Years before I moved to Paris, I visited my older brother in New York where he’d been living for many, many years. It was in the autumn.
We were walking one late afternoon in midtown Manhattan when it began to rain. I, being the prepared person I always am, quickly popped open the umbrella I was carrying…as did most everyone else on that oh-so-crowded sidewalk.
Only it didn’t take long for my brother to take the umbrella away from me, saying, “No. That’s not how you do it. This is how you do it…” - at which point, rather than just holding it above our heads, he began sweeping the umbrella from side to side and up and down with as much panache as any reputable Broadway choreographer.
The outcome was a very New York experience: we were all impossibly crowded on the sidewalks, bonking into each other, walking far too fast, not looking at anyone or anything else besides where we were pointing (and having absolutely no patience for anyone who looked at us or anything besides where they were going) with a chorus line of umbrellas of every colour (although, to be fair, mostly black) dancing their ways down the street.
The umbrellas never touched but the people certainly did.
That’s not what happens in Paris.
Photo Credit: Leslie L. Kossoff
Walking in Paris is like playing a constant game of chicken. Someone is going to have to give way…but, if you’re Parisian, it’s not going to be you. And if it’s a stand-off between two Parisians - or, worse, when groups of Parisians are all walking together - you’ll get within a hair’s breadth of each other before anyone moves.
Because the given is you’re not going to touch anyone. Ever. Unless you have their permission or they make the first move.
Not long ago, I was reminded of this when I was on a bus going over to the American Library. Usually I walk, but it was the afternoon of a warm day and I wasn’t in the mood to be in the sun. (It’s about two miles from my apartment…a not long walking distance in this beautiful city.)
A gentleman sat down next to me and began being convivial, as, I’m happy to say, Frenchmen so frequently are.
It started as it usually does - a greeting and a compliment.
French men are incredibly good at giving compliments. And with reason. French men love women. All women.
It’s not about beauty or age or color or size. It’s simply a function of being female. If you’re a woman, you’re beautiful and interesting. It’s wonderful.
(There’s more to this but I’ll get into it in later when we can spend some real time on the subject. It’s fascinating.)
In any case, here was this gentleman of a certain age speaking with me, a woman of a certain age, in his charming way after complimenting my scarf…which led him to start discussing the quality of the color red in the scarf…which then led him to ask if I had seen a recent exhibit at one of the galleries of a new artist’s work, as the color in my scarf reminded him of a particular piece by this artist…which then led him to tell me that not just the red, but the combination of colors in my scarf were very beautiful - but, particularly, against my skin with its pale coloring….
You get the drift. It was a perfect example of a Frenchman’s charm.
He was getting off the bus before my stop so, as he was beginning his good-byes (including what a pleasure it had been speaking with me), he put out his hand, palm up - which, I realized, was my cue to put my hand in his - but not as a handshake. He lifted my hand, bowed over it and stopped an inch above the skin, as he was saying, “Madame.”
The thing is, he didn’t kiss it. He didn’t kiss my hand. His lips never touched my skin.
And that was the biggest compliment of all.
We had established early on that I was American (my French hit my language wall, but he was so charming about it, I was able to climb over and continue) and had even laughed about the Charles Boyer/Maurice Chevalier image of the Frenchman held by so many Americans. Particularly women.
And hand-kissing is what we see in the movies. Not what happens in real life. Not in Paris. At least, not unless you have far more of a relationship than a charming conversation on the bus.
So when he didn’t kiss my hand, I knew that I had passed an unspoken test: I was accepted as a Parisian and not an American…for which he would have put on a show.
I got the real thing. No touching.
All of which extends to kissing, too - which explains what Americans tend to think of as fake French “air kissing”…but actually isn’t.
French people don’t hug the way Americans do. The only full body contact you’re going to have with a French person is when they’re a family member or an intimate.
Otherwise, it’s keep your distance.
But that doesn’t make what Parisians refer to as “bisous-bisous” (kiss-kiss) any less meaningful.
Bumping cheeks really is a form of affection here - to the point that, with friends and loved ones, you’ll end a spoken conversation with “bisous” if you suddenly realize you have to run and don’t want to take the time to do the ‘official’ cheek kissing.
What you rarely see are the air kisses where the people stick their necks out by yards, keep their faces as far away from each other as possible and actually say, “Kiss. Kiss.”
In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen that was at a gallery opening a friend and I attended with the artist being so intent on showing his boredom with the whole process that it just made both of us laugh.
The ennui was overwhelming.
Oh, and back to the umbrellas?
If you’re in Paris and it starts to rain, don’t expect a Parisian to shift their umbrella or anything else for you.
It’s your fault if you got in the way of their stuff. Not theirs. You should have been watching more closely…which is an ongoing problem for me, as the thing I’m watching all the time, is Paris, herself - an always fascinating, too beautiful for words view of which I never tire.