Because They're French

Sunday was my first day of really, truly, completely hating the French.


I thought Sunday would be great. Our student government planned a trip to IKEA as a chance for people to a) meet new people, b) get to know the city and, most importantly, c) go to IKEA! (What’s better than a bed set called Bibbi Snurr? Nothing.)

Too bad everything went to hell after we left.

The ticket booth outside the particular metro station we tried to get was, for some reason or another, refusing to accept coins, so all thirty+ students had to pile into the metro office one by one to pay a painfully-slow man for their round-trip tickets. Why choose the slowest man in the world for your cashier?

Because they’re French.

We took the metro (RER) all the way to the suburbs where we caught a free shuttle to IKEA. I stress this “free” because it comes into play later on. Going through IKEA was totally fine. Just the same-old freaky Scandinavian names, only with descriptions in French. The day only got interesting after the shopping.

After waiting half an hour for at the bus stop for our shuttle to the RER, we finally flagged down a bus passing us on the other side of the street, running through a bush full of thorns on our way there. Apparently, the specific bus stop we chose only works on weekdays. Why?

Because they’re French.

We got on the bus, and reached the second bus station. Before we got off, though, we had to show the “authorities” our tickets. Um, tickets? Apparently, this was not our charter. Did anyone point that out? No. Were the French “authorities” understanding about it? Hell no. Why?

Because they’re French.

We tried to explain to them that we didn’t know it wasn’t the free charter, that the bus driver didn’t even ask for our tickets, that we were new at the whole French bus thing. A few of the girls with us even looked like they were on the brink of tears. But they wouldn’t have any of it. We all had to pay twenty Euros, or they were going to call the police. I even asked one of the men which tickets he wanted (I had a few metro tickets in my wallet), but apparently, even though I had a ticket, it wasn’t validated, and therefore I should burn and rot in the sulfurous lakes of hell. Why?

Because they’re horrible people French.

In orientation, they told us that, at first, we would hate the French, but would eventually laugh at their little quirks. I have the first part down. I’m just waiting for the laughter.

And now the sheets for which I specifically went to IKEA don’t fit. Why?

Because they’re French.