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 grey. 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.
Stars do.
There are not many things Parisians like as much as discovering a night sky sprinkled with stars. Coming out of a house after a nice dinner, coming out of a car after a long drive, the Parisian is caught off-guard by the disdainful beauty of the night. He finds himself charmed and thrilled by this view that exceeds him. Finally something does.
Stars don’t like competition. They prefer not to show in the city of lights. Seeing them is therefore a rare instance for Parisians. The emotion the Parisian feels under the stars is similar to the one he feels faced with a raging ocean of a quiet mountain range. An emotion away from home, a break from the petty. An invitation to somewhere intimate.
Stars comfort the Parisian in the idea that there is more to life than the mediocrity and ugliness he finds himself surrounded with. He feels close to that superior unknown.
So he shall smile.
Useful tip: Know that “milky way” to a French person shall forever be the name of a chocolate bar Sound like a Parisian: “Oh… t’as vu les étoiles?!”
In America, one can get by mastering only ten adjectives.
In Paris, one is enough.
Sympa that is. Sympa is the most useful adjective in Paris. Initially, sympa is short for sympathique. Is sympa something that is nice. People, places, moments, activities can all be sympa. Being fantastically non-committing, ‘sympa‘ grew to become tremendously popular an adjective. Non only can most things be sympa, they usually are. In Paris, there is really only one answer to the question “C’était comment ?”
Sympa!
Using it extensively, Parisians managed to empty the word of its very substance: the way it is said gives it its actual meaning. To decipher what a Parisian really thinks of something or someone, it is key to be attentive to the tone of the ‘sympa‘ he will most likely come up with as an answer. Tone and facial expression. Only then will you know a bit more about what the Parisian really thinks.
If sympa became such a popular adjective in Paris, it is because it sends out messages the Parisian is happy to convey about himself. Being short for something, sympa is vaguely colloquial. Making the Parisian seem vaguely laid back when using it. On top of this, sympa is a fantastic buffer against any form of enthusiasm. Sympa is nice but it is still very far from excellent, génial, exceptionnel, formidable or fantastique. It is just sympa. By saying something or someone is sympa, the Parisian gives it a good point. But not too good of a point either.
Thank God.
Parisians could not invent a better word even if they looked for it. Sympa is about the object. It is not about the person who says it. The object exhales. The Parisian is weirdly passive in judging something or someone as sympa. He becomes a mere receptacle for the world he lives in. This posture of passive humility is yet another reason for the popularity of the term. I judge without judging. Whatever I say, it is not my fault. Parisians these days love this tepid feeling of social innocence. Flamboyance gone.
Making sympa such a close companion, Parisians mechanically diminished the strength of its original meaning. Thus making phrases like ‘hyper sympa’ or ’super sympa’ major hits. Amongst younger Parisians, the word sympa is so prevailing that its use deprived of hyper, super, vraiment or carrément is suspicious.
If a young Parisian tells you that a place was sympa, he probably actually didn’t think much of it. With nothing but positive words, Parisian youth downgrades reality.
Paris lovers: rest assured: Parisianity shall never die…
Useful tip: There is no connection whatsoever between sympathique in French and sympathetic in English. Faux amis! Sound like a Parisian: “C’était sympa, mais je suis rentrée tôt, j’étais crevée”
Intelligence is easy in Paris.
For kids, intelligence takes the form of good grades. For grown ups, intelligence equals wearing suits.
Since good grades lead to wearing suits, a clear continuum exists between intelligent children and intelligent grown ups.
Expectedly enough, the expressions of intelligence follow the activities and behaviours of the category of intelligent people.
For adults, intelligence can only be applied to suit-requiring activities. Incidentally, the object of intelligence becomes the subject of intelligence.
The definition of intelligence thus shifted deprives most people of ever being considered even remotely intelligent.
Top of that list: fun people.
While intelligent people could very well be witty (yet not fun), fun people can by no means be intelligent. Obviously. For if they were, they would not be fun. They would be witty.
Yet, Parisians love fun people.
Somehow like grown ups love children. With a form of melancholic condescendence. Bittersweet ego petting.
Parisians love fun people primarily because they love to be entertained. But their approach to entertainment is mostly a passive one. The Parisian does not partake in the game of fun. He watches it. The company of fun people is to that extent thoroughly enjoyable to the Parisian. Live theatre that is. Despite this delightful pleasure, it is important for the Parisian to keep contacts with fun people rare and relatively indirect. Befriending a fun person can only cause stains of fun on the Parisian’s intelligence outfit. Good friends in Paris should be nice. Or cool. But certainly not fun. Fun people in Paris are bound to stop being fun or be lonely. For if they stick to their fun ways, the will be treated exactly like waiters at a Chinese restaurant: with distance and condescendence – yet always with a genuine appreciation for what they offer.
