I Think I've Become Too Parisian

I'm not sure whether or not that's a bad thing.

Don’t read to much into this image. I just needed an accompanying photo and this one was unintentionally kind of LaYeReD.

Let me start by stating the obvious, IT’S TOO DAMN HOT. I did something very dumb and left Paris on a mild day to go to Marseille, where it was 94°F/34 °C, then came back to Paris as soon as it was set to climb to 100°F/37 °C. I thought proximity to the sea and hot people would somehow make the heat more bearable, and I wasn’t wrong, but I have been sweating cute little puddles all over France since Wednesday. But the thing that interests me about this particular canicule is that… I am somewhat at peace with the heat. Why? How? Who is she?

I hate sweating. It begets smelling, it wilts my makeup, it’s uncomfortable. I’m usually shaking in my boots as soon as I see the little sun icon in my weather app without its typical Parisian cloud next to it. And yet, this heat wave, I’m kind of like, ::shrug::. We’ll live. My hypothesis, one that I’ve been cultivating for the past year or so, is that I’m becoming increasingly Parisian.

I’ll accept your thoughts and prayers, because I don’t think there’s a cure for this ailment (short of moving).

What does it mean to act like a Parisian, and why am I hinting that I’m kind of ashamed of it? Well, you tell me. Do Parisians have a good reputation? Aside from the myth of the effortlessly elegant Parisienne woman, all the other myths are negative. They’re pushy, aloof, rude, constantly rushing, taciturn, devoid of hope, and worst of all, think they’re better than everyone else. (I didn’t make this up; I learned it from my French textbook I bought in France at a French-run French language school. This is French on French slander, I’m just reporting what I read.)

In the case of the heatwave, my newfound Parisian-ness means that I’m kind of apathetic about it because it’s not like I can do anything about it. This is new for me; I’m usually fired up especially about things I have no control over. Just ask my husband.

In France, everyone razzes everyone based on what region they are from. If you’re from the North, you get made fun of for your accent. If you’re from the South, you’re also made fun of for your accent. If you’re from Nice, there’s something funny about that too apparently. But if you’re from Paris, the rest of the country gets to dogpile on you because you’re kind of a self-important asshole. Lol, jk, everyone is just kidding, but also, are they? Is it maybe a little true?

If I’ve offended you, just pretend I’m using the second degré and relax. But remember that if it hurts, it’s because it’s kinda true. I’m a somewhat trained journalist, and all of my research is from the youth of French TikTok, so you know this reporting is accurate.

If you truly are Parisian by birth, marriage, or moving, and you truly hate what I’m saying, remember that I’m not talking about you. Individually, everyone is innocent. Everyone’s situation is unique and understandable. It’s only as a group, as a Parisian Leviathan, if you will, that these trends become oppressive. And, besides, I’m not even talking about you; I’m talking about me.

Let’s take a look at how I’ve become more Parisian, and determine if I can live like this or if I need to be intervened on.

I Take Up More Space

My friends and I were discussing that one of the first signs of becoming Parisian is that you start giving what you’re getting (nothing), particularly when it comes to public transport in Paris.

When I arrived here, I followed what I know of American public transport rules. Make space for others. No cutting. Let people out before you get in. No man-spreading. No loud talking. Be vigilant about how much space you take up. But after a few years of seeing literally no one else follow these rules, I’m done.

I’m not scooching to the far corners of the metro car so that a few more stragglers can squeeze in. If they wanted room they should have thought of that before deciding to live in Paris. You want to lean on that bar, monsieur? My hand is now in your back; this isn’t your personal leaning post on a crowded metro. Oh you want to stand right in front of the door as I try to exit, Madame? I will walk directly at you, unbroken eye contact, until you move. Men sometimes get a bit of a shove. Elderly ladies get a patronizing explanation: you have to let people out before you go in. Young people sometimes get yelled at if I’m in a bad mood.

It’s not just on the metro or bus, either. I used to try to squeeze myself into the tiniest spots at cafes so others might have more room. I soon realized that no one was going to do the same for me, so I figured eff em, I’m going to focus on making myself comfortable. No you can’t take that chair, my bag needs somewhere to sit.

I’m not at peace with this mentality; it doesn’t speak to the fraternité that makes up a third of France’s moto. But I’ve realized that I’m going to make myself miserable if I stay a martyr to the comfort of everyone else in this city, so I seize the space I need.

Good or bad? I think this is kind of neutral. It’s an adaptation that hopefully I’ll lose if I ever leave Paris.

I Don’t Expect Friendliness

While in Marseille, at a great little cafe/bar called La Relève, my friend leaned back to ask the table next to us what wine they ordered, because it looked good to us. This was very un-Parisian of her, but she’s both very sweet and solution-oriented, and I believe the rude Parisian trait won’t make its way to her. The couple told us about their wine, we tried to order it, they got the last bottle. Tant pis, we ordered a different pet nat because of course we did.

When our bottle came, the woman from the other table approached us and asked if we could exchange a glass for a glass so we could each try one another’s bottles. We three Paris residents actually took a brief pause, not to consider if we would accept her offer, but because we were so shocked at this friendliness, this openness, this moment of wine camaraderie. We smiled and couldn’t pour her a glass fast enough. We laughed with the couple as they sampled our wine and we theirs, joking about switching bottles. Why couldn’t things like this happen in Paris?

