Paris is not the greatest place to be at the moment. With slushy streets, grey skies and wet snow covering the city like a soaked carpet instead of a light blanket, not many people are smiling.
In fact, some of them are downright nasty as we all compete for space on the morning commute, squeezing themselves on cramped trains to the point of explosion because waiting two minutes for the next one is unthinkable.
As in most cities not used to snow, everything collapses in a sludgy heap; buses don’t run and everyone takes to the metro, even if it’s just for one stop. Walking a few blocks in a whirlwind of snowflakes is obviously unreasonable. Bad weather brings out the worst in people, with rudeness at an all time high at the most depressing time of the year.
Having grown up in snow and slush of all varieties and temperatures, I find it amusing to see how some Europeans cope with it, especially the French. They are determined to remain fashionable, and I try to stifle giggles as I see women attempting to run in ridiculous kitten heels, clutching umbrellas so their suede coats don’t get sodden with the heavy snow. Angora hats rest on their heads instead of a practical parka with hood as they skid around like Bambi on the pavement with shouts of ‘Merde’ and ‘Oh-pa-la’, so nearly going ass-over-tit. I almost wish it was warm enough to sit outside with a coffee to watch this entertaining side show, and though I may not look as chic in my brown, puffy coat and fleece lined boots, I am far warmer and steadier than these French gazelles.
The French men are just as amusing, attempting to brush snow off their car in pathetic flicks with leather-gloved hands (cashmere-lined I’m sure). Walking around the city huddled behind pink wool scarves, at least their shoes are more sensible, and shiny enough to match the slippery ice.
With one uncivil encounter after another, my usual tolerant self is on the verge of exploding as well, probably on some poor, innocent froggy who accidentally bumps into me on the bus. He will suffer my wrath after so many of his compatriots have dealt me heavy blows - pay it forward as they say.
After being severely reprimanded for handing my children one Smartie each at the Musee D’Orsay yesterday, near child-abuse accusations bringing Ruby on the packed metro this morning because our bus wasn’t running, ruder than usual waiters in the cafe, and a hard shove from a French cow with her rat of a dog (wearing a ridiculous green barber coat I hasten to add), causing me to knock Ruby over on to the pavement....'Assez' I say!
I have to ask, is this all really necessary? Yes, it’s a bit grey and damp and cold, yes we’re in an economic crisis because we’ve all been greedy buggers, yes the sales are nearly over and only crap items remain, but do we really have to be that discourteous to each other as we all struggle to get through these difficult days side by cramped side? Ok, so France has a short, casanova, smurf-like leader and America has Obama, but that doesn’t give Parisians the license to take out their frustrations on each other and helpless expatriates.
Thank goodness for children to lighten things up a bit:
Outside Ruby’s school on Rue St. Dominique, a homeless and legless man sits outside the grocery store with his paper cup held out. With so much begging in this city the kids are almost immune to it, but obviously the wheelchair and no legs combination cause her to stare. “How strange it would be to have no legs mommy,” Ruby says as we walk by. “Yes, we are very lucky to have our legs,” I reply.
Five minutes later we encounter another wheelchair on the same street, but this time a woman is in it, and she has only one leg. I look at Ruby’s face staring once again in wonderment and pray she doesn’t say anything until we are safely past. “That woman only has one leg mommy,” comes the obvious remark, followed by the analysis; “So, some people have two legs, some people have one leg, and some people have no legs!” “Yes, that’s true,” I say, silently begging her not to ask me why.
A few days later we see a man in a wheelchair again, but this time with both legs intact. Ruby is confused, and says loudly within hearing distance, “Why is HE in a wheelchair mommy, he has TWO legs?”
I’m not sure if the novelty of Paris is starting to wear off, or just of city living in general, but I find myself, as most people, dreaming of an isolated island, white beach, warm sun; a world with no beggars and no French cows, um, I mean women, and ridiculously looking French dogs.
If ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, in the rudeness stakes that is. For I am staying firmly in my sensible Canuck attire, fashion faux pas or not.
