The Word From Paris: "You TELL The Americans..."
In November of this past year, we had the opportunity to spend too few days in Paris in advance of travel from Washington,D.C. to our next post in the Not-Too-Far Abroad. To say our time there was glorious, exciting and fun-filled would be an understatement. Since our days studying there in our youth, and our university days in general, we must admit to a fascination with France. As maddening as her politics can sometimes be, only the coldest of hearts could fail to recognize the essential grandeur of France, and especially that of her capital city. Our attitude towards Paris, France and the French in general mirrors that of Winston Churchill, who understood that hateful vile politics and double-dealing could and do co-exist with something as irreducibly beautiful, grand and eternal as France.
The first night there, we suggested that we dine at the Publicis Drugstore on the Champs-Elysee, mostly because, despite the misleading name, it's one damn cool spot to sit, eat, drink, smoke and talk, talk, talk. Despite the tales one hears of American-hating, bile-spewing locals, the wait staff at the Drugstore went out of their way to translate difficult parts of the menu and to suggest what turned out to be a fantastic white we had never heard of before. (Jurancon, if you must know).
Before we knew it, we were deep into what was easily the finest meal we had had in a very long time. From that good beginning, we rushed through five more good days, fitting in meals at Le Coupole, Cafe de la Paix, and Brasserie Balzar (thank you Adam Gopnik!), not to mention getting to spend time again at Harry's New York Bar. Wherever we went, we were met with kindness and consideration; we frankly don't know what the Paris haters are talking about.
All too soon, the last night came upon us and, nostalgic for the beginning, we returned to the Drugstore. Once again, the meal, the setting, the wine and the company were all incredible. After we were done, we decided to browse the newsstand (which has a truly marvelous international collection, everything from L'Humanite to High Times), and the bookstore.
At the bookstore, the "current events" table caught my eye. The books there were all, without exception, about President Bush, the Iraq War and how dangerous the United States had become. The usual domestic suspects were there in translation (Maureen Dowd, Paul Krugman, Richard Clarke, etc.), but there were also a slew of French and Latin American writers represented. Not one book offered an opposing viewpoint.
On the Metro ride home, we must admit, the overwhelming conformity and rote thinking of the European position on the U.S. rankled, and we began to rave a bit. Not too loudly, and only amongst ourselves, but bitterly.
To soothe rankled nerves, we decided to stop at a crepe cart for one last blast of the real thing before tomorrow morning's flight back to Dulles. Before too long, we spied an older, tall man with whispy white hair making and passing out crepes in a manner which suggested that crepe-making was nothing less than his metier.
"You are an artist, sir," we complemented as he handed us one butter and one raspberry crepe.
"Non," he replied, "artisan." We had forgotten the high esteem the French hold craftsmen, even if their craft be nothing more than operating the tourist elevators at the Eiffel Tower. If it is important enough to receive money for, it is important enough to do it style, verve and dedication. This is the French way and, in a sense, the key to understanding much of their domestic politics.
We idly chatted in FSI French for a bit, when, looking a bit nervous, he suddenly asked, "You are Americans?"
We steeled ourselves for the onslaught that would come. At the very least we would get a sad-toned explanation about how lamentable it was that our good friends the Americans had lost their collective minds; at worst, we would be called war-mongers and baby-killers. All we wanted was crepes.
"Yes," we said proudly. We don't have time for those lame-asses (or I suppose I should say "lame-arses") who play the Pretend to Be Canadian Game abroad. If we were going to get it, we were going to get it, but we weren't about to hide who we were, sullen crepe makers be damned.
"Well," he said in heavily-accented basic English,"I thought so. I want to tell you something, but the words I do not know too good, so please excuse if I say it wrong."
"No, it's fine. We understand you well. Go ahead."
"Well, it's just....I want to tell you...." He looked around furtively, quickly.
"What?"
"I want to tell you God bless President Bush and God bless United States of America."
