USEFUL TIP: Expats should not be shy about talking to Parisians. They will usually be very much welcome.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Je peux venir avec mon copain expat? Tu sais, l’Américain, de Boston . . . tu vas voir, il est très sympa. (“May I come with my expat friend? You know, the American from Boston . . . you’ll see, he’s great.”)
Les Droits de l’Homme
Parisians can tolerate many things. But there is one thing they are not ready to mess with. One thing that if you touch, you will get in big Parisian trouble. One holy thing, superior to all others: les droits de l’homme (“human rights”).
Parisians are insanely into human rights. It is their alpha and their omega. The square to their circle. The divinity they all worship. Unfortunately, Parisians have grown to believe that France was le pays des droits de l’homme. This modest belief, probably rooted in the French revolution’s Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen in 1789 makes France morally responsible for any attempt against human rights on the planet. The French have to intervene, thus annoying most other countries who view as arrogance what the French view as generosity. That Plato, Marcus Aurelius, the Old Testament, Saint Paul, the Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, Bartolomé de la Casas, or George Mason were all anterior to the French Revolution does not seem to bother Parisians. That the United Nations adopted la Déclaration Universelle des Droits de l’Homme in 1945 doesn’t either. Human rights is a French concept and France should in that matter be the lawyer, the judge, and the sheriff.
Parisians in their utter courage are always prone to dénoncer toute atteinte aux droits de l’homme. They will protest by signing petitions, attending free concerts, wearing provocative T-shirts, and even, sometimes, joining des manifestations de soutien (“support protests”—a very French concept). All these are extremely helpful. Because it is extremely left wing, the French media thrives on the concept of droits de l’homme. In the sneakiest of ways, they present most things they disagree with as une atteinte aux droits de l’homme. Beautifully enough, according to the French media, France is probably the country in the world where attacks against human rights are the most shocking. Examples are countless and all generously criticized in the media: French prisons are dirty and overcrowded (atteinte aux droits de l’homme), illegal aliens are being sent back to their countries (atteinte aux droits de l’homme), some people are poor (atteinte aux droits de l’homme). . . .
The few Parisians left that sense in this disastrous droits de l’hommisme a form of vaguely pleasing option for the weak minds will be considered right wing and usually banned socially. Le droit de l’hommisme satisfies those deprived of realism, culture, and courage: it does wonders in Paris. In their utter knowledge of foreign cultures, Parisians feel like bragging overseas that their impotent flag has any impact on the policy of the Chinese, Russians, or Arabs. It is true that these people are probably quite annoyed with those free concerts. Instead of trying to reverse the trend of their dying influence and power, Parisians are happy to merely protest. Unfortunately, their ignorant and childish attitude is loud enough to resonate in a way that French politicians feel like they need to act on. Thus making France happily fall in the droits de l’homme well.
Interestingly enough, the same Parisians that protest against the unbearable attacks against human rights worldwide have no problem vacationing in Cuba or Myanmar. They are certainly bothered by the fact that some of the things they buy might be made by underpaid children in China or India but not to the point to rank that as une atteinte aux droits de l’homme. And it’s only fair. For when you think about it, protesting against yourself might very well be une atteinte aux droits de l’homme.
USEFUL TIP: Not a tip, just a prayer for you Anglos out there. Please don’t let this mentality take over all the West. Please. Also, read The Camp of the Saints by Jean Raspail. Great book.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Attends, mais on est quand meme en France, c’est scandaleux. . . . On est quand meme le pays des droits de l’homme. (“Wait, I mean we’re in France. It’s scandalous. . . .This is the human rights country, this can’t be happening.”)
Le Métro
Parisians and their metro are an old couple. After years of frequenting each other daily, they know each other inside and out. On a good day, they manage to realize how precious they are to one another. On a bad day, every little hitch will make the presence of the other unbearable.
