SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN : Non, mais sérieux, Budapest, avec Easyjet, ca coûte vraiment que dalle.Tu devrais trop le faire. (“Really, Budapest on Easyjet costs nothing. You should really go.”)
Olive Oil
Parisians are beings of refinement and taste.
Bad luck for butter.
Butter is gross. And fattening. Parisians can’t deal with butter.
Thankfully, Parisians over the past decade have found out about olive oil.
Discovering olive oil has been a treat for most Parisians, because it has allowed them to start despising butter. It always feels good to despise a new thing. Especially for a reason: it is obvious Parisian knowledge that olive oil is so much better than butter. Parisians do believe that olive oil is not fattening. There are no nuisances whatsoever associated with olive oil.
Switching from butter to olive oil is a natural thing for the Parisian. Olive oil corresponds to a vision of the world he is simply more receptive to. Agriculture as a business conducted by professionals in a rainy region is suspicious to the Parisian. Too much suffering, work, and weird smells involved. The Parisian much prefers a form of agriculture carried out under the sun of Provence by un passionné. So much better really. All in all, not only does olive oil do some good to the Parisian’s body, but it also soothes his mind.
Only one other condiment comes with as much glow and sunny glamour as olive oil. That is balsamic vinegar. Anything made with huile d’olive or vinaigre balsamique can only be good. Of course.
On the other hand, anything made with butter or crème can only be heavy and fat. Other types of vinegars are for losers. If he really has to buy butter, the Parisian will not indulge in regular butter. He will opt for beurre salé or demi-sel. Why? Parce que c’est dix fois meilleur. Of course.
There is no point in reminding Parisians that all the dishes they fall for at a restaurant are made with significant amounts of butter and cream. Enchantment is rare enough a phenomenon in Paris to have any desire to blow its shiny bubble off.
Be it an extra-virgin bubble.
USEFUL TIP: Vinaigrette rocks.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Tu vois, une petite salade, un filet d’huile d’olive, c’est tout simple, c’est hyper bon. (“A small salad with a drizzle of olive oil is simple and tastes great.”)
Le Monde
Parisians don’t really trust the media.
They are media addicts. But they know better than to trust the media. There is one exception to that rule: Le Monde. Le Monde is a French newspaper. It is to the Parisian the one and only reliable source of information on earth.
No other country could ever achieve the level of independence and intellectual sharpness the French press offers consistently on a daily basis. In the Parisian’s mind, news overseas can only be obtained through four channels: CNN, Al Jazeera, Fox News, and English tabloids. None of these are trustworthy. That is sadly all foreigners have access to. The Parisian feels a certain satisfaction from the fact that France is the only country in the world with actual newspapers.
The Parisian is too educated not to know that among French newspapers, very few are actually worth his time. Libération, c’est hyper à gauche; Le Figaro, c’est hyper à droite; L’Equipe, ça va, j’suis pas un beauf non plus. Libération is too leftist; Le Figaro, too rightist; L’Equipe, I’m not a beauf. The Parisian wants the press he reads to be freed from political beliefs, to be beyond them. Parisians like anything that is beyond.
Very few Parisians actually read Le Monde. Yet, all agree that Le Monde, c’est un bon journal. Un journal sérieux, too. Yes, Parisians do have opinions about things they are not familiar with. Call that talent.
Parisians who actually read Le Monde are quickly put by other Parisians in the intello category. This category in some Parisian circles comes with a high level of desirability. Which makes some Parisians buy Le Monde on a regular basis, and just carry it around. In that case, the Parisian will always say with a sad look, “C’est chiant, j’ai jamais le temps de le lire.” Oui, c’est chiant. The people who read Le Monde the least are the people who have a subscription to it. In that case, the plan is never to read the newspaper but to actually drop neglectfully in every other conversation a J’suis abonné au Monde.
Pure superiority.
