Stuff Parisians Like Read online

  Crossing that island feels good. Serene elegance is soothing. Beyond beautiful, it simply feels like home. You cross the island reassured. Reassured in beauty. This place seems untouched by the vicissitudes of urban life. This island does float.

  Parisians make l’Ile Saint-Louis a destination for simple and timeless pleasures. A bike ride with the children, a kiss with a stranger, a gentle stroll with a spouse. Throughout a Parisian life, l’Ile Saint-Louis becomes, year after year, the theater of times to remember. As if of all bike rides, of all kisses, and of all strolls, the one on l’Ile Saint-Louis was more precious. L’Ile Saint-Louis embellishes moments. It gives every instant more depth and more flavor. L’Ile Saint-Louis makes life worth remembering.

  Yet, l’Ile Saint-Louis is not a frequent destination for Parisians. L’Ile Saint-Louis pervades the Parisian’s soul. Its beauty can be a cumbersome companion. There is little time for this. Dispossession of self is not a Parisian specialty, so the Parisian chooses carefully its Ile Saint-Louis moments. Mostly, let’s face it, for romantic masterplans or Berthillon expeditions. But sometimes, the stroll will have no point but itself. La promenade will in that case always be bittersweet. Time passing by. Parisians like it bittersweet.

  L’Ile Saint-Louis is like a bottle thrown in Paris’s ocean. A promenade there is a way to try to get to the message inside. The message is hard to read. But some words just seem to be there, every time. Telling us something.

  Something about an island, and about a continent.

  USEFUL TIP: Go late at night.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Non, vraiment, si j’avais le choix, mon rêve, ca serait d’avoir un appart’ sur l’Ile Saint-Louis. (“No really, if I had the choice, my dream would be to have an apartment on l’Ile Saint-Louis.”)

  Considering Americans Stupid

  Parisians have a bit of a different physiology. Things like a certain inability to smile are quite well-known expressions of this phenomenon. Some are much lesser known: an interesting experience when chatting with a Parisian is to place the words les Américains in a sentence. These two words put together—in any imaginable sentence—immediately trigger a chemical reaction in the Parisian’s brain. When hearing the phrase les Américains, the Parisian will implacably lose track of his previous ideas to be taken over by one overpowering thought. That is: Oui, mais les Américains, ils sont cons.

  There is no exception to that rule. Americans are all stupid. End of story. The fact that the United States is the most successful and probably the most creative country in the world is not an argument. Nor is the fact that all Parisians deliberately wear American clothes, watch American movies, listen to American music, use American words, or fantasize about American celebrities. Americans are fat, stupid, and ugly. Period.

  Parisians who have traveled to the United States might have a more moderate opinion: they will view Americans as superficiels. Parisians of all classes see every interaction entailing a person from the United States as irremediably fake and empty. Traveling surely makes Parisians more in touch with foreign cultures.

  The immediate friendliness most Americans display at once sends Parisians insane. Mais pourquoi ils sourient? Ils sont cons ou quoi?! (“But why are they smiling, are they idiots or what?”) Friendliness, enthusiasm, and optimism are very American qualities. In Paris, these characteristics are marks of gentle intellectual decay. You do the math. In the Parisian’s mind, Americans are incapable of refinement. Capital Parisian sin. Whether their vision is based on reality or not has no relevance: of course it is.

  Parisians know for a fact that Americans’ exclusive interests are money, sports, war, and religion. Americans have no other points of interest in life. No other aspirations. That is good enough a reason for Parisians to concentrate most of their scorn for the opulence of Western life on America. It’s all America’s fault. It is true after all that Parisians by no means partake in this Western lifestyle.

  When bringing to the table that not everyone in a country like America can possibly be stupid, the Parisian usually pulls out the culture card. OK, peut-être, mais ils sont complètement incultes, c’est grave quand même. (“OK, maybe, but they are completely ignorant, it’s unbelievable.”) People saying this fall into two categories: on the one hand, people whose favorite after-work occupations consist of watching CSI, Grey’s Anatomy , or Sex and the City; on the other, people who worship Woody Allen and Philip Roth. Parisians are avid consumers of American culture and at the same time fiercely convinced that such a thing does not exist. For as Parisians put it, Woody Allen, il est pas Américain, il est New-Yorkais.

