I Don't Understand The Parisians

I don't understand the Parisians
Making love every time they get a chance
I don't understand the Parisians
Wasting every lovely night on romance

- Leslie Caron as "Gigi"

On my first night in Paris, I took a long walk. Meandering rather aimlessly, I strolled farther and farther from my hotel. At length, I found myself at the end of the Champs d'Elysee – a rather famous designer-boutique-lined shopping avenue in the heart of the city. It was a long street which was punctuated – at one end – with an impressive masterpiece, the Arc de Triomphe.

The entire experience was amazing, and I was caught up in it for some time. It was only after I noticed that it had grown dark that I began to give some thought to my return to the hotel. No problem, I thought to myself, I’ll just take the metro. I had not yet taken the metro in Paris, but I had used similar systems in countless other cities. How hard could it be?

As it turned out, it could be very hard. The only option for purchasing a ticket – which one needed to get through the gate to the train platforms – was from an automated machine. Despite my best and vigorous efforts (all of which were watched from the corners of many curious eyes) I could not get the machine to even register my presence, much less dispense anything to me. Optimistically (this I say because – by night 1 – I had already realized that practically NO ONE in Paris spoke English) I approached the information counter.

“Do you,” I asked politely of the grim-faced woman behind the glass, “speak English?”

Of her response, I only understood the first word, which was “no.” After that, the speech was reminiscent of those that I’ve seen played out by vagabonds on street corners all over the world, punctuated by waving arms, clenched fists, and fierce facial expressions. I'm not certain of what I was meant to take away from the encounter, but I suspect it might have something to do with the idea that perhaps I should learn the language of a country BEFORE I attempt to navigate its subway or bother its people. As I’m relatively certain that this woman is the French version of the American disgruntled DMV employee, I didn’t let the experience bother me.

I emerged from the underground station and joined a crowd that moved in a promising direction. As I did so, a man met my eyes and said something as he passed. I had only been in Paris for the day, but this had happened multiple times. I’d also noticed a number of “double-takes” as I made my way about the city. I was not certain of the reason for this, but had adopted a policy of ignoring all such actions. Not so difficult, since I couldn’t understand what was being said if I did hear it.

I did not, therefore, put any more thought into the passing man. Imagine – then – my surprise when, as I stood in a group waiting to cross the street, he suddenly spoke into my left ear. I jumped and turned to face him – recognizing him – and he spoke again. In French, I spoke my most useful phrase – “I don’t speak French.”

“Ah….” He said, and nodded. Then he rattled off another ten sentences in French. Again, I pointed out the obvious language barrier. He stared for a moment, then began speaking in French again, drawing the words out v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and using hand gestures to accompany them. I sighed. This was obviously not a situation that was going away, and it was going to require some serious effort to work through.

Eventually, we concocted – between us – a hodgepodgy language of hand gestures, select French words that I understood, and select English words that he understood. Thank heavens for that, or I never would have learned that “when his eyes met mine his heart leapt out of his chest.” This comment – which was oft repeated throughout our time together – was always accompanied with a motion that involved both of his hands starting at his chest and moving away in a dramatic arc. I also learned that my eyes were “so blue” that he could hardly bear to look at them. This comment was accompanied by a ducking of his head and a hand placed over his eyes, to shield them.

As it turned out, I had plenty of time to hear ALL of the reasons that we were meant to be together. My new comrade took it upon himself to accompany me to my hotel. When I first understood his intent, alarm bells began going off inside my head. This is precisely – I thought – the sort of situation that I pride myself on AVOIDING. I quickly evaluated the options, and realized that it was either use this fellow to convey me through a safe mode of transportation, or wander the streets of Paris alone, in the dark, and hope to find the hotel. I went with option 4-alarm – my new friend. I would, I reasoned, only allow him to travel with me in areas that were full of witnesses.

To that end, I launched a gesture campaign to communicate my desire to take the metro, and my failure to procure a ticket. Five minutes later, we were on a bus. Hmmm. On the bus, the conversation took a turn toward family, and I learned that this fellow lived with his cousin. According to him, his cousin was a fine man. I had no reason to doubt this claim, but really felt no desire to meet said man. The next thing I knew, we were getting off on a stop that was NOT my hotel, and were walking into a different hotel, where his cousin sat at the front desk. Fortunately for me, his cousin spoke English. As reported, he was – indeed – a fine man, and very helpful. He spoke in French to my new friend, clearly enlightening him as to my actual destination goal.

We once again climbed aboard the bus. As it drove through the city streets, my companion launched a litany of all of our commonalities and all evidence of our obvious shared destinies. No matter what qualities I demonstrated, they became a confirmation of our “soul-mate” status. I didn’t smoke? Neither did he!!! EVER!!! That’s GREAT that I don’t smoke! REALLY great!!! The enthusiasm with which he carried on was almost embarrassing. (To be fair, I will point out that in all of Europe, I was definitely in the minority when it came to smoking preference.) This went on until we reached the stop from which I recognized the street leading to my hotel. To say I felt relief would be an understatement. I had begun to have horrible visions of spending the next 10 days going round and round on the bus with this self-professed enamored man.

We walked the final few blocks to my hotel together, my companion spending the entire time trying to persuade me to have dinner or coffee with him. Much to his disappointment, I refused quite adamantly. At the hotel entrance, I thanked him genuinely, ignored his forlorn “puppy” look, and made my escape.

In the room, I contemplated this bizarre experience for a bit while I allowed enough time to pass that I felt it might be safe to venture back out. After such a strange night, I felt a need to connect with a world that I understood. Earlier in the day, I had used a cybercafé not far away. I made my way there and took a seat at my assigned computer.

As I sat, staring at my monitor, my attention shifted to the woman who had taken a seat to my right. Her skin was a lovely olive color, and she had dark eyes rimmed in kohl. Her hair was long and black. She was yelling at the front-desk attendant – who sat at the other end of the room – and he was yelling back at her. There appeared to be some trouble with the web-cam that she had rented and placed on the top of her monitor. This turned into quite a production, but was eventually sorted out.

I settled back into my seat and prepared to refocus on my screen. This might have worked, except that the woman was now letting her hair down and tossing it artfully about her shoulders. I peered sideways at her, trying to make sense of this behavior. She pulled a lipstick out of a mysterious location and applied it, then evaluated herself in the camera window on her screen. Suddenly, words popped into her chat window – in English. “You’re beautiful” they said.

“I know.” She replied.

I was intrigued. An image appeared to accompany the chat. It was an obese man, and he was naked. I tried not to jump, but I’m pretty sure that my head swiveled to take a look straight-on. I forced my head away and tried to refocus on my screen, but my eyes would have none of that. They had spotted something interesting, and they were determined to see more. I was helpless to stop them as they began reading a dialogue that was – obviously – between a dominatrix and her submissive.

I will spare you all the details, but let’s just say that I have a new insight into a lifestyle that is far more interesting than some others I’ve seen. The conversation between this “couple” continued for a few minutes, and then she signed off with promises of more to come. I refused to let my mind entertain speculations of what the next conversation might cover.

The woman left and I finished up with my own computer. As I walked through the streets back to my hotel, I considered the two experiences that I’d had – already – in this city of “love.”

Love, indeed.