playing nice
I've tried to adopt an attitude of positivity throughout most of my life, though that makes it sound like a conscious effort. The truth is, optimism is my coping mechanism, and has been since I was a child. Growing up with a very sick parent and, therefore, growing up very fast puts an emphasis on action more than reaction—every piece of bad news must be met with an action plan, "how we're going to handle this," rather than the admission of feelings of overwhelming sadness and defeat that nip at your heels every moment of every day. So you excel in school, you excel at activities, you try to be as nice as possible to everyone who crosses your path—even people who don't deserve it.
But while I've been busy trying to cause as little disturbance in the world as possible, it seems that other people have made it their life mission to more than fill the void. Put simply: why is everyone so rude?
Parisians get a bad rap for being rude, cold, snooty, you name it, but honestly—before living in the neighborhood I do now—I really didn't see it. Sure, there were anomalies, but for the most part, everyone I came across in 2010 was cordial and polite. This time around...not so much.
As a native Californian, I recognize that I'm accustomed to a certain amount of aggressive friendliness that others even in my own country find alarming (ever try to hug a Midwesterner?). I realized coming to Paris that the culture would be different, the customs new, and I tried to adapt and adopt as best I could. In every shop, I would dutifully greet the staff upon entrance ("Bonjour!") and exit ("Au revoir," "Bonne journée") and in between they pretty much left me to my own devices. I think it took our grocery store clerk—the one who saw us every day for six months straight and who was always very professional, if a little cold—almost our entire time living in Paris the last time to finally crack a smile of recognition. (Cue celebratory whooping on the way home.)
But this time, my experience of Parisians has been entirely different. Perhaps it's due to our change of location: in 2010, we lived in a very diverse area that was populated with families, lots of different ethnicities and tons of different tongues; now, we live in the most touristy arrondissement in the city, two blocks from the Eiffel Tower. Shopkeepers are quick with English (often it's stronger than their French) and very dismissive—I had a butcher tell me that he has to "fight" the tourists' English when they come. (This was after mistaking me for a Brit and, when I corrected him and insisted on speaking French, profusely apologizing.)
I understand the general frustration with tourists—as you'll know, if you've read other rants on this blog—considering I get nearly beheaded or shoved into traffic every day of the week when someone decides they need to take their umpteenth picture in the middle of the sidewalk where I happen to already be standing or that their backpack couldn't possibly be as large as it is as they turn quickly in a crowd. But what's gotten to me lately is the lack of courtesy that's shown to anyone, regardless of where they're from.
Case in point number 1: the grocery store, or pretty much any retail establishment where there are narrow aisles or displays to maneuver around. In America, if I was wandering down a grocery store aisle and came upon someone in my path, I would excuse myself quietly and gently slip by after they'd given way. Here, there are no cursory "Excusez-moi"s (or even more insistent "Pardon"s), there's just the sudden presence of another human body pushing against you to pass by. No acknowledgement of one's existence, just a shove, an elbow to the ribs, and it's done. An older woman banged my basket with hers while I was inspecting the vegetables and it wasn't until I looked up to see if she was going to acknowledge the fact that she'd nearly knocked the basket out of my hands in her mad dash to the zucchini that she said, very clearly and loudly, "Excusez-moi, madame."
I felt chastised, as though not only had I been in her way, I was now making a big deal about nothing.
Case in point number 2: At a recent theater performance, the show was sold out but Joshua had a ticket (he was attending for a class), so I put my name on the wait list. I was number two and was told by the box office attendant that I'd likely get in, I just had to wait until curtain (3pm) to find out if there were any available seats. Standard practice. So I stood by and waited while the audience streamed past me and curtain ticked closer and closer. When the time came, I waited in line to get back to the same box office attendant, who told me, "No, no, the performance starts at 10 after, you'll have to wait." So wait I did, a little confused, but figuring I just hadn't understood her French the first time. Ten minutes later, the stream had stopped and I inquired again if there were any tickets to be had. Again, she told me to what roughly translates as "hold my horses." So I went down to the theater space with Joshua so he could find a seat—aware all the while that it might cost me my place if I weren't standing right there when she called my name—and suddenly saw all the other people who'd been behind me on the list traipsing up to the door, tickets in hand. I rushed back upstairs, hoping I hadn't shot myself in the foot, and politely asked if there was still one more seat left (knowing full well Joshua's professor had just turned in three unclaimed tickets). I was brushed off again while the attendant consulted the list (where my name had been conspicuously crossed out) and conducted a lengthy conversation with the man behind her until she finally deigned to allow me to pay her 30 Euro for the privilege of running back downstairs a sweaty bundle of nerves to take the last seat.
These illustrations may seem trivial. They may even seem petty or normal to someone who was raised in a big city and considers these interactions just part of daily life sharing very little space with very many people. But the accumulation of incidents like these every day—compounded by daily news stories in which people are cruel to other people merely because they can be and stories in my own circle that "So-and-So is being rude to So-and-So because she's too nice, or too quiet, or too [insert mindless adjective here]"—make me question the sanity of our society. Yes, you cut in front of me in traffic, but in the grand scheme of things, do you really think you're getting anywhere that much faster? Yes, you shoved me out of line in the grocery store—only to have a new line open up and be behind me after all—but does your food taste better because of it? Yes, you made that person feel small and left out, but does that really make you feel big, or just momentarily inflated?
If we really examine what makes life truly livable, can't we see that it's the times we feel heard, seen, loved, trusted, respected, valued, that make us feel alive?
Can't we all just play nice?
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