USEFUL TIP: To be mistaken for a Parisian, buy Le Monde, fold it, and walk. Then sit at a café and make phone calls.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Moi, de toute façon, je lis qu’Le Monde. Les autres journaux, honnêtement, j’peux pas. (“In any event, I really only read Le Monde. I honestly can’t read the other papers.”)
Thinking That Not Wearing White Socks Makes You a Better Person
Parisians do believe that most human beings are respectable. Except for those wearing white socks.
Seeing someone wearing white socks provokes an immediate and brutal reaction inside the Parisian. He is suddenly taken over by disgust and scorn. The white socks wearer is immediately removed from the community of human beings.
As lenient as the Parisians would like to be, they simply cannot let some things slide.
High standards make the Parisian harsh at times. The sight of white socks makes Parisians sigh. They feel that such poor taste should not be allowed.
When it comes to colors of socks, Parisians stop being liberal. White socks worn with chaussures de ville are the worst of fautes de goût; they are a clear indicator of appartenance sociale.
Everyone wearing white socks is a gros beauf. Parisians want none of that around. Seeing a gros beauf on TV makes the Parisian laugh. But seeing one right near him, live in sock-offense mode, is an insult the Parisian cannot cope with. Some liberals assert that white socks worn with des tennis is OK. Truth is, it could only be OK if worn on a sports court. Anywhere else would be accumulating two fautes de goût: sneakers and white socks. Game over.
Wearing white socks ranks first in the Parisian pantheon of mauvais goût vestimentaire. Number two is for sure short-sleeved shirts.
A Nobel Prize winner wearing white socks will always remain to the Parisian a “gros beauf who’s good at science or whatever it is he’s good at, I don’t care, he’s just a beauf putain how on earth is is possible to wear white socks like this, I can’t believe it”. Sadly enough, in the world, most people put progress of science and humanity ahead of sock color in defining the quality of an individual. But Parisians know the type of socks these people are wearing.
Yes, for the Parisian, sometimes, indeed, things are a bit lonely in this world.
USEFUL TIP: When traveling to Paris, don’t go there. Really, it won’t serve your cause.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN : Non, enfin, le mec, chaussettes blanches, manches courtes—la totale quoi, l’enfer! (“Seriously, that guy was just a gigantic loser: white socks, short sleeves—he was full-on!”)
Snow
Parisians are all grown-ups. They have no time to fool around. Life is too serious for that.
Most Parisians are very happy with their grown-upness—growing up in Paris was not all that fun, anyway. In the course of a lifetime, only one thing is susceptible to bring the Parisian back to a state comparable to that of a child. That is snow. Amusement parks don’t do much for Parisians. Snow does.
Snow is a very rare thing in Paris. No living Parisian has woken up to snow more than twenty times in his life. It may snow in Paris every other year. Usually for twenty minutes. Parisians love snow. Snow in Paris is evanescent. Never sticks. In this evanescence lies the beauty and charm Parisians fall for.
The instant the first snowflake falls down, a Parisian (usually, the most idle one) will say, “Oh, il neige.” Because snow is a hardly conceivable concept in Paris, the Parisian will systematically confirm the news: “Regardez, il neige.”
Other Parisians in the room will regarder. Indeed, il neige. Usually, much cheesy talking ensues: from “J’adore la neige” to “C’est trop beau.” Depth is not the least of Parisians’ qualities.
When snow starts f
alling, everything stops in Paris. The city goes into a poetic blackout for one minute. Everyone just watches the snow fall with a smile. Hesitant between sheer melancholy and simple happiness.
Because sheer melancholy is too intimate and simple happiness is obviously a myth, Parisians quickly choose to pull themselves together. States of latency are not to persist for too long in Paris. Life is too serious for latency. The Parisian will take control over his emotions. At this point comes the litany of talks on how snow ends up being dirty because of all the cars and pollution.
All the smart talking about how it’s interesting that in banlieue , it’s usually colder so snow actually sticks, while in Paris it does not.
These conversations have no goal other than allowing the Parisian to brush the disruption of snow out of his life.
Opening up to emotion is a slippery slope for Parisians.
