Alright, so for the last few posts, I've been writing about how wonderful a place Paris is. How it provokes deep thoughts, craps rainbows, farts butterflies, blah blah blah. Well I just got home from almost being run over by a guy on a razor scooter in the metro, and as I stood there with my heart pumping while that idiot zipped away on a CHILD'S TOY, I got to thinking about other things in Paris that are just backwards.
We'll start with...
ADULTS RIDING RAZOR SCOOTERS:
Now here's the thing, this isn't the first time I've seen a fully grown adult riding a Razor scooter here in Paris. However this is the first time I've almost been run over by one while walking through a crowded metro station, so here's my rant. Is your next destination so important to get to, that you need to bring ANOTHER mode of transportation to get to your connecting metro train? I sincerely doubt that a brisk walk would not yield a similar pace, sir. It would also save you the embarrassment of looking like a complete tool with that stupid thing strapped around your shoulders and the bright green, infantile HELMET. Yeah, as nicely fitted as your fancy european suit is, you just lost all credibility when you hopped on a means of transportation that human beings typically stop using when they start hitting puberty. Unless they're hipster and trying to be ironic in traveling by means nobody else uses anymore. But we just roll our eyes at them.
Next...
LACK OF SHOWER CURTAINS:
Okay, so in Paris it's hard to complain about slow service in restaurants or tons of people smoking cigarettes because these behaviors are rooted in the French
culture. Smoking is a very social activity and service is typically slow in cafés because the French like to sit for a long time and enjoy their meals. However, there is no human being in the world, regardless of culture, who enjoys slipping and falling on their bathroom floor because there is a gigantic puddle of water splashed across the tile. The designers of bathrooms in America have fixed this problem with a revolutionary product known as a shower curtain. For any Parisians reading this blog, a shower curtain is a waterproof barrier that is hung around the exterior of a shower to prevent water from spilling onto the bathroom floor. I know, completely ingenious. In almost every bathroom of every Parisian apartment I've entered, a shower curtain is nowhere in sight. Most just have this sort of half wall that seems more pointless than an umbrella in the desert. Yeah nice token effort there French bathroom designers, but the place still floods when I shower, so why don't you put down the baguette and head back to the drawing board.
OVERBEARING PHONE BEHAVIOR:
ILLEGAL KETCHUP REBOTTLING:
People say that ketchup is “the Irishman’s gravy.” This couldn’t apply more to my Irish soul as I drown my burgers, fries, potato chips, mac and cheese, even sometimes my pizza into a big pool of ketchup, much to the disgust of my fellow diners. I also epitomize brand loyalty when it comes to ketchup. It’s Heinz or nothing. Don’t give me any of that Hunt’s crap. There’s a reason Jimmy Buffett says “Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes” in "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Because it is the ONLY ketchup to eat. So imagine my happiness when I found that most of the restaurants here in Paris had Heinz bottles sitting on the tables. Then imagine my disgust when I first dipped my frites into a big ocean of delicious tomatoey goodness and found that it tasted nothing like Heinz. I was put off when I first encountered this, but as it kept happening again and again, I became downright angry. Hey café owners, you can’t pull a fast one on me. This guy grew up eating his own weight in Heinz 57 each month. I know everything from that delicate balance of sweetness and acidity, to the exact spot on the glass bottle to tap to ensure a generous deluge of my revered condiment. So who are you to bismirch the good name of Heinz 57 with your generic French swill? Plus I’m pretty sure presenting a different product in another company’s label is not entirely legal. You’re lucky the French legal system doesn't engage in civil lawsuits. Because I would a legal team on you faster than you could bring me another plate of frites...which of course I'd want to bathe in Heinz.
We'll start with...
ADULTS RIDING RAZOR SCOOTERS:
Now here's the thing, this isn't the first time I've seen a fully grown adult riding a Razor scooter here in Paris. However this is the first time I've almost been run over by one while walking through a crowded metro station, so here's my rant. Is your next destination so important to get to, that you need to bring ANOTHER mode of transportation to get to your connecting metro train? I sincerely doubt that a brisk walk would not yield a similar pace, sir. It would also save you the embarrassment of looking like a complete tool with that stupid thing strapped around your shoulders and the bright green, infantile HELMET. Yeah, as nicely fitted as your fancy european suit is, you just lost all credibility when you hopped on a means of transportation that human beings typically stop using when they start hitting puberty. Unless they're hipster and trying to be ironic in traveling by means nobody else uses anymore. But we just roll our eyes at them.
Next...
LACK OF SHOWER CURTAINS:
culture. Smoking is a very social activity and service is typically slow in cafés because the French like to sit for a long time and enjoy their meals. However, there is no human being in the world, regardless of culture, who enjoys slipping and falling on their bathroom floor because there is a gigantic puddle of water splashed across the tile. The designers of bathrooms in America have fixed this problem with a revolutionary product known as a shower curtain. For any Parisians reading this blog, a shower curtain is a waterproof barrier that is hung around the exterior of a shower to prevent water from spilling onto the bathroom floor. I know, completely ingenious. In almost every bathroom of every Parisian apartment I've entered, a shower curtain is nowhere in sight. Most just have this sort of half wall that seems more pointless than an umbrella in the desert. Yeah nice token effort there French bathroom designers, but the place still floods when I shower, so why don't you put down the baguette and head back to the drawing board.
