7/4 pt. 2: The un-American way

Just kind of indulging in myself here, don’t mind me.

It is the 4th of July (yippee), so I figured I’d talk a bit about Americans. There are a lot of Americans here, and they’re typically pretty easy to pick out in a crowd. Especially the men. For men over forty, look at their shoes. New Balances? You’ve found an American. Birkenstocks? Probably French. Fashion is a big indicator—the French are usually pretty classy (and when they aren’t, they still find a way to be French about it). Mannerisms are another big indicator. French people don’t smile at strangers. Especially for women, a smile is seen as an invitation, something that has already proved troublesome for some of the people on the trip.

It’s important to try to blend in. Not only is it safer, as you’ll be less of a target for pickpockets and con artists, but it’s also an exercise in cultural relativity. When in Paris, blah, blah. I didn’t come here just to see France, I want to be in France. So, I’m trying to blend in as best I can. Speaking quietly among friends, walking with purpose, and keeping a stiffer face than I’m used to have helped, generally. There are some times where I feel like I’m doing a pretty good job. That is, of course, until someone asks a question and all my already limited French vocabulary retreats into the deepest, darkest corners of my mind. But not always.

Five of us went out for lunch at a crêperie on the Îl Sainte-Louis, a place called Le Sarrasin et le Froment. Most of us actually managed to order our food in French (and quite successfully), which I felt like was a first for the trip. A little ways into our meal, I realized just how well Dr. Smith and Annika from MICEFA had prepared us compared to many Americans, when a large group of twenty-something American gym bros decide to roll in. These guys were loud. No doubt it would have been normal in most restaurants (or at least sports bars) in the states, but here it completely changed the mood. Then there was the poor French family sitting right next to them. Occasionally I would look over to see an exasperated expression on the mother’s face.

Our compatriots must not have known any French, because they exclusively spoke in English to the woman waiting tables (who was delightful, by the way). While she did speak some English and undoubtedly deals with this type of thing on a regular basis, I just felt embarrassed. Is that really how we look? I overheard them pondering whether American or European football came first. When they got up to leave, one of them forgot his phone on the table. Our server called to him, telling him “you left your wife.” Is that who Americans are? Loud, disruptive, ignorant fools married to their phones? Maybe some of us.

Perhaps too on the nose, sir.

Some Americans try to blend in. Sometimes, they don’t do it so well. Outside the crêperie, as we waited for some of our friends to catch up to us, we sat and people watched. One man caught our eye. He sauntered down the streets in the most outrageous outfit I’ve seen here: white-washed Levi’s cutoffs, a black and white striped shirt, and a matching rimless cap on his head. He had on all the stereotypes at once—he’s what I feared looking like when I didn’t pack my striped shirt. Of course, when he got closer we heard him speaking English with an extremely American accent, as if we needed any confirmation (though if we did, he was wearing New Balances).

So, there’s a happy medium to settle into. Don’t be loud and obnoxious, but also don’t try to dress like a magazine ad from the 90’s. Do your best to un-Americanize, but don’t wear France like a costume. Happy 4th.