There is no doubt today that the most ambitious, educated, and driven Parisian youngsters are leaving the country. One by one. Absence of serious political reaction seems to give them reason.
Once overseas, they will discover pleasures that were so far unsuspected: good money, exciting economy, challenging environment, being surrounded with driven people, and looking at the future with hope.
Evidently in France, political differences vastly lie in the definition of quality of life.
USEFUL TIP: Those Frenchies invading your country are political refugees. Treat them with care, will you.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: J’ai trop envie de me casser. J’sais pas, n’importe où: New York ca me tente bien . . . (“I’m ready to crack. I don’t know where really: New York maybe . . .”)
Clint Eastwood
Parisians like for things to be circumscribed. They like limits. They like to think that things or people cannot be more than one thing. A businessman can have no creative side, a singer can have no business sense. This is life according to the Parisian.
Some elements of life, though, teach them a different lesson. They like to think what they witness is an exception. Something or someone grandiose.
Clint Eastwood was once a gorgeous young actor. He became an immense star. Then a producer. And a director. While still acting. And reinforcing his legend status. Clint Eastwood, in that he exceeds the Parisian, seems to exceed life. Parisians are certain that having overcome his initial condition to do in life what inspired him is the sign of an extraordinary man. They reckon there is something almost divine about Clint Eastwood’s life. Parisians would never look at elements like hard work, perseverance, or connections to explain his career. The things that make other people successful are of no help for Clint Eastwood. He’s all talent. He’s all blue eyes.
The certainty that Clint Eastwood is not only a legend but also an extraordinary man reassures Parisians on his fréquentabilité .
Good-looking men happen. Good-looking and charismatic sometimes. Good-looking, charismatic, and intelligent is very rare. Good-looking, charismatic, intelligent, tough, sensitive, talented, and inspiring doesn’t. Clint Eastwood is beyond all other human beings. He has had the gift not to stick to himself. The elegance to reveal himself slowly, to pour gently his essence on the world.
Despite his godlike status, Clint Eastwood is a reassuring figure for most Parisians. In his invincibility, he is time passing by and us not caring. He is man becoming better throughout life. He is eyes remaining blue. He is the soul growing under the thick skin. Parisians worry about their eyes becoming gray and their souls wilting. They fear life is not making them a better person.
Clint Eastwood is a figure of hope. May he never die.
USEFUL TIP: The closing theme of Gran Torino is beautiful.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Clint Eastwood, c’est trop la classe. (“Clint Eastwood is so damn cool.”)
Le 1er Mai
Le 1er mai (May 1) is la Fête du Travail. In France, that means the day is off for Labor Day. This day is among Parisians’ favorite days of the year. The first of May is the beginning of spring. After many months of hibernation, the Parisian feels like he can start to blossom again. This is a perky day, full of promises and idleness.
A French tradition on May 1st is to go buy un brin de muguet (beautiful-smelling lily of the valley). Street stalls flourish for one day. The scent of the white flower enchants Paris. Every Parisian home that day will be flourished with the traditional lily. In the morning, Parisians walk the streets with a bit of sun on their skin, a bit of joy in their heart, and the satisfaction of having taken the time for traditions and a flower.
For every Parisian, May 1 brings back a set of memories. Every family has its own little premier mai tradition—a special destination, a special activity with friends. . . . The Parisian longs to have this spring tradition somehow continued. He finds in these unwritten ceremonies a way to domesticate life in a tender way that makes years going by charming and comfortable.
May is a month all Parisians love. It is usually a sunny one—which would usually explain Parisians jolliness. But if they long for it with so much anticipation, it is primarily because May is the month of les ponts.
There are three bank holidays in France in May: May 1 (Fête du Travail), May 8 (Armistice Day, WWII), and l’Ascension (reminiscence of France’s Catholic heritage). A pont corresponds to the French employee’s skillful way to take days off between a given bank holiday and the preceding or following weekend, thus making for a long weekend without diminishing too brutally their number of days off. Three bank holidays in May means potentially three ponts. May 1st for most Parisians is like the bell ringing to announce the beginning of fun time.
In terms of business, May is by no means as fully officially “off” as August is. But close enough. While it is reasonable to expect to work in May outside the ponts, it would be considered silly to think that any work could genuinely be done during a pont. There is a form of national understanding that May is about nice weekends and the matter is not subject to discussion.
The first of May kicks off ponts season and there is absolutely no reason not to be as close to happy as a Parisian can be.
Except if the Parisian did not manage to faire le pont. Life sometime is just stupidly unfair.
USEFUL TIP: When planning a trip to Paris in May, look out for les ponts.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Le 1er mai, on passé la journée chez des amis à Fontainebleau. On fait ça tous les ans, on se rerouve, on fait un grand pique-nique. (“The first of May we spent at our friend’s house in Fontainbleau. We go every year and have a picnic.”)
Le TGV
Liking is the beginning of weakness. Parisians are therefore not inclined to pour out on what they like. Yet, since considering someone weak for liking a train sounds like an unlikely possibility, Parisians can happily claim that they like le TGV.