We stared, amazed, not knowing what to say. He went on, with more passion now; now that he had said that he had found his stride with his form of English and the words began to flow.
"When you get home you TELL the Americans God bless George Bush and God bless the United States of America. You tell them not to believe everything they read in the newspapers, and that there are plenty French who think this. He is the best man for the job in the dangerous time we have now. You TELL them."
So we did.
The first night there, we suggested that we dine at the Publicis Drugstore on the Champs-Elysee, mostly because, despite the misleading name, it's one damn cool spot to sit, eat, drink, smoke and talk, talk, talk. Despite the tales one hears of American-hating, bile-spewing locals, the wait staff at the Drugstore went out of their way to translate difficult parts of the menu and to suggest what turned out to be a fantastic white we had never heard of before. (Jurancon, if you must know).
Before we knew it, we were deep into what was easily the finest meal we had had in a very long time. From that good beginning, we rushed through five more good days, fitting in meals at Le Coupole, Cafe de la Paix, and Brasserie Balzar (thank you Adam Gopnik!), not to mention getting to spend time again at Harry's New York Bar. Wherever we went, we were met with kindness and consideration; we frankly don't know what the Paris haters are talking about.
All too soon, the last night came upon us and, nostalgic for the beginning, we returned to the Drugstore. Once again, the meal, the setting, the wine and the company were all incredible. After we were done, we decided to browse the newsstand (which has a truly marvelous international collection, everything from L'Humanite to High Times), and the bookstore.
At the bookstore, the "current events" table caught my eye. The books there were all, without exception, about President Bush, the Iraq War and how dangerous the United States had become. The usual domestic suspects were there in translation (Maureen Dowd, Paul Krugman, Richard Clarke, etc.), but there were also a slew of French and Latin American writers represented. Not one book offered an opposing viewpoint.
On the Metro ride home, we must admit, the overwhelming conformity and rote thinking of the European position on the U.S. rankled, and we began to rave a bit. Not too loudly, and only amongst ourselves, but bitterly.
To soothe rankled nerves, we decided to stop at a crepe cart for one last blast of the real thing before tomorrow morning's flight back to Dulles. Before too long, we spied an older, tall man with whispy white hair making and passing out crepes in a manner which suggested that crepe-making was nothing less than his metier.
"You are an artist, sir," we complemented as he handed us one butter and one raspberry crepe.
"Non," he replied, "artisan." We had forgotten the high esteem the French hold craftsmen, even if their craft be nothing more than operating the tourist elevators at the Eiffel Tower. If it is important enough to receive money for, it is important enough to do it style, verve and dedication. This is the French way and, in a sense, the key to understanding much of their domestic politics.
We idly chatted in FSI French for a bit, when, looking a bit nervous, he suddenly asked, "You are Americans?"
We steeled ourselves for the onslaught that would come. At the very least we would get a sad-toned explanation about how lamentable it was that our good friends the Americans had lost their collective minds; at worst, we would be called war-mongers and baby-killers. All we wanted was crepes.
"Yes," we said proudly. We don't have time for those lame-asses (or I suppose I should say "lame-arses") who play the Pretend to Be Canadian Game abroad. If we were going to get it, we were going to get it, but we weren't about to hide who we were, sullen crepe makers be damned.
"Well," he said in heavily-accented basic English,"I thought so. I want to tell you something, but the words I do not know too good, so please excuse if I say it wrong."
"No, it's fine. We understand you well. Go ahead."
"Well, it's just....I want to tell you...." He looked around furtively, quickly.
"What?"
"I want to tell you God bless President Bush and God bless United States of America."
We stared, amazed, not knowing what to say. He went on, with more passion now; now that he had said that he had found his stride with his form of English and the words began to flow.
"When you get home you TELL the Americans God bless George Bush and God bless the United States of America. You tell them not to believe everything they read in the newspapers, and that there are plenty French who think this. He is the best man for the job in the dangerous time we have now. You TELL them."
So we did.