  It would be impolite at that point to bring to the Parisian’s attention that he starts to sound like the stupid American he despises so much. Plus, despite his obvious in-depth knowledge of America, chances are he might not get the joke....

  USEFUL TIP: Rest assured, most people interacting with tourists know better. They appreciate Americans’ friendliness and taste for good service (read tips). So you’re in good shape. For the optimal Paris experience, leave your New Balance shoes at home.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: “Oh my God, it’s amazing! Ha ha ha.”

  Cherry Tomatoes

  Louis Armstrong says tomato. No matter what, so does Ella Fitzgerald. Parisians, on the other hand, prefer to say cherry tomato.

  Parisians are that cool.

  Meet the thrilling cherry tomato. All the qualities of a tomato, minus the defects. When asked “Why cherry tomatoes?” all Parisians would agree that J’sais pas. J’aime bien et puis ça change. (“I don’t know. I like them, plus they’re just different.”) Say no more, impetuous Parisian—change is your passion, we all know that. We understand. Adieu tomate. Bonjour tomate cerise.

  Cherry tomatoes are everywhere in Paris. In restaurants, a quarter of a cherry tomato does wonders to decorate a plate. At a supermarket, neglectfully placing une boîte de tomates cerises in your cart shows everyone around that you can afford that extra euro. At home, cherry tomatoes have the good taste of needing no slicing. Minimal effort, maximum effect. There is now no inviting friends over for a casual dinner without serving cherry tomatoes as an addition to your aperitif. C’est tout simple mais c’est sympa, c’est frais. (“Simple and fresh.”)

  This evolution has had tragic consequences on the Paris food scene. First collateral victim: la salade de tomates. Cherry tomatoes now make presenting a plate with actual tomatoes in it cheap and passé. RIP salade de tomates. Thankfully, the Parisian leaves Paris at times. When his peregrinations take him en province, he may notice that old-school tomates still exist there. Making him resolute to give tomatoes a second chance. Organic tomatoes that time.

  Needless to say these resolutions won’t last too long in front of the cherry tomato shelf. Seductive little things ...

  USEFUL TIP: The more you slice your cherry tomato, the more civilized you will appear.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: J’ai invité Nico et Elisa pour l’apéro.Tu peux passer chez Monop s’te plait?! Tu prends une bouteille de rosé, un peu de saucisson, et des tomates cerises. Moi, je me grouille, je passe à la boulangerie avant que ça ferme! (“I invited Nico and Elisa over for appetizers. Can you stop at the store please? Get a bottle of rosé, some charcuterie, and cherry tomatoes. I’ll hurry up and swing by the bakery before it closes!”)

  The Word Putain

  The noun putain refers to a prostitute. The interjection putain refers to no one. In its most common usage, it simply vividly expresses utterly Parisian feelings like discontentment, anger, and frustration—stuck in a traffic jam: Putain, mais c’est pas possible; talking about her boss: Il est complètement con, putain. . . In those instances, the word works as a very Parisian capital letter or full stop. It is by far the most common usage of the word.

  But the reach of the word goes beyond this initial scope. Putain in Paris also defines surprise—witnessing a car accident: Oh putain; watching the clock: Putain, il est déjà deux heures? It can also be a firm injunction to
stop joking around: Putain, t’es serieux?, Attends putain, deux secondes. In the same realm, used on its own, putain in a conversation can express sympathy and interest when a sad subject is being talked about.

  Parisian 1: Et c’est là que son mari l’a quittée. (“And that’s when her husband left her.”)

  Parisian 2: Putain.

  Awkwardly enough, it can also express admiration or encouragement—talking about a really good movie: Putain, c’était hyper bien; discovering a friend’s new apartment; Putainnn; hearing that someone they knew took a trip around the world: Putain?; watching a game on TV: Allez putain!