The idea that intelligence could take various forms and be expressed in diverse fashions is obviously new age rubbish. Parisians know that people who actually think that are losers. The idea that intelligence could be used to make life more fun has never crossed any Parisians’ mind. Ever. It is a silly thought indeed.
Parisians being intelligent, they cannot be fun. But they do love their fun people. Even better than the entertainment they bring to the table; fun people deliver live disguised pain to the Parisian. A broken mirror. All Parisians know that fun people are acting fun just to hide their own pain. Fun people are traumatised and suffering beings. Sad clowns. That is obvious Parisian knowledge (and certainly not cheap psychology). The most traumatised of all are comedians. The Parisian really enjoys watching comedians perform. First for he gets to be entertained in a totally passive and non-committing way. But what really satisfies him beyond the fun is the subsequent intimacy, the unspoken bond engrained in the certainty of sensing the comedian’s most intimate pain. I laugh with him but I understand him. I understand the jokes but more importantly, I understand the man. Distance, intimacy, superiority and maybe a little guilt… recipe for a Parisian shiver.
In the end, in Paris, the topic of fun in Paris is really easy: having fun is ok, being fun is not.
Matter of standards.
Useful tip: If you are fun, and a man and coming to Paris, welcome! If you are fun, and a woman, and coming to Paris, welcome too. But be prepared to be called a bitch by Parisian women. Yeah, Parisian women really look down on fun women… Sound like a Parisian: “Oh non, pas lui… le ptit comique de service, c’est bon quoi…”
Parisians grew up in apartments. Apartments are places of little entertainment for children.
No backyard, no daily companionship with the exciting phenomena of mother Nature.
All Parisian children get is the occasional companionship with the exciting phenomena of mother Paris.
Top of that list is l’orgue de Barbarie.
Every Parisian recalls that moment when, as a child, the sound of the barrel organ reaches his ear.
Is that music? From the street? Excitement fills his little Parisian heart. He runs to the window. As the music draws near, he starts seeing the source of the music. A barrel organ. On wheels.
Little Parisian then turns to his mom. Who gently gives him une pièce. When the barrel organ is right underneath the window, little Parisian gets to drop the coin.
Coin hits the sidewalk - genuine and cheerful thank you that is.
The barrel organ only comes once a year or so. Rarity of the moment makes it even more of a treat. A musical and unexpected treat.
As an adult, the Parisian hides these memories deep inside. The Parisian is not a child any more. Yet, anytime the sound of the barrel organ resonates on the streets of Paris, the Parisian can’t help but being charmed. Softly dragged back into sweet memories. Seduced by the familiar tunes. He sure does not stop for a minute to watch the organ player play. Being touched is one thing. Showing it another.To extract the music, the organ player spins the crank – over and over again, almost mechanically. Hypnotic vision of time flying by. The Parisian has little taste for watching the damage of time. So he shall keep walking. No coin any more.
Useful tip: Impress your Parisian friends by knowing the just like amour, and délice, the word orgue is masculin au singulier et féminin au pluriel. Sound like a Parisian walking by: “…”
Truth be told, most Parisians buy their groceries from supermarkets. Only two types of Parisians go to le marché to fill up their carts with groceries: those are elderly Parisians and housewives.
Elderly Parisian women take advantage of years of accumulated marché wisdom - combined it is true with the tortuous roads of sleep in the old age - to take over the marché at the earliest hours of the day. Between 7 and 9am, le marché is a charming place, full of elderly ladies, eager to bring home nothing but the best groceries - probably these ladies’ last and most delightful vice.
As the morning unrolls, the scene changes, elderly women leave le marché. Parisian housewives get in with their strollers or their carts. Parisian housewives need wheels. That’s how they roll.
For all other Parisians, on week days, le marché is just a reassuring encounter, a taste of province on their way to work. But everything changes on the weekend. Some Parisians are lucky enough to have a marché near them on Saturday or Sunday mornings. These marchés offer simple visions of a Parisian wonderland. Discrete perfection. Parisians playfully enjoy the charms of their local marché. With its characteristic colors, smells, and sounds, everything at le marché evokes a form of timeless simplicity. Le marché du weekend is a treat. Parisian feel like they are doing themselves some good. Connecting again with simple pleasures, with simple people. Le marché du weekend is about letting go - between leeks and potatoes.
