Rude Parisians

I had repeatedly heard tales of the vicious Parisian rudeness toward foreigners, especially Americans who made insincere or at least faultingly incompetent attempts at communication in French. Now I am a very sincere person but my French has serious faults. Yet, the Parisians I encountered were delightfully playful and patient. They understood, or acted as though they did. They smiled. They laughed with me at our outrageous combinations of French, English, and hand signs. It was fun. Viva la Parisians.

However, the road, or sidewalk to be precise, was another kettle of eels. The Parisians have a laissez faire attitude toward traffic rules and signals and fellow travelers down the rue of life. A red light is a general guide to be factored into other items such as traffic conditions, weather, how late you are for the matinee with your mistress. Neither pietons nor drivers pay much attention to signs, regulations, or each other. It is an act of faith that a car will hit no one. An act that I once observed to fail a non-believer as she stepped oblivious into traffic near the Eiffel Tower. Four police cars and two ambulances arrived to administer to each other and swear at the passing motorists who were momentarily confused by armed targets in the road.
Back to the sidewalk derby where elbow pads and nightsticks would be helpful. Parisians take to the sidewalks with an haute air (sponge baths and bidets don't cut the Dijon) of malicious indifference to sojourners down the yellow brick road into the 7th Arrondissement.

My first day on the mean streets of Paris was spent busily and constantly side-stepping the on-coming pedestrians who saw me but who, like possessed people in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, did not register my existence (I walk, therefore I am.) and with no emotion plowed me from their paths without a pleasant or even unpleasant "Pardon."

The next morning, I scrapped the dog poop from my shoes and vowed I would move aside for neither man, woman, child, nor one of those silly little faux doggies they drag around. I fortified myself with a double pastry and a single espresso. Loins girded and bladder full (Where are the toilets in this town?), I ventured forth into the capital. I hit the streets running, like a maniac roller derby goon. Those French guys were going down. I didn't flinch. I didn't bother with eye contact. "Enemy contact, sir. Range and bearing. Sound for collision. Run silent, run deep. Away all boats. We'll play 'em one game at a time." You get the picture, and it wasn't pretty. Lafayette, your butt's mine.

A brush here. A slight bump there. Nothing drastic. They kept missing me. I caught one or two with a quick thrust of an elbow or rapid change of direction, but these Frogs were good at hoping out of the way. It was all a Gallic bluff and it was galling me. Last minute serves by little old ladies who didn't seem to break stride or conversation were exasperating my efforts at revenge American style. Their brusque, aggressive swagger on the sidewalk was just a stance, an attitude, a pretense of honor and pride that went before a fall. It was a modern day Maginot Line.

On my second day, I was somewhat more successful. I nailed a woman who walked straight into me with eyes firmly fixed on mine. What was wrong? Didn't she understand the rules of engagement? This is Paris, where style wins over substance, lady. She looked up at me and muttered something in German.