  When followed by de, putain is used to emphasize: Il a une putain de voiture. (“He’s got a putain of a car.”) C’est un putain de restaurant. (“It’s a putain of a restaurant.”) This last usage is the only one that will be considered rude. Simply because it is the only instance where Parisians will actually hear themselves using the word.

  In the end, the word putain in Paris is used to express surprise, anger, encouragement, frustation, emphasis, or admiration. In the case of Parisians, extensive use of the word putain, in its most frequent sense, shows the social need for anger, roughness, and frustration. These are social necessities in Paris. If you are not angry about most events of life, and not ready to swear about it or even notice when you do, you clearly are not a Parisian. Putain is just another tool to blend in. Running around when everybody walks with crutches would be straight-up rude. The choice is simple for people who live in Paris: sprinkle every one of your sentences with a putain or go find a city of your own.

  While it certainly is helpful, extensive use of crutches has one disadvantage: it creates atrophies and muscular unbalances. The outcome of using putain extensively in Paris is a form of mental laziness. Making up emptiness with easy negativity: absence concealed behind a word.

  USEFUL TIP: If you don’t know what to say, just say putain.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Non mais putain . . . c’est pas possible bordel! (“Putain, this can’t be freaking true!”)

  Belgians

  Parisians are all high-flying anthropologists. They know about other people and other countries. Expertly enough, they manage to synthesize their in-depth knowledge about the people of any given country down to one adjective. This adjective cannot be challenged. Thus proving that it is accurate.

  As an example, Americans are stupid, Portuguese are hairy, Vietnamese are Chinese, and Belgians are sympa. . . . Ils sont sympas les Belges! To cheer a Parisian up, there is nothing like mentioning the word Belge. Immediately, a joyful and smily heap of thoughts will invade the Parisian’s mind.

  The Parisian will be transported to a world of accents, moules frites, and people laughing. At this point, the Parisian will most likely come up with a silly sentence delivered with a poor Belgian accent. He will most likely end that sentence with assumed Belcisim une fois. Mah tu n’es pas un peu con, une fois . . . (“Aren’t you a little stupid, une fois . . .”) Very rarely in his life will a Parisian be as happy as right after he comes up with such a sentence. Genuine Parisian bliss.

  While Belgian jokes are a French humor classic, Parisians never crack one. Too risky for their image. But they love les Belges even more as they can consider them through that comforting buffer of superiority that decades of Belgian jokes have established precisely at the border between France and Belgium. This buffer of superiority is emphasized by the Belgians’ drinking habits: Tu veux une bière, une fois?! (“You want a beer, une fois?!”) Parisians truly look down on anyone who drinks. Interestingly, this perception is slightly amended for les Belges. Parisians find their drinking habits if not cute at least typical—and ultimately quite entertaining. The fact that a Belgian could be sad or not joyful is not something the Parisian is ready to cope with. Belgians are joyful, generally drunk, and speak with a funny accent.

  Period.

  Parisians love spending time with Belgians. But these moments can only be occasional. The Parisian who spends time with Belgians runs the risk of gaining some form of lightheartedness. Parisians know better than hedging such a risk. Social threat.

  Two elements tarnish what otherwise would be a true perfect relationship for the Parisian. One, that half of the Belgians are Dutch (for Les Hollandais, ils sont chiants). Two, this habit the other half of Belgians have to use savoir (to know) for pouvoir (can/to be able). As in, Tu saurais me passer le sel, s’il te plaît. (“You know to pass me the salt, please.”) Other Belgian phrases amuse Parisians. This one makes them cringe. All the more so because the Belgian won’t change this habit—even when asked to do so by a Parisian. Disrepectful Belgians after all? The Parisian prefers to see them as children—de grands enfants (disrespectful being something the Parisian can never be).

