“People in Paris...they’re just mean,” says Jesse between bites of panini. We’re sitting against a bank of the Seine near Ile Saint-Louis. The sun is slowly sliding down behind the wall of Haussmanian apartments in the background, and it’s getting a bit colder out. “I mean, what did I ever do to them?” A month into her stay here, she is already defeated. I know how she feels. Being a veteran of this city for nine months (yeah I know, big whoop), it can be hard for me to not interject “I know how you feel but....” or “When I first got here....” into every conversation. So I just nod and bite into my own delicious food. Then I realize that maybe the reason I’m staying silent is because I can’t give her much encouragement.
French people-no, I don’t have the authority to make such a generalization-Parisian people have this way about them that can make a person feel, well, stupid. It can be exhausting, treading carefully when ordering food, when asking for help, when doing anything, trying to remember what you’ve done wrong this time, what terrible faux pas you’ve commited in their presence, and howdareyou? Yes, we will speak English for you stupid tourist but you will regret ever stepping foot into this business! I have to say, I miss always being right as a consumer in America. It’s been a long time since anybody has responded to me in English, and that makes me so proud. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t still battles. Tonight’s discussion with my boss, for instance. Picture me, timid, all of 63 inches asking my amazonian-former-Chanel-supermodel-owns-an-original-Picasso-drawing boss for this coming weekend off. Not pretty. After a b-a-d fucking weekend, my poor wimpy little self just couldn’t handle her backlash tonight. Everything she said pushed me further and further into a corner of submission, Yes, ok, no, it’s fine, yeah, of course, I understand, yep, sure. And when I stepped into the elevator outside of my apartment, a giant lump in my throat and my eyes watering, I felt like a big, fucking idiot. Why can’t I get what I want? Why can’t I stand up for myself? Mom, why did you not give me that gene? Can I have it now, please?
When I got out into the street, I decided I needed two things to calm down: a cigarette and a phone call to my mother. I had no way of getting either of these things (out of smokes, out of phone minutes) as it was 9:40 p.m. In France. I thought it was worth a shot to go to the tabac anyway, despite the fact it closes at 9 and I know that, but either way, I needed the walk. I got there, and the lights were still on, the owners were standing inside counting money and enjoying a beer after work. I pulled on the door and gave a sad look to the man inside. He came to open the door and I crossed my arms, bracing myself for his inevitable lecture on closing time, rude glare, muttering, etc. He knows who I am and he knows I am American because of the way I refuse to put a French accent on the word “camel” every single time I buy a pack.
The man smiled warmly.
“Vous êtes...fermé?” Half a question, half a resignation.
He opened the door and gestured for me to enter.
“Allez-y, Mademoiselle! Pour vous, on est toujours ouvert.”
When I turned to leave, the tears I’d been trying to hold back still flowed down my face, but I was smiling, too.
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note: in case a family member or person who likes to lecture me about smoking is reading this, i don't REALLY smoke, i just like to add little touches about cigarettes because it makes me sound cooler. really!
also, it means: come in miss. for you, we are always open.
1 comment:
It's little moments like that that makes life a little more easy.
And I finally figured out how to make a blog roll so you will finally get the recognition that I owe you.
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