SomeMusings.com

journal excerpt circa summer 2007

After landing inn the Paris airport, I had about 3 hours before the connecting flight came through. I spent the time doing some hardcore people watching. The first thing that I noticed about Europeans is that, next to Americans, they look and act like a tired bunch. There’s a sense that they’re all just waiting for something, but that they can’t go anywhere because they’re stuck in a bureaucracy that doesn’t want to deal with the people it affects. Then I remembered that I was in an airport, and that everyone at every airport ever looks that way.Unless they’re doing hardcore people watching.

One thing I noticed right away about the French is that they are a very proud people. They are proud of their country, they are proud of their language, and they are proud of their heritage. One of the monsieurs who checked our passports was exceedingly dull until he saw my mother’s maiden name.

“Gravois? Oh, Gravois! That sounds French. You are part French?”

His outlook on us American mutts got even more upbeat when he saw my sister’s middle name.

“Antoinette? Oh-ho-ho! That is the name of a queen!!!”

I felt like a complete loser as I handed over my passport. My names are, respectively, Hebrew, Greek, and Welsh. I tried to sweeten the mix by throwing in a gratuitous “Voila!” He wasn’t as impressed as I had hoped he would be.

I learned fairly quickly that by peppering my exchanges with excusez-moi,’s, s’il vous plait’s, and a-tes souhaits I could get far more attention than your average American tourist. While we were waiting in line to board the flight to Munich, my sister was putting on her backpack, and I noticed a hand reach out to help her slide the strap on. Somewhat embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of that first, I grabbed the same strap and shot a nervous “merci” at the good samaritan. When I turned around to give him a masculine, protective head-nod, I noticed that he wasn’t a samaritan at all.

“Don’t worry about it!” he said cheerfully before leaning in to whisper his shameful secret. “I’m British.”

“Oh, thank God!” I whispered back. The two of us talked for about 20 minutes on everything from his job to how hard it is to sneak someone underage into a pub. My French may not be the best, but my English is superb.