The Life in My Years

An American’s observations from a first time trip to France.

“To be treated well in places where you don’t expect to be treated well, to find things in common with people you thought previously you had very, very little in common with, well that can’t be a bad thing.” ~ Anthony Bourdain.

“The French don’t like Americans.”

“Snobby.”

“Arrogant.”

“Stand off-ish.”

Those were the admonishments we received before getting on a plane to Paris.

How many times did I hear how rude the French are?

Once was far too many.

We’ve completed nearly a week in Paris and I have to say that Cora and I have experienced none of that. What we have encountered is friendliness, hospitality, and –

good manners.

Plenty of good manners.

In the good old U.S. of A, good manners are not only headed towards extinction, under the current administration, graciousness is a bad thing, something to be frowned upon as soft and effete. In America rudeness is the next big thing. “We’ve never seen anything like it.”

If you want to know if a people are well mannered and courteous just take a ride on their urban public transportation. It’s a rare occurrence when Cora has to stand while riding in a crowded metro in Paris. By and large my experience in Europe is that women who have more years behind them than before them are readily given a seat (A gentle reminder that I’m fossilizing was the young French woman who offered me her seat on the metro).

Maybe more to the point is that by and large the French treated us like, well, regular people. No extra deference and certainly no hints of disdain.

And in France treating someone like regular people means they greet you even if they don’t know you and may never see you again. People greet perfect strangers at a nearby bistro table with a bonjour. They greet people they pass on a trail with bonjour. Bonjour when you enter a shop, a bar, a soccer stadium – damn near anywhere.

There’s one exception to this rule and that is when it’s evening. Then it’s

bonsoir.

Yes, they even greet Americans. And make no mistake, Europeans can spot an American a mile away. I don’t know if it’s a vibe or an odor or the cheesy t-shirt and the ball cap (two things which I didn’t bother to pack this time), but Europeans have radar that’s sensitive to Americans.

Wanna make a good impression? Return the greeting.

Bonus points if you do it in French.

Double bonus points if you extend the greeting first.

When in doubt, just say

bonjour.

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Day one

After our arrival from the airport at about two in the afternoon, Cora settles in to relax, and I’m off to explore. A little aimless walking brings me to Place Charles De Gaulle, where, in the center sits the famous Arc De Triomphe. Fifty meters tall, the structure was built to honor the fallen in the French Revolution and the Napoleonic wars.  

I’ve seen pictures of this iconic structure. Being a historian, the image that sticks most in my mind is the one of Nazi soldiers passing beneath the Arc after France has capitulated to the German blitzkrieg. I imagine Hitler was overjoyed at the idea of his soldiers goosestepping over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier from World War I, which lies in a vault beneath the Arc. It was the German Army’s defeat and the harshness of the Treaty of Versailles that stuck in the warlord’s craw and aroused his hunger for retribution, and the establishment of a thousand year Reich.  A Reich that fell short by 988 years, and in the end costing millions of lost lives.

Seeing the bulky structure in person gives me the same jolt that strikes me on the first day of all of my European trips.

“Hey! I’m in fucking Paris!

As I stroll towards the giant plaza I pass some crepe carts where vendors churn out the famous stuffed, lace thin pancake. I watch one of the vendors deftly assemble a crepe and I’m tempted to try the popular banana and Nutella (correct me if I’m wrong but I believe that Nutella is one of the food groups). The young woman I’m watching is going pretty light on the filling. I’ll pass.

Besides, there’s something more interesting going on at Place Charles de Gaulle.

The traffic.

Watching the automotive chaos, the first thing that comes to my mind is “tegwar” a fictional card game in the movie Bang the Drum Slowly. “Tegwar” is an acronym for, the exciting game without any rules, which sums up the vehicular madness before me. I’ve seen the the traffic at this roundabout numerous times on film but one can never really appreciate the anarchy until it unfolds before you. It’s chaos – strangely ordered.

I’ve driven roundabouts in Boston, Spain, Austria, and Germany and I consider myself somewhat adept at negotiating them. This however is an entirely different beast. Just watching for a few moments, I decide that I’d rather take up something less hazardous.

Like bull riding.

Twelve streets converge on the roundabout so that viewed from above it would look like rays emanating from the sun (the plaza was originally named Etoile, which translated, means “star”).

I try counting the lanes of traffic in the circle but that’s really quite impossible because there are no marked lanes. I make it out to be about ten indistinct rows moving counter clockwise. But that changes, seemingly by the second.

There are two legitimate rules that govern traffic here but only one applies to the actual driving part and that rule runs counter to every roundabout I’ve ever driven. At most roundabouts drivers entering yield to cars on their left, the ones already in the carousel. Find an opening and go. He who hesitates is

stuck.

Here drivers in the roundabout yield to cars entering the roundabout. That’s because unlike at most roundabouts, at Etoile the entering traffic is metered (and I use that word generously) by traffic lights while the traffic within the circle is governed by nothing but teeth gritted daring. Not able to see the changing traffic lights drivers in the roundabout will suddenly see cars entering from their right and are obliged to stop (Maybe obliged is a little strong. Call it a suggestion). That is unless they’re closer to the axis in which case they just seem to continue on.