The metro is not jealous: for most Parisians, the metro has been the moving theater of fleeting passions and poetic rifts. Every decent Parisian has fallen in love several times in the metro—complete strangers becoming in those enchanted tunnels the subjects of ephemeral infatuations. Those six-minute love stories—mute and delicious. For hopeless romantics, line 1 in the spring or summer is like a gift from heaven. Is it a fashion show? Nope, it’s the metro. When it comes to people watching, Parisians know that cafés are overrated: the metro is the real deal. Geared up with a book or an iPod, the Parisian is ready to explore otherness with discretion.
The choice of entertainment accessory will help brush up the Parisian’s metro profile. An iPod will make him appear like another sheep while a book will make him look smart. The choice of the book is crucial: mainstream books and current bestsellers are to be avoided—vulgar. Edginess is good but should not be pushed too far. The safest and most refined option is going with a classic. Playing the décalé card is also an option: cartoons for twelve-year-olds are always a big hit for the dandy. The killer trick, the ultimate book remaining is Le Petit Prince—the prettiest, single most elegant invitation to living a beautiful life. Pulling it out in the metro is like making a flower grow in a desert; it creates a moment.
At the end of the day, metro players are real romantics. The women that charm them rarely suspect how lovely they can make the journey, between Étoile and Rivoli.
Not all rides, though, constitute beautiful parentheses enchantées in a Parisian day. Some stimulate the Parisian’s need to complain (unusually rightly so in that case): common topics usually have to do with odors, temperature, slowliness, punctuality, and the favorite of all: strikes. Parisians cannot stand metro strikes. On a strike day, they will systematically use the word prise d’otages. Line 14, which has the good taste of being fully automated, never goes on strike. It is as such many a Parisian’s preferred line.
In all cases, the worst of all metro lines is still more enjoyable than the regional rail service. Those long trains are deeper, faster, and venture out to the suburbs. Exploring the depths of the region’s public transportation system is a painful thought to most Parisians. They can handle heat, smells, and strikes, but really—not banlieusards.
Most of the time, the Paris metro happens to look like a world championship of depression on rails. Provinciaux love to pick on Parisians for that: Oh, eh, vous faîtes tous la gueule, vous les Parisiens, dans le métro. Fair enough. Two weeks after his arrival, it is good to know that a vast majority of provinciaux usually become serious contenders for a medal in this bucolic championship. When it comes to qualifying le métro, two adjectives have Parisians’ preference: pratique and rapide. Both apply quite well indeed. Though, to some Parisians, the balance of comfort outweights the pratique et rapide one. For them, two options remain: leaving Paris or buying a scooter.
Walking the streets of Paris and watching the countless scooters attests that no matter how much Parisians change, they are still more prone to take a new lover than to leave their old spouse.
USEFUL TIP: Get a credit card with a chip and ride a Vélib’.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Tu prends la 4. Toc, trois stations et t’y es. Facile. Bon, on se voit ce soir. J’te fais la bise, je file, j’suis à la bourre . . . (“You take the 4. Three stops and you’re there. Easy. Good, I’ll see you tonight. Have to run, I’m late . . .”)
Le Chèvre Chaud
The most popular appetizer in Paris is le chèvre chaud (“warm goat cheese”). Several denominations may apply for it:
tartine de chèvre chaud, salade de chèvre chaud, croustillant de chèvre chaud . . . but the concept is always the same: take fresh goat cheese, slice it thinly, place the slices on some bread, put it all in the oven for a little tanning session, and serve with green salad and vinaigrette.
The Parisians that are the most keen to order chèvre chaud are the ones qui font attention—understand, those who are concerned about their weight. For some very odd reason, most Parisians consider chèvre chaud to be very healthy. As if the presence of green salad, combined with the virginal whiteness of goat cheese and the grease-free contribution of the oven annihilated the fact that bread is still bread and cheese still cheese.
In terms of bread, two main options exist: the first one consists of putting one slice of cheese on each slice of bread. The bread in that case will be more of a crouton-style, usually from a baguette. The other option, which is also the most common, is a larger slice of bread, usually thinner, too. Drop the Poilâne name and it will seal the deal (Poilâne bread is one of the rare food products where gourmet Parisians accept to opt for name rather than taste).