Amongst the weekend-marché-goers, some Parisians are just too cool to simply go to le marché for strict grocery shopping purposes. How common. They go to le marché for the vibe. Sure they shop a little, but they’re primarily there for the quaint atmosphere. No matter how much they like le marché, it is important for these people to show that this is not what they do. I’m with here right now – but I really belong somewhere else. For these people, immediate differentiation comes through style. Style extravaganza won’t be found in clubs in Paris; but at le marché. The cool Parisian goes to le marché in an eminently neglected outfit. That gives him the impression of being a New Yorker. Heavens. Sunglasses are almost an imperative accessory for cool Parisians at le marché: in that they testify of the greatness of the previous night, they show that le Parisien does the marché a favor by simply being there. He’s a tourist – visiting for a minute normal people’s life.
Whether he’s in for the carrots or for the vibe, the Parisian likes his marché. He finds nothing but comfort in this well orchestrated scenography. Fleeting – yet familiar moment. Rich of people and of fruits, rich of smiles and of colors. Le marché is the ultimate Parisian halt. A halt in motion and in noises. A halt that refuses to be one. At le marché, Parisians consider time with modesty, walking, playing, and sniffing: taking for a few minutes the chance of tastier moments.
Useful tip: Best fruits and vegetables will be found at the beginning of the marché - best prices at the end of it. Sound like a Parisian: “Ce weekend, c’était top: samedi matin, on a fait le marché avec Baptiste, après on a cuisiné toute l’après-midi… tu sais, on avait nos amis sud-africains qui venaient dîner à la maison…”
Traffic on the streets of Paris may seem chaotic and disorganized. Parisians seem to roar in a chaos of metal and grey. These are misconceptions. Traffic in Paris is actually harmonious; and Parisians feel nothing but comfort in it. Road rules in Paris are simply vastly unwritten rules.
Some of these unwritten rules regulate normal driving techniques, others define acceptable insult level, others set a social frame to the interactions between car drivers and pedestrians.
In Paris, the sidewalk belongs (mostly) to pedestrians and the road (mostly) to automobiles.
Scooters, bicycles and all other rolling objects tend to choose whichever option seems like the most convenient for them at this point given the state of traffic. Alternating is ok - but drivers of two-wheelers shall in that case be prepared to face older pedestrians’ grumblings.
When it comes to cars and pedestrians, all Parisians know that a car won’t stop for a pedestrian. Especially at a pedestrian crossing. A car which actually stops at a pedestrian crossing shall be honked at and its driver immediately suspected of homosexuality. Knowing that they don’t belong at pedestrian crossings, Parisians cross the street mostly randomly. So it’s only logically that Parisians cross the street whenever they feel like it or whenever there is a break in traffic.
The only Parisians crossing at pedestrian crossings are old ones. The rest of the crowd standing there is made up of banlieusards, provinciaux and tourists. This comforts the Parisian car driver in the conviction that stopping there to give way is a bizarre idea.
Since they cross the street in undue places, Parisian pedestrians have to compete with cars for road domination. Parisians are well exercised urban beings.
They have no fear and shall demonstrate it. By engaging on the road with brutal authority. Tourists mistake authority for insanity. Foolish!
But authority, deprived of a sense of politeness is disturbing to most Parisians. It lacks beauty. To re-enchant road crossing, Parisians unconsciously initiate an elegant dance. A dance made up of confidence in your fellow Parisian. I dominate you but I trust you. Refinement in this dance is to cross the street keeping walking pace absolutely unchanged from one side of the road to the other. As in an urban bull fight, the closer you cross to the running car and the faster the car if going, the more thrilling, the more beautiful the move. Parisians caress cars.
In this urban sensuality, the Parisian feels the thrill of full mastery of the city and its codes. He is at home. Even in the simplest act of crossing the street, the Parisian - half dancer, half bull-fighter - stays true to his blur but confident identity. Always secretly inviting others to watch, learn and admire.
Useful tip: In order to look Parisian, never stand at a red light waiting for it to turn green. There has to be a better way. Sound like a Parisian: “Attends, viens, on traverse…”
Parisians of all time have always indulged. Today is no different. Parisians still indulge.
Mostly in fizzy water.
When ordering fizzy water, Parisians feel the thrill of excitement running down their spine. The taste of rebellion. The frivolous flavors of a bubbly world. Parisians are fearless. And conquering such mountains of sparkling unknown brings a genuine satisfaction to their table. A satisfaction only real adventurers get to experience.
