Of all of the Americans I’ve met, Bill has the best stories about Republican political strategist Mary Matalin. They once met the Dalai Lama together at an event in Washington, DC, and were encouraged to jot down questions. When Bill looked down at Mary’s paper, she had two questions for his holiness: “What’s your real name?” and “Don’t your arms ever get cold?”
I met Bill on my last night in Paris, but I started out drinking Champagne all alone. I’m aware this isn’t an auspicious start when it comes to eliciting sympathy, but trust me, the city wasn’t easy. The entire month I spent in Paris, not one Parisian – with the exception of a very nice opera-singing Lebanese waiter – expressed any curiosity about me. (When I voiced these concerns to my boyfriend, Jamie, over Skype one night, he said “But you’re so interesting!” It was an impressively delivered combination of sarcasm and support.) I was lonely in a beautiful place, and the only thing that saved me was meeting the very people you cross the globe to get away from: Americans.
Early one afternoon in October, a couple sat down next to me at the Rose Bakery, our knees practically touching. They looked around nervously. Finally, the woman spoke. “Are you American?” she asked. I shook my head. “Canadian.” “Oh thank god,” she said. “We’ve been dying to talk to someone English. I think the French hate us.” Her husband nodded enthusiastically.
They were so young and happy and earnestly in love that I initially assumed they were on their honeymoon. But it was actually more of a jailbreak. They had three kids at home in Florida, all under the age of six, and this was the first time they had been away together in years. They held hands across the table. I gave them my best bakery-related suggestions, emphasizing the importance of eating a pink praline escargot from Des Pains et Des Idees, and left them to enjoy the rest of their lunch. Still, their friendliness and devotion to each other left me in a good mood all day.
A couple weeks later, I was sitting outside Le Comptoir on the left bank, trying to stay warm under one of Paris’ ubiquitous heaters and a typically grey autumn sky. I looked up briefly from the menu to find the couple at the next table smiling at me. Efraim and Diane, in their sixties, were visiting from San Francisco; they cheerfully filled me in on what they had just eaten and made some recommendations. As I was munching my way through salade nicoise and a saucisson plate, we exchanged notes on restaurants. When I told them I was moving on to Israel later in the month, they recommended that I see the northern part of the country, and we discussed the recent release of a kidnapped Israeli soldier in return for 1,000 Palestinian prisoners. Before they left, Diane took my email address because she wanted to send some information about films related to the Arab-Israeli conflict. We said goodbye.
The Parisian waitress promptly dumped a cheque in my lap without making eye contact.
At this point, is it too late to call myself out for excessive generalizations? I am aware, for the record, that not all Parisians are jerks. Some of my best friends are French! I’m aware, too, that a language barrier – given that my French is almost exclusively relevant to menus – makes you feel less welcome in any given place. But there was a coldness and joylessness that pervaded so many of my interactions in Paris, like people were sick of me before I even walked into the room, and after some time it started to wear me down.
And so, when Bill sidled up to me on my last night in Paris, I was ready for his loud-mouthed Republican charm. After insisting we order double bourbons, Bill told me about how he came out over a decade ago at 39 and was forced to leave behind his beloved membership at a Virginia country club. He told me that he had never been in love. And he told me that I should probably convert to Judaism for my boyfriend – even though it was a shame about the “whole going to hell thing.” Normally, I would have protested, but a) I don’t believe in hell; b) anyone who thinks non-Christians are all going to hell is beyond my powers of reasoning; and c) I was actually pretty thrilled to have someone paying attention to me.
Several rounds later and a little shaky on my feet, I left Bill on a corner in the Marais and headed home to finish packing and tell my boyfriend that he’s going to hell. He and I moved on to Istanbul. On our first morning, loading up on cheese pie, fresh strawberry jam and thick honey on slabs of toasted bread, we were seated next to a group of Americans so obnoxiously loud that we suspended any hope of conversation. “I guess your love affair with Americans is over,” said Jamie. But I wasn’t so sure.
We spend so much time deriding Americans for their foreign policy decisions and insane cowboy culture that we sometimes forget about some of the lovelier aspects of their big-hearted informality. Now that I’m home, there are, undoubtedly, some things that will make my crush tough to sustain: the Obama administration’s recent refusal on over-the-counter emergency contraception; the second amendment; the Slanket. But no matter our differences, we’ll always have Paris.
Sarah Treleaven is a contributor to Toronto Standard, and she promises to stop complaining about spending a month in Paris. Photography by Moyan Brenn