Restaurateurs who have grandes salades on their menu will usually offer une grande salade de chèvre chaud. Still feminine as a salad should be, but substantial enough to a normal person (read not a Parisienne). The contrast of temperature reinforces the main course vibe that comes with this salad. As a comparison, only one salad in France can be considered straight-up masculine and therefore more substantial than la chèvre chaud: that is La Périgourdine and the duck galore she comes with (gésier, magret de canard, foie gras, green beans, and green salad). La Périgourdine has obviously lost any connection to femininity.
No Parisian woman could ever order a Périgourdine. This is a salad for boys. La salade de chèvre chaud is a salad for girls and for girly boys. Much more suited to Paris, really.
USEFUL TIP: At home, just add honey, pepper, and maybe some sesame seeds to look like a superstar chef.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Alors, pour moi, le chèvre chaud . . . deux, trois . . . OK, quatre chèvres chauds. (“So for me, warm goat cheese . . . two, three . . . OK, so four warm goat cheeses.”)
Barack Obama
Most men have qualities and defects. Not Barack Obama. To Parisians, Barack Obama is all qualities. He is the friend, the big brother, the father, and the lover they’d like to have. His deep and reassuring voice, his apparent intelligence and temperance make him the leader Parisians would love for their country.
Over the past twenty years, Paris has massively changed sociologically and therefore politically. The increase in rent and property value has pushed most families and modest households outside the city. The arrondissements of the center have turned into a gigantic tourist supermarket with hotels and apartment rentals. The once ghetto arrondissements closer to the péripherique have been slowly but surely gentrified by a new cast of young professionals identified as bobos (bourgeois bohèmes). Paris thus shifted from a right-wing city to a left-wing city. Seeing Barack Obama run the United States is therefore a pure delight for these new Parisians. He’s left wing enough, but not as backwards as the French left can be (side note: this does not prevent bobos from voting for the backwards French Socialist Party—anything that is not right wing is their rule).
Barack Obama’s skin color is another element that satisfies Parisians to the highest level. While America has managed to offer the conditions for the establishment of significant African-American middle and upper-middle classes, France has not. Integration of immigrants of African descent into French society is overall quite poor compared to that of other communities. The Parisian bobo is not ready to face such a striking reality. Seeing a dark-skinned man access the most powerful position in the world is to him a sign that he is right: there is no problem with immigrants of African origin, since they can even become president of the United States of America. In order to let everyone know how good his heart is, he’s always quite prompt to explain that the problem is not culturally a certain category of immigrants but instead and exclusively French society. Racist, oppressive, close-minded French society. A quick look around at that stage might prove him right as indeed, among his friends sitting there listening to him, it will be unlikely to find any dark-skinned people.
Under the governance of George W. Bush, Parisians had extended the scope of their enlightened judgment. France was not the only racist, oppressive, and close-minded country in the world. So was the United States. Today, the Parisian finds himself quite troubled at explaining how Americans managed to elect Barack Obama. In a very Parisian analysis, they will talk about the charisma and charm of the man. But rarely admit the obvious flaws of their previous analysis. Parisians are so scared of coming across as racist that they will adore in a sickly manner any presentable person of African descent. In an ironic whiff of good consciousness, they give kudos to the civilized dark-skinned man. Recent rankings of the most popular people in France have steadily honored French people of African descent (Yannick Noah, Zinédine Zidane, Djamel Debbouze).
In the end, the Parisian is just a dreamer; he would like for his flawed vision of reality to be reality. No matter how off it is, he will use any little hint that could prove him right to support his case. The hope most Parisians share for a French Barack Obama testifies to their same approach to the world. One where constructive pragmatism and hopeful realism don’t weigh much faced with dreamy denial and travestied fear.
USEFUL TIP: Sarah Palin? Really?
