Another American in Paris

Facing the familiar blue light of my computer screen—SkyScanner displayed in my Chrome browser and the threat of several four hour final exams looming over my head—I booked a flight to Paris. Apart from the excitement of anticipating a change of scenery in this beautiful, historic destination, I embraced the vision of feeling like a native as I would wrap my wool scarf around me and sip coffee in a Parisian cafe far from the tourist sites. Alas, that dream has long since vanished. As much as I have immersed myself in the French language and culture since arriving in Menton last August, my experience in Paris remained internally a French Sciences Po Menton student, yet externally…sigh…just a girl almost always put in her place as yet another “American in Paris.”

This trip in December 2023 marks my third visit to the Île de la Cité. At this point, I feel fairly proficient in the “Parisian way.” I am not deterred when, following a brief exchange of “bonjour(s),” I am answered in English (and met with the occasional pitying, pedantic smile). I persist; I insist on responding in French. I know that athleisure is an absolute no-go (I apologize for even including the word in this article), and that a sturdy umbrella is a must (if it's black, you get bonus points). I will not attempt to go to any museum past 3pm (15h, if you will) lest I have some sort of odd proclivity towards waiting in an infinitely long line that particular day. I could deliver a dissertation on the distinction between a “pain-au-chocolat” and a “chocolatine,” and I know to never order an iced coffee.

Yet, my knowledge might as well be utterly useless. To an extent, I understand. American tourists don’t exactly have a great reputation, and perhaps that is rightfully so. France, being the world’s most visited country, definitely has some real, negative experiences to draw from. I will not contest any evidence put forth… but I will say, when I was walking in the 8eme arrondissement—in a long black coat, dark jeans, boots, and a maroon sweater, mind you—and a French man bumped into me and said “excuse me,” I was absolutely demoralized. How did he know?? How do they know??? I don’t get it. Does my American-ness radiate from the back of my head? “Pardon” is so much more fun to say, anyways. It rolls off the tongue much quicker than the clunky “excuse me.” This extra effort and somehow psychic knowledge leaves me gobsmacked.

Even the Paris weather seems to go above and beyond to make it clear that I am not completely welcome. The crisp cold and incessant rain are the least of it; strong winds that render my feeble umbrella pointless by ultimately inverting it and snapping the little metal legs leave me susceptible to further frigid unpleasantness. With external elements like this, I can comprehend the desire to make Mondays slightly more bearable by shutting down ostensibly every store. I can also better wrap my head around the Parisian tendency to speak in the negative—when your jeans are wet and stick to the crevices in your legs with an anxious attachment style, one becomes much less optimistic or loquacious.

On the rare occasion that I am able to blend in—and I’m not violently shaking my umbrella to get it to right itself—I truly enjoy observing the interactions between the French / Parisians and the many tourists. But, more often, I am—or am adjacent to—the source of fascination in such interactions. For example, during our first dinner together in the lovely Marais district, my roommate, Marly Fisher, got her finger stuck in the loop of her hot chocolate mug handle. How she managed to squeeze her finger through the loop in the first place, I do not know. The issue was, she could not get it back out. As tears gathered in the corners of her eyes—fueled by intense laughter and mixed with profound panic—I could not help but burst out laughing, too, at her repeatedly failed retractions. I attempted to pull the mug off her finger (which was gradually swelling), but to no avail. This, one can imagine, was quite the scene. Our little tug-of-war attracted quite a few looks and chilling, disapproving glares from the servers. I have no adequate defense.

Side note: It may be a good thing, then, that water in restaurants is so difficult to come by. We, as Americans, would most likely topple the glass over.

The smells of Paris tend to bring out the American in me as well. Now, I would not dare to claim this phenomenon endemic to Paris, but seriously…every time I walk past a metal sidewalk grate I am greeted with a whiff of a warm, pungent odor. I find myself dodging dog feces scattered on the sidewalks or praying I don’t spot a rat scurrying across the metro tunnels.

Despite it all, I do truly enjoy Paris, and I love France. I would not have committed myself to studying here for at least two years if I did not. I feel fortified, and I will continue to brave the cobblestone and concrete streets, gradually improving my French thanks to the generous corrections natives kindly provide (without my asking!). While in Paris, I will own up to my identity as an “American tourist,” but, I’d prefer to publicly propagate “je suis étudiante à Sciences Po.”