USEFUL TIP: Starting a snowball fight is only acceptable during the previously exposed moment of latency. After this, it would be childish.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: J’aime trop la neige . . . ça me donne envie d’aller au ski. (“I love snow so much . . . makes me want to go out to the mountain and ski.”)
The Luxembourg Garden
The Luxembourg Garden (le Jardin du Luxembourg) is every Parisian’s favorite park.
Along with Central Park, it is actually every Parisian’s favorite park in the world.
Walking the alleys of le Luco is an enchantment for every Parisian.
Because the Luxembourg Garden is a delightfully elegant park, the style and peace of which he can appreciate, the Parisian feels a direct tie with Marie de Médicis when he’s there. Walking the alleys of the park, the Parisian becomes royalty. People inside of whom the bells of monarchy fail to ring will most likely celebrate silently the great French democracy, embodied by le Sénat, magnanimous enough a representative body to let the good people of Paris enjoy its private gardens. The Luxembourg Garden, in a soft whirlwind of green, unites monarchists and républicains.
Besides this taste of the greatness of French history he now fully feels a part of, the Parisian also feels that a promenade in the Luxembourg is a journey in his personal story. Many personal memories come to the Parisian’s mind when he enters the park. Memories of the time spent there as a student ditching classes, with a pretty girl he was courting back in the day or simply reading philosophy on his own, seated on one of the benevolent metal chairs. No bad memories can ever be associated with the Luxembourg. For the Parisian, the Luxembourg magnifies yesterday. It alters it, too. Needless to say, most Parisians did not skip classes and never read philosophy—ever.
Besides these beautiful reminiscences, the Luxembourg Garden is also a fantastically comforting place for the Parisian.
Outsiders think the Luxembourg Garden is just a park. But the Luxembourg Garden is actually a runway. The models of this runway are Parisians. An Enchanting show that is.
Three types one may find in the Luxembourg are people walking, people jogging, and people seated. Walkers are of two varieties: Parisians and tourists. Parisians walking in le Luco usually live nearby. Most are from a rich and powerful extraction. Much elegance ensues. Joggers are incongruous in this environment. They run around the park frenetically. Two types of joggers: Parisians and expats. Parisians jogging in the Luxembourg Gardens are usually local yuppies trying to turn the Luxembourg Gardens into the Central Park of Paris. People seated are also either Parisians or expats (tourists are too busy for sitting). They like to pretend they are reading. Truth is, they are sunbathing and people watching. Seated males also fall in love with the mysteriously evanescent Parisian girls walking there.
In the end, the Luxembourg Garden is a necessary respite and an absolute continuation of the life and activities of the Rive Gauche.
In that it talks to the mind of the promeneur, le Jardin du Luxembourg epitomizes what nature really is about in Paris: a fresh and soft stroke on the Parisian’s mind.
USEFUL TIP: It is a necessity to know what the current expo photo au Luxembourg is about. Always.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: On va se balader au Luxembourg, j’ai besoin d’être à l’air libre! (“Let’s take a stroll at Luxembourg, I need fresh air!”)
Calling People by Their License Plate
Not being from Paris happens.
Yet, the Parisian rarely holds anyone responsible for not being from Paris. Though he will surely believe that the root of any mistake the non-Parisian makes is to be found in his suspicious origins. This tendency is particularly true for any interaction that implicates an automobile.
The moment a non-Parisian sits in a car, he becomes the last two digits of his license plate. Immediately. He becomes un 78, le 42, or un 29. The last two digits of a French license plate correspond to that of the département of registration of the car. Paris is 75. Other numbers smell like mud or depression.
Numbers that smell like mud are the rare numbers. The ones you hardly ever see on the streets of Paris. Those are 07, 86, 41, 23, 53. . . . Mud somewhat recalls the Parisian of some remote vacation spot. Mud is not always bad. Le 07 for instance will take too much time on the road, he will hesitate, he will let pedestrians cross the street. He is obviously un paysan. But the Parisian has a certain affection for him. So he will be merciful. Lenient. That is how people of the city should be, really.