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Oh, putain, mais Barack Obama quoi . . . mais quelle classe ce mec: le charisme, élégant, posé. . . . Et puis chapeau quand même. (“Oh, putain, I mean Barack Obama . . . he’s in a different league: charisma, intelligence, elegance. . . . Plus I mean congratulations to him.”)
Saint-Germain des Prés
Some neighborhoods have it all: the looks, the money, the energy, the legend, and the culture. Saint-Germain des Prés is one of those.
Parisians love to meet up in Saint-Germain for un ciné à Odéon, un verre rue de Buci, un peu de shopping rue du four, une soirée rue Guisarde . . . There, Parisians feel like real Parisians, taking full advantage of their Parisianity. Observing and displaying style, sensing civilized crowds, surfing on both the heart and soul of the city. Simply being—in the place to be.
Conveniently enough, the Parisian has changed just as much as Saint-Germain has. The legend of this quartier was built over the vibrancy of its intellectual life: Diderot, D’Alembert, Marat, Danton, Boris Vian, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Godard, Truffaut, Prévert, Giacometti . . . Over the centuries, all these characters made Saint-Germain des Prés the epicenter of a certain Parisian life.
Today, the course of this local history is on hold. Legend and beauty have a value—which is high in a global world. Tourists and poseurs have therefore replaced intellectuals, clothing stores opened where bookshops closed, local shop owners sold their leases to big international brands. Saint-Germain has changed. Preserving its beauty but happily stepping on its legend. Everything has its price, and Saint-Germain has cashed in on its.
Yet Parisians are not bitter about it. Most do not even suspect that such changes have happened, and are still happening. They, too, have changed. Entertainment and looks have become more crucial to most Parisians than intellectual life or authenticity. They have grown to understand what money does and to be mostly fine with it.
The Roman Empire thrived on giving its people panem et circenses (literally “bread and games”). Our current empire applies the same recipe and keeps its good people in the same felicity. Since Saint-Germain provides excellent panem and great circenses, it will come as no surprise that all the citizens of the global empire flock to Saint-Germain des Prés to taste its delights.
USEFUL TIP: Pop your collar.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: On se retrouve à Odéon et on avise. (“Let’s meet up at Odéon and then we’ll play it by ear.”)
Not Drinking Wine
It is very eas
y to spot tourists in a Parisian café. They are the ones drinking wine.
The image of wine in France could not be more different from what it is in Anglo countries. There, wine is sophisticated, edgy, cool, sexy, and refined. In Paris, it is just the opposite.
Up until a few years ago, the Parisian associated two mythologies with the concept of wine: on the one hand, wine was very high-end, pricey, and too refined for his palate; on the other, it was somewhere between le gros rouge qui tâche and le petit vin simple, a drink of little pretension and minimal interest, with a bit of a drunken grandpa’s connotation. Most Parisiens drank their daily wine as a reflex, for it was simple and very affordable.
But times have changed, as France became the most boringly hygienist country in the world and domestic wine consumption plummeted. The French drink less and less, and the share of wine in their alcohol consumption has eroded significantly to the benefit of beer and spirits (supported by large corporations and excellent marketing and PR strategies—especially compared to those of the French wine industry).
During dinner, younger Parisians do not opt for wine automatically. Water, beer, and cocktails are serious rivals (water having no rival at lunchtime). To relax, most opt for beer or coffee, except in the summer when they might go rosé. Close intimacy between young Parisians and their beer shows in that they have nicknames for it: une bière will usually be called une binch, une binouze, or une mousse. Brands of beer even have their nicknames (“16” for 1664, “Kro” for Kronenbourg). Ironically enough, the same pattern can be witnessed in Anglo countries, but with wine (“vino,” “cab,” “chard,” “sauv blanc,” “Two-Buck Chuck”). To party in Paris, wine is simply out of the question: party is about gin, vodka, and whiskey. At home, very few Parisians will pop a bottle of wine open after a long day at work. Pastis or whiskey is usually the drink of choice for the Parisian’s homey apéro. Wine all in all is left alone by younger Parisians: ostracized.
Stuff Parisians Like Page 17