After wrestling my mammoth suitcases into the cab and combatting commuter traffic into Paris, I finally arrived at my hotel, The Hotel Monna Lisa (yes, how cliché could I get?). The hotel was immaculate, the concierge was very kind and the location was magnificent. Located on the Rue de Bôetie, right off of the Champs-Elysees, the heart of Paris was only a leisurely stroll away. Upon arriving I decided to embrace Paris by taking a walk down the Champs-Elysees. I had only been to Paris once before this current adventure—for a day trip while studying in Belgium—and although I had seen a lot of the city, my former 24-hour experience barely counted. Despite not having spent a lot of previous time in Paris, as I strolled through the vibrant city I felt comfortable, I felt familiar, I felt home.
At one point during my walk I was accompanied by a young gentleman named Richard. While walking through a small park before entering the Jardin des Tuilleries, a young man walked past me moving in the opposite direction. As he passed, he said, “Très belle,” and I, pretending to put on airs as a French woman, simply walked by without comment, pause, or reflection. A second later, he approached me and asked if we could walk together for a bit. My inability to say no, meant yes to him and he introduced himself while we walked. He was a very nice man and I did enjoy his company for the few minutes that we walked together, but considering my status as a foreigner who was ALONE in Paris, I decided to break off our rendez-vous. Richard never detected that I was American (or so I suspected) and we conversed in French while we walked down the Champs-Elysees. After Richard’s several offers of coffee—which I had graciously denied—we bid adieu to one another and I continued my walk to nowhere in particular.
While walking in the jardin des tuilleries I came upon a beautiful fountain that was an oasis to lounging locals who were sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. I found the nearest chair and sank into the surprisingly comfortable metal lounge. As the sun beat down on Paris, I enjoyed a peaceful nap amidst the hustle of Parisian life.
After my encounter with Monsieur Richard and my peaceful, Parisian oasis, my “accepted” existence in France was enhanced by a touring French man. While standing at a cross walk, a gentleman approached, “Bonjour Madame,” he greeted in beautifully accented French. “Savez-vous où il y a un macdo près d’ici?” Having understood perfectly well that he was asking for the location of the nearest McDonald’s, I responded in French and directed him down the Champs-Elysees. I couldn’t believe that I, a foreigner, would be asked for directions while in Paris. Perhaps I had given off the air of being French?…I could only hope.
Later in the morning, my thoughts about the perception I was projecting were validated. I decided to pick up a French newspaper so I could be up to date with the latest happenings in my new country. While at the presse shop I scanned the papers in search of “Le Figaro.” The store had every newspaper imaginable: The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, newspapers written in Italian, Dutch, Flemish, German, Arabic. I found every newspaper except “Le Figaro.” Obviously witnessing my lost expression as I frantically continued to scan the stacks of Hindi, Japanese, and Mandarin newspapers in search of one written in French, the newspaper man (for lack of a more sophisticated title) asked if I needed any assistance. I responded in French that I was looking for “Le Figaro” and had not been able to find it. The newspaper man (l’homme des journaux?) looked at me quizzically before pointing to the front of the store (duh! I should have figured or at least noticed). After shamefully walking to the front of the store, red-faced with embarrassment, the newspaper man asked in French where I was from. I told him I was from America and he was very impressed with my knowledge of French. He told me that I “looked French” and that he presumed I was very smart because although American, I could speak French. I thanked him for the compliment (perhaps backhanded insult at Americans), and walked back to my hotel with a new feeling of existence and the comfort of acceptance.
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