Our shock at the possibility of such a normal interaction made me think, damn, I really am becoming Parisian. What little friendliness I possess, without an outlet, is drying up on the vine. So much so that when faced with a simple, friendly, casual interaction that goes well, my heart swells. It’s been days, and I’m still living off the thrill that exchange provided.

Of course, there are exceptions. The proprietor of my local bar in the deep 12ème is extremely friendly, and we strike up a conversation every time I pop in. I recently put together that he’s not from Paris or even from France, he’s from some other country entirely, as am I, which explains a lot.

While I am still capable of friendliness and enjoy it, I no longer have any expectation that I’ll encounter such moments. It’s sad, but coming to terms with it makes those rare moments of humanity all the more sweet.

Good or bad? I think this is bad, or at least very sad. I want to resist this particular Parisian adaptation as much as possible.

My Clothes Are Almost All Black

It doesn’t help my argument that I bought this black shirt years before moving to France.

Yes, it’s possible to wear color in Paris, not everyone dresses like Audrey Hepburn in the artsy cafe scene in Funny Face. There is no set dress code; everyone dresses as they want. I find these reductive stereotypes boring, and I wish people would stop reinforcing them. That said, everyone here wears black and navy blue. And sometimes red pants, Parisians love red pants. Once you know about this, you’ll begin to notice that red pants are everywhere.

While packing for my recent trip, I was fantasizing about perfect, interesting, stylish outfits. What accessories should I bring? What statement bags will bring my looks together? In the end, my packing cube included black, cream, white, and brown. Just like my closet.

I think this is a convenience thing. And a weather thing; I mostly shop by texture now, buying the right fabrics and knits to either keep me extremely warm or extremely cool. They’re all going to go under a trench for half the year, so why get creative? If I want some color, I’ll wear a scarf. Effortless Parisian chic? More like if I only wear black, then you can’t tell I’ve been wearing the same sweater for three days because it’s too cold to dry my laundry and I’m busy and tired.

Good or bad? I think this development is also pretty neutral, born of convenience. No need to intervene.

I’m At Peace With Bad Service

I recently had the funniest dinner with friends at a wine bar in the 11eme. No matter what we did that night, we could not get our waitress to wait on us. We were dying to tear into as many small plates as we could get our hands on. I think we polished off four bottles of wine between four of us. And yet every last thing that we ordered, we had to beg to get our hands on.

When our waitress did come, she’d snap at us that she was on her way, wouldn’t make eye contact, would disappear before we’d finished our order, forgot to bring several plates. We ordered two of something and she only brought one because she decided we didn’t need two. I know this because she told us so. She’d ignore our waves as she ran out of the restaurant for her fifth cigarette break. One friend considered going directly to the chef to try to put in an order, bypass the emboutillage. We thought better of it, lest we incur more of our waitress’s wrath.

And the thing is, it didn’t sour our evening, not even a little bit. For us, it was dinner and a show watching this young woman work so hard to treat us poorly. Back in the day, this type of interaction would have mortified me, made me wonder if I’d done something wrong, made me feel like I was terrible at interacting with people in French. Now, I know the rules of engagement, I know enough French, so I know that sometimes people are just not in the mood to serve small plates and natural wine that night, and that’s okay. That’s a her problem, not a me problem. The food was good, the friend time was good, oh well.

Good or bad? I love this for me. I’m so much happier now that servers can’t hurt my feelings.

I’m Apathetic AF

Like I said, this canicule was moving in, and I wasn’t as worried about it as I used to be. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived through so many Parisian heatwaves by now, I’m used to the suffering. Maybe it’s because my current apartment is well insulated, so if I hold very still and think cooling thoughts, I don’t have to break a sweat.

I think the real reason is that there are so many things in this city that I don’t like but have no control over, I have to be apathetic to save myself from being angry all the time.

When I first encountered this attitude, it enraged me. Complacency is the root of all evil! Nothing can be achieved if you don’t even try! Then one day in a long line at La Poste, it occurred to me that I wasn’t annoyed or frustrated or concerned. And it wasn’t because I had confidence that the line would move. It wasn’t because I wasn’t in a rush. It was because caring wasn’t going to help the situation. Caring was only going to make my hair go more gray. So I stopped caring if it wasn’t going to help anything. And then I was free.

Good or bad? This one is real bad. I remember reading The Stranger in 12th grade and being like “wtf is wrong with this guy?” and I want to get back to that energy.

And So…

Like many a naive American, when I first began traveling to France (Paris), I assumed all of France was just like Paris. All the major cities must be little Parises scattered around the country. Though I love Paris, I also thank goodness that this isn’t true.

Now, it’s so clear to me that Paris is a unique, crowded anomaly with the high highs of a beautiful spring day, and the low lows of being trapped on a steaming hot metro car because there’s, yet again, someone running on the tracks. This is neither good nor bad, but living here does have an affect on the heart and mind. An effect that kind of kills the heart and hardens the mind. Unlike New York where people are tough but united in commeraderie, Paris for some reason divides us all as we jockey for the bit of space, the bit of solace we can get our hands on. I still love living here, but I don’t like when I notice that I’m crowding people on sidewalks or lecturing grandmas on the metro platform. But I also don’t like how I feel when I don’t do those things.

As the youths say, be sure to get out and touch grass, grass in the form of trips to literally anywhere else in this wonderful country. Just try to not walk too fast and shoulder check the locals when you get there.