Paris

In all the movies, Paris is always portrayed as the most romantic city in the world. I've been to Paris, France. It's just not. It IS one of the few places I will probably never visit again.

Paris was the last stop on our British Literary Tour--and no, France is not part of Great Britain, but our professors decided to include it anyway. The very first exposure I had to a native Frenchman was our bus driver. Apparently he didn't think it was his job to load our suitcases beneath the bus, so he proceeded to throw our luggage inside, regardless of the possibly fragile contents. And he had very bad body odor. So far my first five minutes in Paris were holding up all the stereotypes.

The hotel had a certain charm--very narrow stairwells and an old, old elevator that took ages to rise and fall. I think our host was a much better example of the native attitude. He was very polite and helpful, yet there was always a vague sense of misunderstanding in his manner. It was exotic; not having much experience with foreign cultures and customs, I could understand the words coming out of his mouth, but the attitudes and facial expressions were all unfamiliar, and I was unsure of myself. 

Whenever I meet someone new, there is always a period of adjustment. I must learn how long of a pause the other person takes between speaking their ideas, how close I should stand, what kind of humor they possess. It was the same with this hotel manager, with the added element of a different language and cultural upbringing. Fortunately, I believe that most people are good--starting with this assumption makes learning about others easier. We both want to understand each other, and that desire allows us to make mistakes with each other.

I am reminded of another experience with a foreign man. Our very first night abroad, we stayed in a hostel in Ireland. All the rooms had showers, but no towels. The man on duty informed us that the towels would be put in our rooms that evening, as soon as he had a free moment. About half an hour later, I and my companion had finished settling into our rooms, so we went back down to the lobby and offered to bring the towels up for the man. He seemed very irritated by the offer, and basically told us rushy Americans to just wait, the towels would get there when he was ready. I thought I was being helpful, expediting the process, taking the duty off his mind. He thought we were being pushy, impatient Americans.

If something as simple as an offer to carry towels can be misconstrued, no wonder we have such a difficult time with other nations, or with people as close as our own family! There's also the possibility I simply read too much into the man's reaction. It was late in the day; perhaps he was simply tired or hungry. (I have learned since getting married that more often than not, a hearty meal and good night's rest adds miles of perspective to any situation.)

But rude, smelly natives were the least of my bad experiences in Paris. Upon visiting the famed Eiffel Tower, we were bombarded by beggars. They had memorized a question in English, "Excuse me, can you read English?" to which I naively replied, "Yes." The beggars would then hold up a sign, usually written on cardboard, that asked for money. I noticed one lady had painted finger and toenails. When does a truly destitute person have time or money for nail polish? And why did I still feel guilty eating a waffle cone in front of them?

Later on I was separated from my group while we were all running to catch a ferry ride along the Seine. I waited by the pier, and as it grew darker, I noticed some flying creatures flapping overhead in the early evening dusk. Seconds later I felt a small something land on my head. Reaching up, I felt a wet stickiness on my hand: bat guano. I wiped it out the best I could with some napkins from a nearby food stand (might I add, random people kept cutting in front of me, over and over! I'm not sure if it was because I was a white foreigner, short, or female; perhaps all three.)

Alone, dirty, ignored and homesick, I waited for my peers to return. The long walk back to the hotel did nothing to lift my spirits, and believe it or not, the water heater had broken down. I had no hot water to wash the poop out of my hair!

Even the waiters had bad attitudes. I had just finished touring Notre Dam one day, with its many, many stairs, and I went with a couple other tour mates to a little cafe nearby. In Europe, most beverages are served without ice. I do not know why, it is simply a custom. We asked for ice water because it was so warm out and we had worked up quite a lather in the cathedral. The waiter literally sneered--his lip curled up and everything--realizing he was serving tourists, especially when we asked for a fresh carafe after promptly draining the first pitcher. City of love, my foot.

I am still glad for the experience, though. I can say I've seen the amazing sites--the Eiffel Tower, Mona Lisa in the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe--and I never have to go back there again. The rest of France, sure, I might visit there one day, but it will definitely NOT be at the top of my "must see" list!