shall you say, a coincidence. Looking over my shoulder, my intention was to intimidate them to the point where they started doubting themselves and think, “Maybe that silly American IS bilingual!?”.

Evidently my glances caused no distress, to the lady that is. She returned my glare with equal intensity and raised me with genuine distaste. What was I to do? Sitting there, numb, with Ellen continuing her end of the diatribe, oblivious to the square off taking place in front of her, I sat mute and defeated. At the end of our meal, we rose and Ellen strode directly over to their table and politely inquired in english, “Do we have to leave a tip?”. I shrank in horror.
“You don’t have to. But we do.” came their reply, and with a sashay and twirl, they left us, stinkily clad in polar fleece and trembling, in a puff of their expensive perfume.

Immediately after this encounter, we venture into a cheese shoppe where Ellen inquires to your typical bilingual Frenchman about which cheese is the best.
“It diepenns on whad you laike”.
I heard the two merchants behind me snicker, “They wandt cheep cheazze” after they had pretended not to understand her question earlier. I whipped around, shocked, and said,
“No.”
And as plainly as I could, I said,
“We want expensive cheese.”
But that is not true. I could care less, all I wanted was some good cheese. I have no idea why those words came out of my mouth.
“Come on, let’s go,” I say, grabbing Ellen, and we sulk back to the hostel, humiliated.

It is around this point that I realize I am too scared to ask these people even for a bathroom. In French it is “toilette”, but if you do not say it in the perfect accent (which mine, granted, is far from) people I encountered pretended that they did not understand you.
I went into a Portuguese restaurant to use the bathroom after an unsuccessful attempt at locating Oscar Wilde’s grave, solely because I thought there would be some Spanish speakers there, and Portuguese is somewhat similar, but when you think about it, it is not even close. This convoluted reasoning should only emphasize my dire condition. The waitress, after hearing my practiced plea of “Je voudrais un toilette” with a thick southern accent, made a loud clucking sound and whirled into the bar area and I heard something about Ingles… everybody turned to look at me, and scared my need to urinate away. I ran, quickly, muttering “Merci!” and crying down the street.

The lovely thing is, that I took all of my photos in black and white, because Paris does not need color. It is ironic. It is beautiful, archaic and confusing. A wanderer’s paradise.

I went to a brasserie to order some coffee and ended up with a tart of raspberries, blueberries and currants. I do not remember ordering it, but they are nice to me in this bar, so I do not care.

You have to love a city that names their streets after authors and important historical figures. JFK, Plaza de Woodrow Wilson, Circle de Victor Hugo. Marveling at the site of where Thomas Jefferson lived on Champs de Elysses, I wonder how our relationship, so dated and rich with history, could ever become so strained. We lauded each other once, and you can hear the echoes as you walk around the city.

Went to Montmarte on the bleakest December day that I have ever seen. I found an Irish Pub in which to, once again, use the bathroom…(my trip has been simply fighting to find facilities interspersed with occasional views of historically significant monuments in a painful urine-induced hunch). An artist with dark, comic book, V-shaped eyebrows and black bare knuckled mittens wants to draw my picture, and I say,
“No thank you.”
He will not give up, he says he will do it for cheap, and follows me to the bathroom.
“No thank you” is repeated.
Reemerge from the 6×6 inch cubicle a few minutes later and he is waiting for me, asking if I am ready.
“No.” I pause. “Thank you.” I say again looking at him quizzically. Is there something wrong with him I wonder?

I sit down and order a Kronenberg. They all have figured out at this point that I am American. The bartender gives me a free pint and expects a kiss “Besou Besou” while I wonder what the hell I have gotten myself into. The artist next to me, whose name evidently is February, starts sketching and before long, I am the proud owner of a “portrait” of a beautiful young lady that looks nothing like me. I feel so guilty about the effort this older gentleman has exerted that I walk 750 meters downhill and return, in the rain, to an ATM to extract money from my anemic bank account to pay him. These people are criminals, and excellent at what they do.

We had a young French roommate, I understood not a word that came out of her mouth. She kept asking for information (according to another American’s translation) and pointing to her nails. I handed her my manicure set, she looks confused, and then just leaves (this happens over and over). I find out later that she is looking for a job in a salon, and wants to know if I want my nails done.

I am not down though, I believe the French have not made permanent damage to my opinion of them. Nor vice-versa. We are clearly fans of each other, but it is more like a tired, forced-upon, sibling relationship. I just know that I will never clear my throat in France because it could translate to anything from “I have cash in my pockets” to “Underneath my coat, I am naked.”

We leave for Geneva tomorrow.