The world of sparkling waters in Paris is a fast changing one. The eighties were pioneering years with Perrier. Nineties saw the triumph of Badoit. But all these were mere preparations for the new millenium’s crowning. That of the queen of all fizzy waters. La San Pé.
Parisians deep inside are tender. And loving. Precisely for that reason, they shall not name their favorite water San Pellegrino. Philistine, (Italian), and careless that would be. In Paris, San Pellegrino has become San Pé.A Parisian’s liquid best friend. At a restaurant, Parisian males are especially fond of sharp and killer orders like “Deux onglets saignants et une San Pé”. Pure Parisian testosterone.
Parisians can’t resist the attraction of San Pé’s precise and gentle bubble. Being vaguely retro, vaguely new and vaguely healthy, San Pé fills the Parisian’s need for soft and stroking authenticity. But San Pé does more than quenching the Parisian’s thirst, tickling his tongue and enchanting his environment. It also helps the Parisian regain at a decent price some social differentiation credits.
San Pé is indeed the gift that keeps giving. And it treats two of his attributes the Parisian likes to take care of the most. His palate and his ego. His Palate is flattered by San Pé’s gentle and precise bubble. His ego by the double pleasure of ordering it, and paying for it. Few Parisians have friends that do them as much good as San Pé does.
By drinking San Pé, the Parisian does not drink tap. He is therefore perceived by his fellow Parisians as superior. Three reasons for that: he has taste, money and a sense of indulgence. These are characteristics most Parisians wish they could boast.
Thus making anyone who does not order San Pé at a business lunch somewhat of a loser.
Santé!
Useful tip: Knowing that San Pellegrino is owned by Nestlé. Relevant to counter frequent attacks against San-Pé’s original Italianity. Sound like a Parisian: “Un crudités-poulet et une San Pé”
Parisians see the South of France as one. It is ‘Le Sud’.
While Toulousains, Niçois or Montpellierains come from three very distinct regions of France, they are viewed in Paris as ‘du sud’. As such, they all have l’accent du sud.
All Parisians love l’accent du sud. There is no exception to that rule.
L’accent du sud twists the French language with a softer, more ‘chantant’ touch. While Parisians mock the Alsatian, Swiss or Northern accents, they cannot get enough of l’accent du sud. Anyone speaking with ‘l’accent du sud’ will immediately score high points on the friendliness scale. As Parisians wisely put it: “les gens du sud sont hyper sympa”.
Hearing l’accent du sud takes the Parisian straight on holidays. The sun shines in his heart. He is thankful for that. So he might take it as far as to try to be friendly with the people from the South of France. Friendly back somehow! Thus suddenly acting very awkward. Most sudistes at this point get overwhelmed with discomfort and prefer to leave it there. It is hard for Parisians to befriend someone with l’accent du sud. Really.
Soon enough, l’accent to sud becomes a cultural barrier the Parisian can’t seem to be able to break down. While building up cultural barriers is usually every Parisian’s prime craft and favourite past time, this one cultural barrier affects him deeply. Realizing that a person with l’accent du sud will always come across as nicer and more fun than him makes the Parisian secretly frustrated.
So he shall retaliate.
By making fun of people with l’accent du sud. Parisians love to imitate l’accent du sud to portrait stupid people. If a Parisian gets pulled over by a police officer, when recounting the story to his friends, every word spoken by the policeman will be transcripted with l’accent du sud. Understand: the cop was a retard. Now take that person from the South.
This strategy of assimilating nice people to stupid people exquisitely satisfies the Parisian. And allows him to dominate his frustration. Ultimately, l’accent du sud is more than an hear-pleasing enchantment to the Parisian; it is an ego-boosting delight.
“Honey, how ’bout we go spend the weekend in the South…?!”
Useful tip: When Parisians put a ‘g’ at the end of a word when they speak (loing, cong), it means they are trying to imitate l’accent du sud.
Sound like a Parisian: « Oh, t’as l’accent du sud… c’est génial»
Parisians all work hard. They have little tolerance for people who do not work hard.
Parisians all know that one category of people never works: that is artists. Artists are the biggest slackers. Parisians hardly have any respect for them. The only respectable artists are the dead ones. All other artists – in the Parisian’s mind - are just crooks.
Parisians assimilate artists to intermittents. Intermittent du spectacle is an advantageous treatment the French government came up with to offer ‘protection sociale’ to artists. This system is an endless financial well. Paid for by non-artists. Knowing that their hard work is subsidizing artists’ absence of work drives most Parisians crazy. Hence triggering a brutal rejection of artists. The concept of art in the Parisian’s mind has to do with posterity. It has to do with greatness.
