A Kinder, Gentler Paris?

Five years ago, Mike and I spent three months living in Paris. We were part of a group of about 15 Columbia Law School students who were splitting their last semester between two well- known Parisian schools: the Sarbonne and Sciences Po.

Mike and I lived in different parts of the city, attended different classes, and commanded varying levels of French fluency (read: I could generally get by, whereas Michael could count the phrases he knew on one hand). Yet we came away with an overwhelmingly similar impression, and one that was echoed by many of our peers: Paris was incredible, invigorating, irresistible... but the residents of this beautiful city made life hard. Despite the beauty and charm of the City of Light, we felt beaten down by the grind of unhelpful shopkeepers, snooty restaurant owners, rude service industry employees, and apathetic passers by.

We had spent the last 3 years living in New York City, so we weren’t exactly country bumpkins, and yet we felt an everyday undercurrent of animosity as we wandered the rainy streets, gazing into the beautiful window displays of boulangeries and fromageries, stumbling over check-out line conversations with mean store clerks who imitated our American accents.

An early incident epitomized things perfectly: on New Years Eve, two female friends and I were attacked by a group of North African guys aboard the RER train. The train was packed, and yet nobody lifted a finger to help us as we tried to fight them off, covering our heads as they hit us.

Despite all this, as time passed, our picture of Paris became rosier. The memories of snide comments faded, and the aromas of pastries, freshly baked bread, and stinky cheeses filled our imaginations. We remembered the sunny days, sitting on the banks of the Seine, sharing a bottle of wonderfully inexpensive red wine. We reminisced about the art, the fashion, the energy of it all.

And so, exactly five years after that fateful Paris semester, Michael and I returned to Paris. It was a surprise, whirlwind trip - 4 short days to relive memories and make new ones – and Paris did not disappoint. We ate, we drank, we shopped, we wandered, we gazed at the Eiffel Tower and at the Seine and at the Thinker in the Rodin Museum.

But what impressed me the most, and what I will remember from our trip, were the Parisians. They were… dare I say… nice! How could this be? Paris without snooty Parisians was almost disconcerting. Like a Jewish deli with no lox.

It started on our first day, as we stumbled, jetlagged to the nearest brasserie for a café and a croissant. In halting French, I ordered my café – but my attempt at the croissant was rebuffed. “Ce n’est pas possible” (it is not possible), the waiter announced. But just as I began to break into a smile at that familiar phrase, he added one small word: “desolé” (apologies). Apologies?

It got better. Starting that evening, and continuing throughout our stay, we had pleasant interaction after pleasant interaction with gregarious and welcoming waiters, shopkeepers, bartenders, pedestrians, you name it. Sometimes we spoke in French. Often they switched to English – but not that condescending, “I won’t let you insult my ears with your philistine French” switch; a genuine, “I can speak your language better than you can speak mine and it will be easier to communicate if we both speak English” switch. They gave us recommendations, sparked up conversations, explained patiently there differences between wines and cheeses.

What changed? Was it them? Was it us? My hunch is, both.

First, the demographics in the French service industry seem to have changed markedly over the last 5 years. There are more young people working in restaurants, cafes, bars, shops, and other outlets, and these young people predominantly speak English. They also seem to be better trained in customer service. Perhaps the incentive structures within the French service industry have changed, or perhaps because these young people do not yet own their shops, they don’t have the luxury of closing up whenever they’re tired, or treating tourist customers like dirt. This is just speculation, but that was a conclusion we came to.

Second, it seems attitudes towards America, and in particular towards American culture, have warmed. By 2011 we were already well into the first Obama administration, but it seems the international community was still smarting from the Bush years. Remember Freedom Fries? And Iraq? Yeah, so did the French, and I suspect that even in 2011 we were seen as arrogant, aggressive buffoons. The Obama years have significantly rehabilitated America’s reputation abroad, and it was apparent throughout our stay (it was the lack of sneers and snarky Iraq questions that gave it way, really). Sadly, it also seems the recent terrorist acts in Paris – first at the Charlie Hebdo offices, and then the horrific series of attacks across the city in November – have instilled some sort of an empathy, or perhaps a shared plight. I suspect the solidarity our nation expressed towards theirs in the aftermath did not go unnoticed.

But we also observed a newfound appreciation of American popular culture: the ‘cool’ bars all had Brooklyn Lager on tap; the French bobos were indistinguishable from the hipsters roaming Bushwick Ave.; and Time Out Paris’ rundown of hot spots was chalk full of New York City-style speakeasies. So, compared to 5 years ago, our politics, palates and plaid all seemed to stack up better against our Parisian counterparts.

But also, Mike and I realized as we received a bill for a spectacular 160 EUR dinner, so had we. When we lived here in 2011, we wouldn’t be caught dead dropping three figures on dinner at a restaurant of this caliber. Hell, dinner would usually consist of a bottle or two of 5 EUR wine, washed down with some poulet roti or maybe a cheese sandwich. We lived like gypsies, slumming around the city in rumpled clothes, lugging big backpacks, and camping out on sidewalk corners speaking loudly in English and eating our sandwiches. In short, we didn’t exactly command respect. Moreover, we were exactly the kind of American nuisance that played into French stereotypes. Five years later, we weren’t exactly polished and our clothes were still rumpled (Michael will carry his hoodies to the grave), but we were undeniably older, and perhaps a little more dignified.

My final data point on Parisian kindness came our last morning in Paris. The night before, I had eaten some bad snails, and had gotten terrible food poisoning. So bad, in fact, that I could not make it to the airport and we had to push our flight back by a day. Our Airbnb was up, our host was coming in the next hour, and I was unable to go more than 10 minutes without vomiting. Michael valiantly struck out in search of a hotel, returning quickly with amazing news: “there is a hotel right across the street, they have vacancy, and they even dropped the price from 250 EUR a night to 95 EUR a night for us.”

With that, Michael gathered up most of our stuff and went to check us in, leaving me to gather my strength, pick up the rest of our belongings, and gingerly make my way to our new home. Battling nausea, I gathered two plastic bags full of leftover belongings, piled on all the outer garments Mike hadn’t managed to pack, and dragged myself down the stairs and out the gate, emerging onto Rue Oberkamf.

I looked across the street, and all I could see was a stationary shop. I looked right. I looked left. No hotel. No Michael.

“It isn’t across the street…” was all I had time to wail pitifully to myself before a forceful wave of motion sickness overwhelmed me. I threw my bags down, sunk to my hands and knees, and began vomiting into the gutter, cursing Michael and his shitty directions and my sorry plight. But no sooner had I taken a pause to wipe the remnants of regurgitated Gatorade from my lips than something odd started to happen: Parisians hurrying to work began stopping, asking if I was OK, bringing my bags closer to me, trying to brush me off. One offered to call a doctor. I must have looked like an absolute madwoman, gawking at them, slack jawed, with my plastic bags and a little river of red Gatorade running between my hands.

And there you have it. Five years sure do make a difference. In my humble opinion, for the better. We did not feel that anything was lost in the kinder, gentler Paris. It was still dynamic, edgy, and vibrant. But now, the Parisians added to the mix.