An American in Paris

Where the entire capital seems to have conspired to appear welcoming and undermine the dreadful reputation of Parisians

As soon as it starts nagging at me, I need to know: Are Parisians really arrogant snobs? In other words, are we really that pathetic with tourists? This is timely, as I have to write a piece on Paris, and this morning, at the Roissy Airport, I’ve just arrived from Miami. What if I chanced it? Okay, I’ll do it: For today, I am an American in Paris. An American who speaks English and goes straight to the Paris Visitors Center. The nice lady at the counter speaks my language perfectly, and when I ask where the Paris maps in English are (because there are some in Spanish, Italian or German), she responds, “We don’t have them in English for now, but it’s the same map inside.” Then she points to the exit for taxis, “Gate 11.” A black mark and a brownie point.

Outside, it’s mighty cold; needless to say, it was better in Miami. The guy at the end of the taxi line, in his neon-colored cardigan, looks at the paper on which I’ve scrawled my address. “Can I get there by taxi?” I ask. “Yes, sure, you can,” he answers, with a big smile. There’s something fishy here. In the taxi, it’s even worse. It’s outrageous. The driver speaks English. Yes, it’s true! He asks where I come from, and if I spent the night in the airport because, he assures me, “3,000 spent the night here yesterday.” There’s either a hidden camera, or the Paris tourist information office has followed me. Outside, it’s grey, there’s still snow on the shoulder, the road isn’t entirely cleared and the traffic is hellish. Ah, I tell myself, he’s going to scam me on the trip — everyone knows that the Parisian taxi is a hyena that devours its tourist prey, the poor victim who doesn’t speak French and can’t demand his “preferred route” in a dry tone. In fact, he does take an unusual route. I’ve caught him. But no. In the end, the ride costs me 10 euros more than usual, though much less than what I would have had to shell out if we had remained trapped on the beltway. And he waves kindly when I get out. This article is not getting off to a good start.

A Conspiracy

Joseph de Maistre Street, in the 18th district. I take possession of my apartment for the night: a nice, well-furnished, one-bedroom place in front of a small square — a tourist’s fantasy. The Amandine Street Agency organized my “trip.” Its founder, Amandine, thoughtfully left the following in the tiny kitchen: a goat cheese shaped like the Eiffel Tower, a small bottle of wine, some bread, jam, tea, coffee and a madeleine — all things whose delicate scent remind me that France really isn’t all that bad. Amandine is also fluent in English and greets all her clients in the apartments, while describing the custom-made trip that she has created for them. It would seem that we French are not so bad in the tourism industry. It bothers me to reveal this kind of information, and it is going to harm the dreadful and carefully maintained reputation of Parisians.

Tonight, hardly any doubt remains: It’s a conspiracy. At the Cave des Abbesses, our neighbors smile while squeezing together to make room for us — my friend Liz, a real American, and me. And the staff takes our order in English. As for the waiter at the Miroir at the Rue des Martyrs, he can explain the entire menu in Shakespeare’s language — from the very good foie gras with orange to the moist chocolate-caramel cake, by way of the tender veal. No, truly, there’s no way to work with these Parisians.