by Addison Wiggin
Paris, population 8 million and rising, is a much quieter town than Baltimore, population 1 million and falling. And I'm not just talking about the murder rate.
In Baltimore, the historic community called Fell's Point where I lived, was first settled early in the 1600s, making it older--and quainter-- than many parts of Paris. I'm sure you can picture it: red brick row homes, lots of ivy, a pleasant promenade along the harbor...and home to 87 bars and restaurants.
At night, especially Thursday through Sunday, between 11 pm and 3 am, "the Point" erupts into a drunken street party, as the bars and restaurants disgorge their contents into the night. It's not uncommon for residents to catch suburbanite co-eds urinating on their doorstep. Yes, women too. The police in the neighborhood ride horses and dirt bikes. You can hear frat-calls two and three blocks away, proving incontrovertibly that testosterone and alcohol are substances better left unmixed.
When in Paris...
By contrast, this neighborhood in Paris boasts a cafe, market, gallery, or pub at the street level in every building. The number of establishments where a young man can get a drink surely exceeds eighty-seven. But for the most part, the festivants are already in the street, and there's little disgorging done as the bars and cafes close. People just mingle away.. The only public excrement, at least that I concern myself with, is left by Pierre the Poodle and his little buddies. Of which there are many.
The police here ride around in little tin cans. They carry no weapons.
Though I sleep with the windows open, I barely hear the kind of late-night hooterall I've come to expect in Fell's Point. Even the thriving pub scene that dominates the little neighborhoods just west of Place de La Bastille is tame by comparison. Sure the French get drunk. But they prefer to sing afterwards.
In the studio at 49 Rue Mazarine, I am currently living alone. Still I am, by far, the loudest person inhabiting the 16 apartments here. And I'm quite sure the neighbors directly below take it personally when Americans try to practice the local customs. Maybe it's just my voice.
I walked home last night at 3am from Place de La Republique. Following the Rue Temple, I wondered south through the heart of the city for nearly 45 minutes. It was a feat I would never even consider in Baltimore. Yet the only people I ran into were small groups of revelers, singing or just strolling. At one point I even struck up a conversation with a few. We talked briefly about housing prices in the 4th Arrondissement. They told me Americans get hosed when we rent apartments in their city.
At least, I think that's what they said. They seemed nice.
All Parisians Are Nice
In fact, if you really want my opinion. They're too nice.
In the office where I'm spending my "vacation," for example, when a person decides they'd like a cup of coffee, he or she formally offers everyone else a cup. If I were to follow this particular custom with the same verve, I could--at any given moment--find myself making 6 cups of coffee.
Curiously the French prefer what Americans would call "instant" coffee. There is no coffee maker. No coffee service. Just hot water and a couple scoops of Nescafe. The milk comes in little bottles you can buy on the shelf unrefrigerated. And this particular lot is fond of sugar. So making 6 cups of coffee...is a lot of freakin' work.
I am clever, though. I wait for someone else to develop a hankering, then offer a few "oui, oui, mercis"... and voila, coffee. Functional illiteracy has its perks.
Equally curious, my new office-mates tell me I work too hard. "You are in France now," they say. "You must learn to relax." True. True. Unfortunately, I still work for an American. One who's fond of working 12-hour days. I just hope the employment inspector doesn't see the light on.
Bureaucrats? Not Today
Today, I had hoped to tell you interesting things about the national French pastime: government. For example, that the rate of growth in bureaucratic agencies is currently outpacing all other periods in this erstwhile Republic's history--except during the Reign of Terror. Alas, a few things got in my way. Namely, other Americans. (See below) So I'll leave the bureaucrats for another day. For now, just try to imagine friendly people greeting you in Paris. It's hard, I know. But you can do it.... C'est la vie.
a) Over the weekend, I was invited to attend a party hosted by three Americans working in the Paris office of Cisco Systems. I found their apartment in a lavishly re-appointed building along the Rue Monsieur Prince.. The food spread alone was larger than my studio. The roof offered a 360-degree view of Paris at night. And the women looked like they'd stepped off the cover of Mirabelle directly into their private elevator. Phil, one of the party-throwers, plans to retire next year. He's 28.Addison Wiggin is an American writer living in Paris. This article originally appeared at Liberzine.com.b) Some American friends of mine are in town from Waterford, Ireland. Paris is the kind of city where you rarely need to travel. Friends will seek you out. Even if they don't like you. c) Les convoyeurs (truck drivers...of armored cars, in this case) are still on strike. ATMs in Paris are still empty. But apparently it's not enough to grind the city to a halt. So they've upped the ante. They've taken to driving four armored cars abreast around the beltway at about 20 mph during rush hour, bringing traffic to a crawl. For a population accustomed to speeding about in excess of 100 mph this has got to be frustrating.
d) I have discovered why they are on strike, too. Just as those of us in civil society might apply for a loan, terrorists in the countryside use armored cars as a source of funding. They fire hand-held rockets at the cars, destroying them completely. And les convoyeurs inside also. Ninety percent of the money survives. Thus la greve (the strike). How it will put an end to the attacks, I haven't figured out just yet. But I'll let you know when I do.
e) I see medical residents have walked out in Paris. And motorcycle drivers have been gathering and driving en masse through the city streets once a week since I got here. Again, I'll let you know...
f) Lastly, I can see the Eiffel Tower from the window above my toilet. Which is, coincidentally, located in a different closet from my douche (shower). After dark it sparkles. The Eiffel Tower, that is.