OVERBEARING PHONE BEHAVIOR:
This is probably a cultural thing, but it’s just something
so glaring and different from how I’m used to communicating via text messaging,
I had to make a note of it. Here’s the story. A bunch of us were at a bar last
week, having a few drinks, standard Friday night. My scarlet letter of a
roommate began to engage in some DFMO-ing with a French gentleman. Innocent enough.
More power to you, Dev. She woke up the next morning to multiple texts reading “it was super great to meet you last night” and “did you get home
good?” and “can’t wait to see you again.” All these texts would have been
perfectly fine if every other word wasn’t interrupted by a smiley face
emoticon. Not just a normal smiley face emoticon, but a smiley face emoticon
with a nose. That’s right, we’re talking one of these… :-) . Now to an
American, the use of an emoticon typically indicates that you want ON the
other person big time, so these texts SCREAMED overly aggressive and creepy. Combine
that with the fact that the guy used a nose, and it was like he was trying to
bang down our apartment door while holding a box of condoms. Now once again, this is probably a cultural
thing, but I couldn’t help docking this guy some man points with each emoticon he
texted, and 10 man points when he sent one right after the other. “:-) ;-)”
Relax dude. Take a lap and try again. Despite my misgivings, Devyn agreed to go on a date with the guy, coming to find that he is a French swimmer training for the Olympics and studying engineering. Smart, athletic, seemed like a catch for her. But alas, all credit was lost throughout the days following the date. The over-emoticoning progressed to
multiple calls per day, the record topping out at 11. This is where I’ll throw
the culture excuse aside. Whether you’re French, American, or Martian, if
someone calls you an amount in the DOUBLE DIGITS, we’ve officially reached Restraining
Order status. Needless to say, Devyn never got back to her overbearing French gentleman. Ah well, at least she got a free meal out of it.
ILLEGAL KETCHUP REBOTTLING:
People say that ketchup is “the Irishman’s gravy.” This couldn’t apply more to my Irish soul as I drown my burgers, fries, potato chips, mac and cheese, even sometimes my pizza into a big pool of ketchup, much to the disgust of my fellow diners. I also epitomize brand loyalty when it comes to ketchup. It’s Heinz or nothing. Don’t give me any of that Hunt’s crap. There’s a reason Jimmy Buffett says “Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes” in "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Because it is the ONLY ketchup to eat. So imagine my happiness when I found that most of the restaurants here in Paris had Heinz bottles sitting on the tables. Then imagine my disgust when I first dipped my frites into a big ocean of delicious tomatoey goodness and found that it tasted nothing like Heinz. I was put off when I first encountered this, but as it kept happening again and again, I became downright angry. Hey café owners, you can’t pull a fast one on me. This guy grew up eating his own weight in Heinz 57 each month. I know everything from that delicate balance of sweetness and acidity, to the exact spot on the glass bottle to tap to ensure a generous deluge of my revered condiment. So who are you to bismirch the good name of Heinz 57 with your generic French swill? Plus I’m pretty sure presenting a different product in another company’s label is not entirely legal. You’re lucky the French legal system doesn't engage in civil lawsuits. Because I would a legal team on you faster than you could bring me another plate of frites...which of course I'd want to bathe in Heinz.
PLACEMENT OF LIGHT SWITCHES:
I’ve adjusted to this nonsensical difference, but let me
take you back to my first week of classes when I went to the bathroom during
my French class. I entered the bathroom, the door closed, and I was plunged
into darkness. My hand instinctively reached to the wall to the right of the
door, but it passed futilely along the smooth wall. Try number 2. Left
wall of the door. No light switch there either. Now I was just plain confused.
In the dark. Literally. The next 5 minutes were spent blindly
flapping around the bathroom, hoping to find that mystical light switch. My
attempts managed to haphazardly turn on the hand dryer, the sink, and I think
I flushed the toilet around 4 times before giving up. From the sounds I was making, anyone outside the bathroom likely thought its occupant was having a seizure.
Flummoxed and confused, I found the door and exited the dark, perplexing world of a French bathroom, I
noticed a little switch a few feet down the hallway wall from the door.
Flicking it up caused the light to immediately illuminate the bathroom. Really?
It didn’t make sense for the electrician to put the switch to a light IN THE
ROOM IT WAS ACTUALLY IN? “Nah, that’s just plain idiotic,” the guy probably
thought. “Let’s put the switch a few feet away OUTSIDE the bathroom.” As I've continued to do my business in more bathrooms around Paris, I’ve found that this was the mindset of most French electricians. I wish I had
known that before I spent an obnoxious amount of time in the bathroom blindly
searching for a light switch. Especially during my first days of French class.
The evasive light switch took up so much of my time; people probably thought I
was pooping. Awesome first impression, Ryan. Awesome.
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