Learning to Walk à la Parisienne

A very interesting thing just happened as I was walking into Starbucks during my break between classes: upon advancing toward the door, I pushed instead of pulled, entering smoothly and without incident.

I know this sounds like nothing very special, but it requires a bit of context. In California, most public establishments have doors that must be pulled to be opened when entering, and pushed upon exiting. Something to do with fire safety regulations, I believe. In Paris, however, the opposite is true. I have no clue as to the reasoning behind it, but I’m sure there is one. In any case, ever since I got here, I’ve found myself pulling the doors to enter cafés and stores, etc., causing an unpleasant (and embarrassingly loud) clanking sound every time. It only took me six and a half months, but I think I’m learning.

My first two weeks here, I lived in fear of the metro. It seemed so huge and complicated, like a giant web that I, hapless ingénue that I was, could easily get caught in and circulate endlessly in the warren of tunnels. One day, after taking a wrong turn yet again, I wondered desperately how long it would be before I was no longer getting lost in the metro.

I think it took me about two and a half weeks before I didn’t feel the need to clutch my little map with me every time I went out, and another three to begin forming a mental map of the city. Eiffel Tower to the west, Montmartre and Aurelia to the north, work in the southeast, Saint-Michel in the center, and my place due south. Sad to say, I still walked like an American. That is, I walked with an awareness of the people around me, and if flagged by someone who looked lost, I would stop and try to render assistance.

I’ve since learned that this is not quite the thing here in Paris.

When I first arrived, I was struck by how slowly everyone walked, great crowds of people impeding my progress as I hurried from one place to another. Until I attempted traveling during rush hour—then I marveled at how fast everyone moved, at a pace just slow enough to not quite qualify as an Olympic sprint, though no less impressive given some of the women’s footwear on (very brief) display. Unable to reconcile the two very different speeds at which the denizens of Paris moved, I puzzled over the question for several days, until I finally understood: a Parisian walks as if he or she is the only person on the planet, he neither deviates from his chosen path for such insignificant inconveniences as other people, nor does he hesitate to slow his pace or pause when the fancy strikes him. Other people? What other people? They may move out of his way, if they so desire. He, however, refuses to do that navigating-a-crowd-dance that so many of us did at the beginning of the year, where we stop here, and quick-step there, and duck like that and twist like this….that’s for other people. It’s like a game of chicken with an entire crowd, waiting for the other guy to turn first.

As to the being flagged by people in need of help, I’ve learned that this is almost always a ruse. If it happens to be a guy stopping you to oh-so-innocently ask for directions, this almost certainly means he wants to converse with you with the further goal of scoring your phone number (assuming you are female). To this end, you will be given compliments both backhanded (“You’re an American?!? Truly? But you speak so well for an American!”) and unwarranted (being told you are very charming when you’ve yet to speak a word and have avoided eye contact for 20 minutes). I’m a little ashamed to say that this city has gotten to me in that respect; the last time some guy tried to speak to me on the street, I rolled my eyes at him and continued on my way.

I miss hanging out with guys. At home my best friends are male, but here I hardly speak to any men, let alone have friendly conversation. I mentioned the backhanded compliment incident to my landlady and she said that while French men can sometimes be too aggressive, after long visits to the states she relished coming home because she would “feel like a woman again”. I can only assume that’s a French thing because I don’t associate my femininity with being made to feel like a rabbit at a fox hunt. Seems like French girls play hard-to-get more, like they’ll put a guy through his paces to see how bad he wants it, and that because of this game-playing, the phrase ‘no, I don’t want to give you my number’ doesn’t really mean no. The Parisians operate from a different set of rules, and while I understand them, I can’t play by them. I guess I’m caught between two different aspects to cultural adaptation: understanding the unspoken social rules and norms, and conforming myself to them.