Le TGV is France’s high-speed train. In a discussion among Parisians about the great things of France, le TGV usually comes first. All French people are in love with the train. Parisians are no exception. But while the great thing about le TGV for provinciaux is that it makes Paris closer, Parisians get to enjoy much more. Looking at the TGV map, Paris seems to be the sun. The lines departing from Paris are the rays of light illuminating a dark place called la province. Parisians surf on these rays of light.
There is nothing more expected than a discussion about le TGV. Parisians all agree that c’est hyper pratique (“very convenient”) and c’est super rapide (“very fast”). Conversations usually end with Non, vraiment, c’est top. Satisfaction all around. There is only one controversy about le TGV. That is, when it comes to going to Nice, is it faster to fly or take the TGV? No Parisian has a definite answer to that question. The twenty-first century still holds a few breathtaking mysteries.
While some Parisians use the TGV for business trips, most use it for good times. Vacances or weekends. Le TGV is the perfect partner in crime for a quick escape somewhere in France. Strasbourg, c’est deux heures vingt, Marseille, c’est trois heures. Not only is TGV quick and reliable, it is also a fantastic opportunity for the Parisian to book a first-class ticket. First-class flying is out of reach for the vast majority of Parisians, but first-class train travel is only a few euros more. Larger seats. And a plug for the Parisian’s laptop. C’est top, comme ca, je peux bosser ou regarder un film. (“It’s great, this way I can work or watch a movie.”) Small luxuries are what the Parisian longs for.
Though a cloudless love story is straight-up impossible for the Parisian, he will enjoy complaining about the price of sandwiches on board. C’est un scandale is a phrase that often resonates at that point. When a TGV is late or canceled, the Parisian will systematically complain about how anyone working for the railway company is un privilegié.
The idea that going on frequent weekend getaways to precious and enchanting regions could somehow also make him a privilegié has never crossed
the Parisian’s mind.
Just like his beloved train, the Parisian’s brain is too fast for these sorts of considerations.
USEFUL TIP: Seventy-five percent of people taking the TGV have a carte de réduction. Get one, too—very much worth it.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Allez, ce weekend, on se prend un TGV et on va quelquepart. (“This weekend, let’s take the TGV somewhere.”)
Calling People Fachos
Worldwide, a fascist is a follower or an admirer of the pre-WWII Italian Fascist regime.
In Paris, a fascist is anyone who disagrees with a Parisian and makes a point.
Parisians love to call other people fascists, or more frequently fachos. Facho is a crucial word in Paris. It can be used as a noun (C’est vraiment un gros facho) or as an adjective (Tu sais, le type un peu facho sur les bords). Being called a facho is a long-lasting stain that is impossible to remove. It is the ultimate form of offense in Paris, that of poor reasoning in service of disastrous ideas.
Facho, in the Parisian mind, is a term that can characterize a vast array of people. The rarest use of the word facho is to define extreme right-wing people. More common use of the word is to be found in situations when someone expresses beliefs and thoughts that are unacceptable to Parisians. The more brutally true the statement is, the more facho the person who says it is.
Being a facho is about making a point and presenting it without sufficient layers of doubts and qualifications.
Calling someone a facho is a fantastic way for Parisians to win a conversation. When a Parisian’s dabbling is countered by superior, non-PC, implacable reasoning, the opponent will be called a facho. To seal the victory, the Parisian will say, “On peut pas discuter avec toi” (“One can’t even discuss this with you“) or “C’est dingue de dire des trucs comme ca” (“I can’t believe you’re saying things like that”). And walk away. Victory. When calling someone a facho is too obviously excessive, the Parisian will prefer terms like poujadiste (in the case of a person making a pro–small business statement) or populiste (in the case of a politician making a statement most people agree with). Poujadisme and populisme are the roots of Fascism to the Parisian. They will be fiercely fought against. Do not support small businesses—that would make you a fascist.
In Paris, it is broadly accepted that some groups of people are fachos. All extreme right-wing activists, extreme left-wing activists, people in the military, and traditional Catholic families who spend their vacations in Brittany are fachos. No exception to this rule exists. Furthermore, all people who, at some point in their lives, have associated in a conversation related to origin, race, or religion are fachos.
No matter how relevant the argument is, in Paris, you do not want to be called a facho. Ironically enough, the thought that calling people fachos is the newest form of mental and moral police does not cross fachos callers’ minds. Facho callers are here to fight the threatening risk of one day seeing Fascism rule Paris.
With enemies like this, Fascism certainly does not need friends in Paris.
USEFUL TIP: Only use the word fasciste in political discussions. In normal conversations, facho is more relevant and usually sufficient to pour discredit over your fellow converser.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Ouais, mais Sarko c’est un facho. . . . (“Yeah, but Sarkozy is a fascist. . . .”)
Going to the Movies on Sunday
The question “What is your least favorite day of the week?” only has one answer in Paris. That is Sunday. The dreaded dimanche.
While Sundays have the same flavor everywhere in the Western world, Parisians dread it more than any other Westerner. While other Westerners might dislike the bittersweet feeling of a weekend ending and a new workweek starting, Parisians just loathe Sundays. Parisian Sundays are not bittersweet.
They are bitterbitter.
