The waitress actually dropped the tea, cup and saucer to the table and I helplessly watched it splash onto the table cloth. With a bitter look she tutted and turned away. What the hell did I do to her?

Paris is everyone idea of a romantic trip with world class cuisine and the Eiffel Tower in the moonlight. Alas although I have visited the city many times I have never seen this side of it. Perhaps because I was never rich enough to go to the best hotels or the finest restaurants I saw a seedier side of Paris. When I come here I always feel like George Orwell in his famous book “Down and Out in Paris and London” the Paris I see is the dirty, untidy, unwashed city of squalor and impoliteness that abounds when you cannot speak French. I came over for fourteen days by coach from Dover in England. I had been travelling around Europe with a group and this was our last stop before going back to England. We all had a wonderful time in many EU countries with short stops in many of them. The hotel in Paris was very old and the room I was allocated had the highest ceiling I had ever seen. It was also my first introduction to the, bide’ that strange contraption to wash your rear end after certain procedures. I kept pressing the button to watch it spray water high in the air. I decided that I would try it once before I left but had some apprehension as to the idea of being raised from the seat into the air. The hotel was nothing special so I decided to spend the day walking about. I only exchange a small amount of money to French currency as I only expected to eat lunch out somewhere in the day. (This was the days before the one currency for all).

Maybe as a seasoned traveller I have slightly lost my wonder at the tourist sites and tend to look around me a little more cynically. The first thing I noticed when I went to France is the pissed-stained mattresses hanging from balconies all over the back streets. Maybe something in the diet causes little mishaps in the night or they drink tea or coffee in bed and have nervous depositions? What ever it is – it is a ghastly sight to see in the mornings. The streets are often narrow just as they are in the backstreets of London but you tend to see real Parisians here, not the prancing super-models of the shopping centres with Chanel handbags and coiffure hair do’s. Paris women in adverts are always petite and wearing wide dresses with slim waists and a bodice – they look permanently surprised in their features – it is as if everything they see is a new experience in which they coo and sigh with sexual innocence. However the women you actually see are robust, arms like miners and dressed like a fishwife from the village. That may seem a little harsh but it is how it strikes you when you look around. I thought I may see a Frenchman on a bicycle with a string of onions or garlic around his neck but alas this was never seen outside an Inspector Clueso movie. Most the Frenchmen are small, overweight and in shabby business suits, they wear these suits as an executive or as a street cleaner – seems the dress is obligatory? I hope reader does not think I am anti-French, really before my first visit I never even thought about such things, I knew our country had twice saved France from the German yolk in two wars, I knew the French opposed our entry into the European Union as DeGaul forgot Winston’s support, I knew the French felt far more bitter at their loss of world power and the loss of their African dominance than perhaps England was after 1945. I also knew that France had visions of the French language being the language of business around the world but never achieved this as English was the preferred dialect for most nations. So maybe part of being French is sourer grapes for the wine.

So you may ask did I actually like anything about the French and France at all. Well yes, the cinema, French movies are great, they make wonderful stories of crime, love, tragedy and farce. I would never pass up a chance to see a French movie (with subtitles) if I happen to have the time. Some of the modern movies are quite entertaining such as, Amelia, a comedy set in caf with a pretty waitress who wants to help people connect, Chocolat, love in a French village over chocolate, Les Choristers, a teacher and musician who helps way-ward boys, Cyrano De Bergerac, the famous nose and swordsman, Man on a Train, crime and psychology at its best, Le Femme Nikita, crime and passion and of course the French classic, Three Colours Trilogy, three movies as one – three stories of drama and tragedy. For me though the classic French movie is the farce. Particularly those films with Monsieur Hulot, the comedian of the silent film, wonderful fun as he goes on holiday or meets his nephew in Mon Uncle. I am not sure how many movies were made in this series but all are worth seeing if you want to have a good laugh and feel great afterwards.

