Killing Tourists

After spending only a week in Paris, it has become excruciatingly obvious why Parisians hate tourists so much. I don’t mean all of the people who visit from other countries – some of them are great. It’s always a great opportunity to learn the differences and the similarities of other cultures and to learn a little about their respective histories. What is not okay, however, is to generally act like an idiot and walk in flocks – a word which here means “a large group of animals of limited or no mental capability.” These “flocks” of tourists love the cliché photo opportunities, and are always able to find the right moment – or the wrong moment – to stop in front of people who are obviously going important places so they can get that great photo of little Johnny standing in front of the Eiffel Tower pretending to lean on it, or a photo of the tower at sunset. (Because you totally can’t just buy a pack of fifty postcards for 1 € with pictures twice as good.)
What really amazes me is how willing many of these people are to follow any kind of authority figure – with or without a little baton with their group’s name painted on it. Just yesterday, I was crossing a rather busy street which, quite frankly, I probably shouldn’t have crossed at the moment. Usually one is meant to walk while the cars are stationary, not hurdling towards the crosswalk at half the speed of light (which, I think, is the actual speed limit in Paris). But I had places to go, money orders to receive, rent to pay – so I crossed, and the part that astounds me is that, even though there were cars coming, and they were clearly visible to the half-dozen tourists standing on the crosswalk around me, they saw me go, and ran across the street with me. I was almost responsible for the deaths of six or seven camera-toting, rubber-necked tourists. Well, not really. But they did follow me. After crossing, I could hear their exclamations of “That was so close” and “Almost didn’t make it,” and I had to laugh – just a little.

But for all the ignorance of the tourists, the Parisians can still be complete jerks. Just getting a few Euros in change was like pulling chicken teeth – absolutely impossible. They’re like crows, too attracted to their shiny money to part with it. I feel that this is not something everyone knows, but it should be taught on day one of French: coins exist in France, but you can’t have them. You need them for the metro and the vending machines and the little things, but still, you can’t have them.

And they’re not too big on the whole customer service thing, either. As I learned today, it’s really hard to get fired from any kind of government job, so you don’t really have to do anything outside your specific job description. Hmm… sounds a bit like something in the states (*cough*Department of Licensing*cough*). ANYWAY…

Besides the lack of customer service and the constant smoking, the French are actually pretty sweet when you get them alone, or, as I do, watch them in the Metro. Sour-faced businessmen who help people with their bags; guys who look like pissed off, punk rock ax-murderers who spare a smile for the little girl sitting next to them; even people who dance to their iPods on the next platform when they think no one is looking.

It’s the little things that make you fall in love with a place.