Okay. Let's say you've been beaten
and robbed, in that order, in Spain, and you decide to spend the rest of
your vacation taking refuge in a more hospitable city, in this case, Paris.
What could be simpler, more delightful?
Not so fast, chum. If you're going to leave the not-terribly-safe confines
of the Gare Du Nord for the mean streets of Paris proper, you'd better
hope you've done your homework, because if you haven't, you won't have a prayer
of assimilating yourself into the Parisian lifestyle.
I haven't applied for French citizenship, yet, but I have it
on reliable authority that the test one must pass in order to become a full-fledged
French national comprises two parts. First, there is a lengthy and difficult
written exam including such questions as, "List, in chronological order,
all mistresses ever kept by Jacques Derrida. Show your work." Better start
boning up now-- God knows Derrida did. The second part of the exam involves
being followed around for an afternoon by an "Immersion Spy," whose
job it is to determine if you're capable of acting French enough to live in
the Greatest City in the World.
See, they have to check you out to see if you're cool enough to live in Paris.
It's not easy, and if you expect to pass muster, you'll need to do three things
before you hit the streets:
1. Wear a Texas tuxedo. Everyone wears them.
In Paris, it is considered tres cool to clothe yourself in "bleujeans"
from head to toe, even if you're wearing a denim vest. And woe betide you should
you forget that, in French, "bleujeans" is one word, not
two. (In a rare capitulation, the term has been officially accepted into the
vocabulary by the Academie Francaise, the same body that rejected "sandwich"
in favor of "deux morceaux du pain avec quelquechose au milieu.")
2. Learn how to smoke, in the stationery store
if you want to. If you haven't got the habit, you'd better pick it up-- only
uncool people want to live forever.
3. Carry a hundred Euros (roughly 300 U.S. dollars)
tucked away in that secret little pocket of your 501s, because you will no doubt
want a café au lait and a ham sandwich upon arrival, and this is what
it is going to cost you.
All set? Let's go.
As you make you way to the Hotel California on the Rue Des
Ecole (in the CinquièmeArondissement, under the
shadow of the Pantheon-- surely, you know where that is, don't you?),
take notice of the men and women passing you on the street. Every third one
will be totally hot and impeccably dressed, but do not under any circumstances
allow this to distract you-- since the street map of Paris looks like it was
drawn by Georges Braque on an absinthe bender, you'll need all your faculties
just to maintain your sense of direction. It's easy to get lost in Paris.
And anyway, those passersby may be hot, but notice the way they
walk-- arms held close to the body but swinging, or one hand tucked into the
pocket of their overcoat and the other clutching onto a scarf at the neck. They
walk quickly, with purpose and direction-- unless the person in question happens
to be on a flânée, which is a sort of directionless meander
in which Parisians are prone to indulge when overtaken by a fit of melancholy.
Typically, this state is brought on by the stale baguette they had with their
bowl of coffee that morning, the bread being a symbol of the decaying moral
state of the world, you see, brought forth through globalization and-- oh, never
mind, you wouldn't understand. Some of these lost souls will be dragging a small,
three-legged dog (or, in rare cases, a weeping, cross-eyed lobster) behind them
on a leash. You may observe them reaching out to touch the golden toe of the
magic statue of Montaigne, whose finger-polished shoe is said to bestow good
luck.
On your journey, or on any journey in Paris for that matter, you will likely
be approached by a man in a beautifully tailored suit carrying an expensive
monogrammed briefcase, who will address you in a rich, Continental baritone.
Mark him well, for this encounter serves to illustrate one of the most distinguishing
cultural differences between the French way and the world as you have come to
know it. No, he is not asking you for the time. He is hurriedly explaining
to you that he has a curious fetish, and was wondering if you might please go
around the corner with him, please, so that he might look up your skirt, if
it pleases you. The French are very polite. Parisians will fuck out of sheer
boredom. I love this about them. They will come up to you and ask, "I have
an hour before my meeting with the Minister of Language, would you like to go
to a hotel?" A quick gesture with your eyes towards your luggage will suffice
as a polite response.
When you arrive at the Hotel California, for God's sake try to
avoid humming the song upon entry. Drop your bags off with the concierge, because
your room won't be ready for at least two hours. At this point, I strongly suggest
that you go across the street and have a couple of fifteen-dollar Kir Royals.
Yes, it seems excessive, but you are in Paris and it is champagne
and cassis, so pony up, you rube.
And another thing: I don't care if you were the president of
the French club at Vassar, do not attempt to speak to waiters in Paris
unless you were teethed on perfectly-crusty, government-subsidized bread. Simply
point to the item on the menu, wink at the man (who, yes, does look
hot in his crisp white dress shirt, black bow tie and long, skirtlike apron),
and raise your empty wine glass. When you come in for breakfast the next morning,
he will kiss your hand and bring you an extra sugar cube for your coffee. Vive
la France!
With a slight buzz on, you will attempt to return to the Hotel California.
When you get outside, however, it is dark, and nothing looks the same. The landmarks
by which you oriented yourself upon entering the bar have changed. The Tabac
on the corner is now selling oysters on the half-shell and other fruits
du mer. Hungry? C'est la, right there, the bookstore is now selling
crepes. (I recommend the champignons y fromage.) These are cheap and
delicious and you can feed a family of four off of one. Of course, you might
have to wait a while for it, but kick back against a bike rack and enjoy the
hot, sweet, complimentary mint tea the cook has handed you.
Then you see it, there it is, your hotel! You ask the concierge for the key
and he says, "I have the perfect room for you." You climb six flights
of stairs that were designed to be ascended on tip toe in high heels, while
eating a crepe and smoking a Gauloise. Feeling French yet?
When you get to the top, you're huffing and puffing-- but voila!
Two balconies, four doors. Open them, check out the minibar (a word currently
under review by the Academie), grab a Corona, punch up some T-Rex on
the iPod and step out and look around. Dude, you can see the couple across the
street making out, and they're both totally hot! Vivrez la revolution!
End of Part I. Stay tuned next week for Notre Dame, Tunisian garbage men
and SHOPPING FOR VELVET SUITS!!!!!
Alena Nahabedian is, at this point,
probably a Senior Editor (or some other suitably impressive title of the sort
that we dole out instead of money) of Lime Tea. Correct her French
spelling by emailing us here.
