What I found when I went to Paris was much less than I had been led to believe...and so much more.
I recently returned from eight days in Paris, France, the "City of Light." When I had first informed friends and relations that I was planning a trip to Paris, most of the comments I received went along these lines: "You know they hate Americans, don't you?;" "The French are rude to everyone who isn't French -- especially Americans;" "They can all speak English, but they simply refuse to do it;" and my personal favorite, "You'll be spat on in the streets of Paris if they find out you're American."
Well, I can tell you unequivocally that, in eight days in Paris, not only was I not spat on, but not a single Parisian was rude to me in the slightest. Almost all spoke English far better than I speak French, and even the few who answered my pathetic "Parlez-vous Anglais?" with an embarrassed "A leedle," then struggled in their meager English to communicate with me. I followed the guide book's recommendations to begin every interaction, no matter how mundane, with "Bonjour," and end with "Merci, au revoir" -- and, in between, every Parisian I dealt with was reasonably accommodating. The worst I can say about one or two bored ticket sellers at major tourist sites was that they seemed indifferent -- which is equal to the best treatment that I usually receive in my home town of New York.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking New Yorkers; we're not nearly as universally rude and arrogant as we're made out to be. Nevertheless, I've encountered far more rude, pushy natives in a single afternoon on the streets of Manhattan than I met in eight days in Paris.
One of my first interactions with a native Parisian stands out in my mind. It was my first full day in the beautiful French capital, and I left my hotel with my family to grab a Metro to the Champs-Elysee to take in the Arc de Triomphe and change some dollars to Euros. The Metro entrance we used led only to an automated ticket vending machine that communicated only in French, and that did not seem to want to read my VISA card. (More on this later.) A middle-aged man observed my struggles, and approached me, saying, "Do you need help?" When I answered in the affirmative, he too tried unsuccessfully to get the machine to read my card, then asked, "Where are you going?" "To Champs-Elysee," I replied. "All four of you?" "Yes." "Do you have any Euros?" "No, we had planned to change currency near the Arc de Triomphe." With that, he bought four one-way tickets and handed them to us. "Here," he said, smiling, "welcome to Paris."
As for the city itself, here are my impressions: I saw not a single bloated, gas-guzzling SUV -- nor did I see any bloated, obese Parisians. The cars were all small, sleek models ideally suited for threading their way through the narrow, winding streets first laid down in Medieval times. Many two-seater "Smart Cars" occupied parking spaces barely large enough for a motorcycle. The people all seemed fit, well-groomed, and happy. Their credit cards no longer rely on magnetic strips; all have "smart chips" that require a unique PIN to activate, so that Europeans simply insert their cards and punch a number pad, instead of having to sign their names after every transaction.
And the food! Where to begin? Practically every street corner boasted a bistro or brasserie with a charming sidewalk cafe, and even the tiniest four-table establishment served meals that would be the envy of most four-star restaurants in the States. Portions were filling without being overwhelming; flavors were rich and intense without being overpowering. Service was professional and courteous; some waiters were serious and efficient, others humorous and ingratiating. In all cases, it was clear that they were proud of their establishments and intent on making a good impression. The only negative aspect of dining out in Paris was that many Parisians sit and smoke two or three cigarettes after every meal -- but, since they all smoke American brands, I felt a sense of shared responsibility for their one bad habit.
I remember wandering the steep, cobblestone streets of Montmartre one evening; every street looked like an impressionist painting, the smells wafting out of the cafes and bistros were enticing, and the whole of Paris was stretched out magnificently below us. I thought of all the Americans back home who, in their arrogance and ignorance, had warned me about "rude Frenchmen" and reminded me that "America is still the greatest country." Yes, America as a whole is pretty great, but to my mind, we're becoming more provincial and backward every day when compared with Western Europe. Americans seem to work harder and harder in order to own more and more things that never seem to bring us any greater happiness. The French instead clearly enjoy simple pleasures like conversing with friends over a cup of coffee after a fine meal, and don't appear to be rushing through life on their way to their next heart attack. There's much we could learn from them.