  On top of the favorite topics talked about with a Belgian ranks Belgian politics. The Parisian knows nothing about Belgian politics except for the fact that the country is about to burst. The Parisian knows that for sure. And that’s all the Belgian politics he wants to talk about. The only relevant question in Belgian politics to the Parisian is: when is Belgium becoming part of France? At this point, le Belge usually says something about Brittany or Corsica. Then the Parisian gets offended. And talks about sex scandals in Belgium or Johnny Hallyday.

  In no time at all, a Parisian with the best intentions in the world turned a cloudless relationship into an embarassing fight scene. Had the Parisian stuck to his initial “Entertain me, Belgian man” ways, things would have been just fine.

  Really, good intentions and Parisians don’t seem to work well together. Une fois.

  USEFUL TIP: Read the comic Le Chat by the kind and talented Belgian Philippe Geluck—funny stuff.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: On a rencontré des Belges en vacances, hyper sympa. . . .Tu vois, elle, bon humour, sympa, lui, gros déconneur, très sympa aussi. Par contre, qu’est-ce qu’ils picolent! (“We met some Belgians on holiday, really great people. . . . You know she was funny and nice, and he was a joker and nice as well. But, man, do they drink!”)

  Moderation

  If qualities were diseases, moderation would be the Parisian plague.

  In Paris, no London style, no Vegas drunks, and no Rio bodies.

  Parisians prefer to the thrill of the full-on ride the comfort of the gray cocoon.

  Excess is vulgar. So they will not indulge. They will not even give it a try. Admittedly, there is no need to give things a try when you know about them already.

  Parisians never go all the way. Parisians never order that second bottle of wine. How crass. They seem to find more contentment in witnessing things than in living them. They somewhat cherish that distance. Distance is a Parisian’s best friend. A buffer between him and life. A seat belt between him and his own life. Excess is not safe. Parisians like it safe.

  In Paris, the plague has gone rampant. Moderation that once was a vague companion has become the inspiration of every decision. From the smallest one to the most decisive. A whole life governed by fear. A whole life of resolute blending in. A life dedicated to not making waves.

  One may think that moderation is a form of preservation of an existing happiness. That is not true in Paris—simply because no Parisian would ever present himself (let alone think of himself) as happy. The Parisian just preserves whatever it is he has. Even if he’s far from satisfied with it. Parisians never put themselves out there. They never aim high. Never go for the big prize. They are careful. Dreadfully careful. Excess implies forgetting about oneself for a second. There is in excess a true form of generosity. A willingness to let go and connect with others. There laid the foundations of the late joie de vivre.

  Parisians even lost sight that a whole world exists between moderation and excess. This world brings unknown and newness to the table. The Parisian is very happy not to have to deal with these. He knows very well that outside moderation only exist things like outrage and emptiness. The Parisian is too wise. Deal with it.

  When it comes to fun, true fun
in Paris is necessarily associated with excess. And therefore carefully dodged. True fun is ultimately outrageous and empty. There is no point in having real fun. Soft fun is good enough. At least it’s safe.

  The same pathological approach to reality has contaminated all fields of Parisian society. From politics to arts, from conversations to looks: moderation has taken over minds, souls, and closets.

  Paris has become a tepid city full of tepid people.

  USEFUL TIP: Resist.

  SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Bon allez, je vais rentrer, je suis crevé en ce moment. C’était cool, on devrait se refaire ça un de ces jours. (“OK, I’m gonna go home now, I’m exhausted. It was nice though, we should get together again soon.”)

  Stars

  In Paris, horizons and perspectives were all defined by man. Infinity stops right at the other end of the street. Looking up uncovers a narrow stripe of gray. Looking down as well. For Parisians, looking inside is therefore the only possibility to fathom infinity.

  One of the greatest pleasures la province treats the Parisian to is an immediate sense of the grandiosity of nature. Repressed in his city high, he lives most days with comfort and ease in nothing but concrete. Leaving the city opens new doors. It offers a new form of enchantment. The enchantment of awe. Very few things leave the Parisian belittled, somewhere between admiration and fear.