Going out of Paris you can see the best of France in the countryside, much of it is underdeveloped mainly because of French farming policy that over the years that has stuck to traditional ways of working the land. Despite modernisation in most countries France is surprisingly still quite quaint in its approach the food production methods. The long stretches of grape vines at different times of the year are quite a pleasant site as you travel around. However here I am in Paris and feeling hungry. I walked about looking in lots of windows and at menus hoping to find something in English with my small allowance jingling in my pocket. I learned basic French like most English schoolboys at school for a term or two and paid no attention what-so-ever. I remember the pretty French teacher often crying in the class as no one was paying her the slightest attention – although at first I did want to try – but as so many other boys were indifferent to her tears I gave up too. You have to be part of your peer group even if it is not in your best interests at the time. Finally I found a street caf with a small menu that had some familiar words. I asked the waited in English did he have the menu in English but he looked at me pretending to not understand. Most French can speak English quite well but often refuse to do so, on the grounds that they expect you to at least try and order in French. So with the best will in the world I ordered what I thought was a tomato salad. Alas some minutes later the waiter brought me a small plate with a piece of toast with two slices of tomato on. This limp slim piece of toast with its lonely two slice of dull red tomato stared up at me – I ate it all in one minute.

I paid the over-priced prema-donna of a waiter and left. I was still starving so needed something else. I saw a little tea-shop and thought this might be better. On entering I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. A waitress approached me and with a very low tort voice asked me something. I had no idea what she said but pointed to a table. I walked over and sat down and she followed me, obviously looking at me as if I should be somewhere else. The place was not large but about ten tables most with old ladies drinking tea and eating small pastries. I looked at the menu and worked out the tea pot and what looked like scones and jam. Very English I thought – this will fill me up for a while. I decided not to speak and with a flourish pointed to the two items I wanted. I could tell she thought I was very rude not to speak and wrote down my order and marched away to the kitchen. Most of the ladies had stopped talking and were looking at me sideways. After a short break they all decided I was not that interesting and went back to their conversations. I looked about at the tea-room and felt quite at home; this was so similar to places in England that I felt sure it would be ok. I suppose I should not have felt so confident so soon. I saw the waitress return and holding a tray approached my table.

The waitress actually dropped the tea, cup and saucer to the table and I helplessly watched it splash onto the table cloth. With a bitter look she tutted and turned away. What the hell did I do to her? The tea was in a cup and not as the menu suggested in a pot. So that was the first error but at least I had half a cup of tea still as the rest was now on the table and the saucer. While no-one looked I picked up the saucer content and poured it into my cup. The waitress returned a put a place down with two scones on. No butter and no jam? I wondered if she would come back with them. I drank a little tea and waited. Nothing happened so I waved my arm and indicated that I wanted her. She came up and without speaking just looked at me. I pointed to the scones and mimed a knife and spreading motion. She understood and walked off; a moment later came back with a pate of butter and a knife. I did not know how to mime jam – so gave that up. After eating my small meal and drinking the tea I motioned for the bill. Again my waitress came back wrote out a ticket and pointed to the till by the desk where an old woman sat. I guessed she took the money. I went to her and presented my bill. She wrote an amount at the bottom and showed me. I felt my scones jump in the pit of my stomach, the amount was about three times what I had guessed it would cost and just about cleared me out. As I was leaving the waitress held out her hand to me, I knew she expected a tip but I was now desperately short of cash and did not feel she deserved anything after her sullen treatment. In a moment of inspiration I stuck out my hand shook hers profusely and thanked her over and over in French. Then seeing how surprised she was took the opportunity to march out the door quickly, walking away and around the first corner, where I slowed down to get my breath back.

I knew the time was coming and I would have to hurry back to my coach that had brought me across the channel and would be returning via the ferry home to England again. I was not sorry to leave Paris and thought I would not want to return here unless I was rich enough to go to the best places. My memories of all my visits to France are not good ones, maybe I have been unlucky here or maybe I just saw the real attitudes of France rather than the false hospitality of the service industry. Never the less over the years I had other occasions to return to France and still I cannot think of one happy trip or good time there.

End……..

Professor Stephen F. Myler PhD

Shanghai

Originally published by the Open University, England

Copywrite: S. F. Myler

Author: Stephen Myler
Article Source: EzineArticles.com
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