Weekends for Parisians are not strictly moments of rest. They are implicit social challenges. Each weekend, Parisians need to accomplish things worth sharing with their friends or colleagues on Monday. Weekend descriptions always start out with energetic Friday nights, Saturdays, and Saturday nights. Weekend descriptions at that point get thrilling: the Parisian can display his interests, purchasing power, or connections. The Monday morning coffee break is thus a fascinating social rundown. But the description stalls when Sunday is to be reported. Et dimanche, pas grand chose, tranquillou, repos. Plain Parisian lie: depressing boredom travestied as pleasant rest.
In more truthful conversations, Parisians happily agree that le dimanche, c’est horrible, c’est complètement mort, tout est fermé. Indeed. So dimanches in Paris come in three forms: all day at home doing nothing; all day at home doing nothing except for lunch with the family or brunch with friends; or either option sprinkled with a movie at some point during the day. People going shopping in le Marais on Sundays may well live in Paris but cannot be considered Parisians. Part of the Parisian identity is knowing that le dimanche is a lost day and not having any form of hope about it. If you have hopes for your Sunday, you’re a newbie or a tourist.
Parisians know that if reality is gray, a movie theater is a good place to try to reset its color for a while. Pitch black. Colors. Emotions. And the hope to keep sliding down that sweet toboggan for the rest of your Sunday. Paris is the city in the world with the greatest number of cinemas. Yet they are all obscenely busy on Sundays. Parisians—discreetly—remain romantics. Hopeless but romantics.
Because Sunday is a day of minimal social efforts, the film will not usually be followed by a drink. Friends who share a movie on Sunday have reached a form of friendship that does not weigh itself down with unneeded exchanges. There is in this Sunday-movie company an unspoken declaration of friendship: “Yes, my Sunday sucks but I’m happy to show that to you.” No masks needed. No extra conversations needed—the line was long enough. Demain sera un autre jour. This Sunday movie has a Sunday taste.
It is easy at that point to spot a good movie: one that softly managed to turn gray day into sun day.
USEFUL TIP: Save your Parisian Sunday: come to Ô Chateau for some food, some wine, and some fun.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Tiens, dimanche, j’ai vu un film pas mal. . . . (“Sunday I saw a pretty good movie. . . .”)
Considering Mental Affliction a Sign of Intellectual Superiority
Parisians value intelligence more than happiness. In Paris, happiness is the sad symptom of an atrophied brain, the curse of the stupid, the limbo of the ungifted.
Mechanically he who is not happy is gifted, he whose brain does not agree with the world is intelligent. The more brutally unfitting the person is, the more gloriously superior his brain is. In this undeniable logic lies the utter privilege of the crazies: that of being looked up to by the Parisian.
The inability to handle the vicissitudes of life testifies to the Parisian’s acute perception of the incertitudes and difficulties that make up life. Knowing that life is about incertitudes and difficulties is pure intelligence to the Parisian. Therefore, if they were to choose between being an irremediably unhappy creative genius or a perfectly happy nobody, most Parisians would opt for the grandiose life of misery. If misery is the price to pay for intelligence, Parisians are happy to open wide their wallets.
The glory points of the craziness package do not come distributed evenly. Some afflictions score higher points than others. Schizophrenia, for instance, inspires much less admiration than beautiful depression. When afflicting upper-class people, some mental conditions stemming from or resulting in self-destruction become psychological pantheons. For instance, alcoholism.
The affliction Parisians look up to the most is insomnia. Parisians all wish they could claim for their bed to be crossed by the unstoppable train of the unresting thought. Parisians admire insomniacs for whom they truly are: people devoured by the discomfort of thinking. Insomnia is the most elegant claim of the active brain. All Parisians wish they could be the victims of their fully ruling brain. Slaves to a cerebral monarchy. The fact that being
an insomniac is pure torture is irrelevant.
Longing to be something or someone in Paris by no means relates to pursuing these desires in reality. What Parisians cannot get enough of is poetic aspirations. As much as they love them, they are happy with a quite prosaic life.
Crazy is a lovely thought in the end. Crazy to the Parisian is the living evidence that being a tad more intelligent than he is equals craziness and misery. Really, the Parisian got lucky. Intelligent. But not crazy.
That was close.
USEFUL TIP: If you are in Paris and suffer from a mental affliction, start wearing unusual clothes and call yourself an artist. Maybe that’s your path.
SOUND LIKE A PARISIAN: Ouais, ça va. J’ai un peu de mal à dormir en ce moment, mais ça va. . . . (“Yeah, I’m OK. I am having problems sleeping at the moment, but I’m fine, yeah. . . .”)
Bitching About Waiters
When it comes to service, Parisians all wished they lived in America. They all long for torrents of smiles, deluges of friendliness, and avalanches of first names. But reality is stubborn.
They live in Paris.
And Paris is no America.
In France, torrents of smiles, deluges of friendliness, and avalanches of first names do not mean good service. It means you’re surrounded with drunken people. And drunk people rarely wait tables. Parisians are quite categorical when it comes to waiters in Paris. They know for a fact that they are all pas aimables. Most of them are actually des gros cons.
Stuff Parisians Like Page 11