An obvious problem occurs during periods of peak traffic. Once a part of the wheel of cars stops for incoming traffic, the traffic within the wheel comes to a stop and backs up around the circle. With no place for cars entering to go a new outer ring is created while some drivers jockey towards the center.

Or so it seems.

That’s because

“Tegwar.”

The other rule pertains to accidents and insurance. Due to the free for all, any accidents are considered to be no fault, and damages are split 50-50.

Just watching from the perimeter, I wonder why any driver, stopped traffic notwithstanding, would, in his right mind allow himself to drift towards the center of the circle. At some point one has to maneuver back to the perimeter in order to exit. Unless it were me. I would simply continue in a circle until the car runs out of fuel. Then I would let the tow truck driver get me out.

Etoile is not a place for the timid. You have to be aggressive – but you don’t have to be a dick about it. A camaraderie seems to exist in this carousel of chaos. A realization that everyone is in this together so make the best of it. Horn honking? Plenty of that. But unlike in America where a honked horn usually translates to, ‘Hey fuckstick, learn to drive,’ here honking a horn seems to be less driven by emotion and more the simple, practical warning that horns were originally made for; that and self preservation. If it’s not a place for the timid, it’s also a place that the emotional should also avoid at all costs.

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If Etoile is a place where driving skill and patience are on display, it’s also a place where pedestrian lunacy is laid bare.

One of the attractions here is to go to the center and stand below the Arc itself. There are two routes. The reasonable and most commonly used is a tunnel that passes beneath the roundabout and emerges at the Arc.

The other is the dead man’s passage, where humans try to dodge cars in a broken-field dash across the lanes of traffic.

The travel videos warn people not to venture into the traffic, but,

people gotta be people.

And so, during my very first hour in Paris I’m watching a young couple take some tentative steps into the street. I wince and turn away but human curiosity compels me to turn back and watch. The couple I’m watching are strong candidates for a posthumous Darwin Award (but then it is a posthumous award) but this pair is also proof positive that chivalry is indeed dead, as the man is urging his female companion to go first; walk point and clear the mines soldier.

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“I wanted to be apart from everything I grew up with. In short, I wanted to be elsewhere.” ~ Anthony Bourdain

Paris is divided into twenty administrative districts called arrondissements. The first arrondissement is located in the center of the city and the remaining nineteen spiral outwards in a clockwise direction. Arrondissements one through eight are considered to be the touristy areas of Paris.

We’re staying in an aparthotel in the 16th arrondissement, which draws a fraction of the number of tourists that pack districts one through eight. The outer edge of Etoile is almost like a border between tourist clogged Paris and residential Paris. And that is exactly why we selected this particular district. I’m not here to mingle with Americans. If I wanted to do that I would have saved the thousands of dollars and stayed home. I’m here not just to see the Iron Lady, I’m here to experience the culture.

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I take a walk around the perimeter of Etoile until I come to Av. Victor Hugo which will take me back to Rue Leroux and our temporary home. Walking away from Etoile, it dawns on me that I’ve left selfie-land behind me. No street vendors or souvenir shops. Here I pass some clothing stores, a law office, a florist, an employment agency and one or two brasseries. Some Parisians are gathered at the tables outside of Brasserie Esmerelda enjoying wine, smokes and conversation.

Further up the street I stop to gaze into Lenôtre, an elegant looking patisserie where the window displays feature sweets and pastries that are as much works of art as they are decadent delights. At Lenôtre, they call themselves, “artisans créateurs d’émotions” – “artisans who create emotions.” And that’s no bullshit. As I’ll find out over the course of our visit, a bite of a macaron, or a taste of a Tarte Tatin, will make your senses redline. After my first croissant I realize that I’ve made a mistake.That’s because the croissants back home at Peet’s Coffee that I once considered delicious have now been exposed as cheap frauds.

A block past Lenôtre I turn right onto Rue Leroux a very plain street. It’s short, a block long. At the end is Place du Venezuela, a nondescript little common that looks, well, pretty fucking common. You certainly wouldn’t mistake it for the Tuileries.

I’m drawn to a building at the corner, adjacent to the plain park. It’s a classic flatiron style. On the sidewalk in front of the building’s entrance is a small herd of scooters and bikes. The building, the scooters parked in the front, and the plain little park. All of it is a scene that could take place in any quiet residential street in Europe. Seeing this scene, I realize that I’ve been here. Been here many times before. And that’s what draws me to it warming me like a demitasse of strong coffee first thing in the morning.

No, of course I haven’t been to this exact place. I’ve been to neighborhoods just like it in Rome.

As a child I became accustomed to these residential neighborhoods when my family visited mom’s siblings in Rome, where she was born. Fluent in Italian I could make my way around like any Roman. I negotiated the bus system, bought my own tickets at the Tabac shops, and ice cream at the local bar. I loved those neighborhoods and strolling down this plain Parisian street brings back warm memories.

It also brings a melancholy when I realize that at any time in my life I could’ve – should’ve – moved to Europe. I’ve long yearned for Europe. Now with all that’s been happening over the past ten years in America, I feel like a stranger in that country where I was born and have lived for seven decades. America has become a country I no longer recognize and I’m fearful of what I’ll return to.

It makes the yearning all the greater.