Most Parisians consider artists as socially useless. If objected to that some artists drive – besides the cultural and aesthetic satisfaction their work generates –substantial revenues for their industries, the Parisian shall quickly respond that these people are not artists. They are ‘des vendus’ ‘qui font de la merde’. Then the word ‘marketing’ usually comes in the following sentence. Marketing is a very degrading thing to be involved with in Paris. Placing in the same sentence ‘artist’ and ‘marketing’ is the biggest offence a Parisian could come up with.
The Parisian likes to see artists struggle. The artist is to be broke. Broke means talented and real for the Parisian.
On the other hand, all successful artists are primarily marketing people. The Parisian knows that.
Same reasoning applies to the style of artists. Real artists need to have greasy hair and to act tormented. An artist who looks good is a crook.
In many countries, students go to university and learn the trade and the craft of art for several years. France hardly offers such programs. Making people who make a living from arts suspicious in the Parisians’ degree-structured brain. Artists are like fortune tellers or life coaches: suspicious. All the more suspicious as the Parisian knows for a fact no skills are required to be an artist. Writing? Painting? Singing? Acting? Any Parisian could at least do two of these things just as well as any so-called professional.
It’s true that the Parisian is talented. Making him somewhat of an artist. Just a potential one.
Useful tip: The word “artistique” does not work as a compliment in Paris. Sound like a Parisian: « Ambiance artiste, un peu dégueu, je fume des joints… tu vois le genre quoi ! »
So they regularly choose to leave the city for a few days.
Those expeditions are called ptits weekends.
Le weekend is Saturday and Sunday. And it takes place in Paris.
Le ptit weekend is those two days for sure, plus potentially one or two before or after. And it takes place somewhere outside Paris.
The destination and frequency of the ptits weekends depend on the Parisian.
It is important to realize that in the Parisian’s mind, le ptit weekend is not a luxury or a treat. It is a necessity. A need he feels deep inside his body. A sound door to escape momentarily the oppression of the big, fast and loud city: “J’en peux plus, faut que je parte m’aérer, tu veux pas qu’on se fasse un ptit weekend?”
Le ptit weekend can take place in the Parisian family house, in Normandy, in Brittany, in Burgundy or in the South. But le ptit weekend being utterly cool and stress-free a concept, it can not happen with too much family around (anyone having a family knows that spending the weekend with the fam is neither cool nor stress-free): “Mes parents sont au Maroc, on peut se faire un ptit weekend chez moi en Sologne si tu veux“.
But usually, le ptit weekend serves another purpose: that of allowing the Parisian to brag at work the following week. Bragging implies sunshine (le Sud), or gentle dépaysement. Being very wise, the Parisian usually looks for dépaysement in another big European capital.
Needless to say there is an unwritten ranking of coolness in big European cities. Top ranking cities are Barcelona, Berlin and London. Maximum bragging.
For un ptit weekend en amoureux (romantic declination of the ptit weekend), high points go to Prague, Vienna and Budapest. For Parisiens, Eastern European capitals are considered the utmost destinations for un ptit weekend entre potes (let’s-get-drunk-and-act-out-for-a-weekend - away-from-the-girlfriends sort of deal).
Eastern European capitals make Parisiennes worried.
Un ptit weekend outside Europe or au ski is also an option.
But sends the clear message than money is not a problem.
Mention of such weekends shall only be made in the appropriate circles.
When asked how his ptit weekend was. The Parisian only has two adjectives in mind: super and excellent. Ptit weekends are never anything but that. Sometimes they are also crevant.
In all cases, the Parisian is happy to share that “ça m’a trop fait du bien de partir un peu“.
Well-being and coolness being addictive, the Parisian prefers to experience them only by injections.
Two or three-day ones ideally.
Useful tip: If you wish to see your Parisian friends in April, May and June, let them know early. Major ptit weekend season ! Sound like a Parisian: « Non, mais sérieux, Budapest, avec Easyjet, ca coûte vraiment que dalle… tu devrais trop le faire »
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 grey. Looking down as well. For Parisians, looking inside is therefore the only possibility to fathom infinity.
There are not many things Parisians like as much as discovering a night sky sprinkled with stars. Coming out of a house after a nice dinner, coming out of a car after a long drive, the Parisian is caught off-guard by the disdainful beauty of the night. He finds himself charmed and thrilled by this view that exceeds him. Finally something does.![[del.icio.us]](http://images.del.icio.us/static/img/delicious.small.gif){kind=small}