The rest of the numbers smell like depression. Areas supposedly colder or less sunny than Paris, obviously. But more commonly: la banlieue. Anyone walking the streets of Paris should know that les 77, les 78, les 91, les 92, les 93, les 94, and les 95 are from la banlieue, which implies that they have limited self-esteem, minimal respect for others, and an awful dose of rawness to them. These people are a direct threat on the road. Out of la banlieue numbers, two rank higher up in the Parisian’s hierarchy of numbers: 78 and 92. These two départements include very fancy towns and expensive neighborhoods. Less shameful.
Traffic in Paris seems hectic to the occasional visitor. Yet it does follow very simple rules.
Rule number one: pedestrians do not exist.
Rule number two: congestions are always caused by mud numbers. C’est ce con de 27 qui bloque tout le monde depuis deux heures. (“Some idiot from 27 has been blocking everyone for two hours.”)
Rule number three: any outrageous driving is always caused by depression numbers: Mais il est complètement con le 94. Il va tuer quelqu’un. (“This 94 is a complete idiot. He’s going to kill someone.”)
It is obvious knowledge that 75s have superior driving skills. They do live in Paris after all.
Ultimately, knowing about the origin of a fellow driver helps the Parisian anticipate the flaws of his driving style. He therefore constantly bears in mind that he will only be safe surrounded by 75s. Thus making Paris the only place on earth where people act on the road exactly as they do off it.
USEFUL TIP: Learn your départements.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Non, mais c’est ce con de 72 qui fait chier son monde! (“This 72 retard is getting on everyone’s nerves!”)
Jeans
Finding the age of a Parisian is easy.
All Parisians under fifty years old always wear jeans. All Parisians over fifty years old never wear jeans.
Jeans is the new Parisian uniform. Not wearing jeans in Paris is pure subversion.
Parisian men love their jeans, for they are a fantastic means to make a strong social statement. For those of them who wear suits at work, fun time is chill time: weekend is therefore jeans time. Regular pants would remind them of work too much. Jeans really are about freedom. So is the weekend.
For all Parisian men who do not need to wear suits at work, jeans are a shouting way to stress it. “I am no slave to the system: I work in jeans.” These Parisians have managed to turn jean wearing into an act of pure arrogance. Parisians really are brilliant.
Women also wear jeans. Constantly. While Parisian men usually own two or three pairs, it is frequent for Parisian women to own up to
ten pairs of jeans. When it comes to choosing a pair of jeans, Parisian women only ask themselves one question: Est-ce qu’il me fait un gros cul? (“Does it make my ass look big?”) Yes, Parisian women can be rude like that. While Parisian men tend to stick to blue jeans, Parisian women do not hesitate to broaden their horizons, wearing black and occasionally gray. Style is about daring, isn’t it?
As with every uniform, wearing jeans comes with a few rules.
Rule number one is that jeans are never to be worn with sneakers in Paris. A person walking the streets of Paris wearing jeans and New Balance shoes is American. The only exception to that rule is Converse shoes. This exception works for both genders. Converse and jeans are OK in Paris. Rule number two of jeans wearing is what could be called the Diesel controversy. Wearing Diesel jeans sends out a message that the wearer is OK with spending 300 euros (U.S.$400) on a pair of jeans. And he’s happy to throw that piece of information in your face. Which, of course, will make him the target of much talk, much to his delight.
Tucking in or not tucking in the shirt becomes the final assertion of one’s personality. For men, collared shirts ought to be tucked in. Always. T-shirts and polo shirts ought not to be. Ever. For women, tucking in is always a bad idea.
Reaching a form of happiness in Paris implied internalizing certain codes and refusing certain habits. Thus, Parisians will always refuse not to wear jeans, as they will refuse to wear short-sleeved shirts. These two rules are milestones of contemporary Paris’s defining moral system.
Stuff Parisians Like Page 5