This is my very first rant, and I promised myself to try to do it justice, rather than just rattle off a bunch of expletives. Here it goes…
First a bit of history, we (husband, daughter and I) are living in the southern ‘burbs of Paris. Previously, I’ve lived in USVI, Japan and the States. So, I am quite used to adjusting to new places, accepting local customs and people the way they are and not expecting them to change because I, the great and wonderful ANAHITA, suddenly set foot in their country. The rant you are about to read applies only to Paris and its environs, not all of France. I am certain that in countryside people are not this way…
Ok, I stay at home with my daughter, a wonderful, fun, smiley, happy toddler ALL DAY! We get bored at home and try to do activities outside, to get out and meet people. So far, we’ve not had much luck.
Example: today we went to the grocery store. She and I gliding up and down the aisles, past the icky French delicacies (tinned duck paste!). She was babbling away with her doll, very cutely, while I picked out items and added them to my basket. Here it comes, wait for it…
.BUMP Oops, clumsy ole me hit poor old lady’s (call her Bitchette, very accidentally. I, of course, apologize. My daughter smiles and gurgles to the lady, and not a crack of a smile from her. Not even a cursory, “Ok, I’ll smile because it’s probably the nice thing to do even though I am an utter bitch.” Nothing. I apologize again, hoping it’s over and she gives a “HRmph” and storms off. “No problem, I think, I’m getting used to this French standoffishness (and that’s putting it mildly).”….
…continue shopping, babyAna gurgling, being tickled by me, laughing (not loudly) and generally having a nice time. Now let’s just get over to the check out counter and…UH-OH! There is Bitchette, and she’s headed our way. I force myself to give her another smile, and hoping she will return it and crack the 1 inch make-up mask she is wearing.
(As an aside, Parisian older women do NOT know how to age gracefully. They tend to get fake tans (machines or crème), wear too much makeup, dye their hair bleach blond and wear tight (usually leather or suede) clothing to accentuate the figures they so carefully maintain by smoking 2 or more packs of unfiltered cigarettes while downing wine. Think Patsy minus the joie-de-vie. That describes most French older women. Oh, and they don’t just suddenly become this way. It starts very young, they actually become more and more rude as their plastic surgery brings their ears closer and closer until they meet in the middle of her face!)
So, the store is not crowded, and I’m headed for the closest checkout lane, being that little babyAna is starting to get a bit fussy, but nothing that can’t be cured with a piece of croissant. Suddenly, I notice Bitchette, heading for the very same checkout counter. I slow down to let her get in front of me, thinking, “Gee, how nice of me. Wouldn’t want her to miss eating her dry bread and water.” She turns around, glares at me (by this stage I’m wondering if I’ve done something evil to her in another lifetime) and calls over a manager.
“Hmmm…I wonder, maybe she’s got a problem.”
She actually complains to the manager that my daughter is eating a croissant, from a bag I opened in the store and she dropped some crumbs on the floor. I am speechless. With my limited French, I apologize the manager, the lady and anyone else within earshot.
So, any smiles? No. Any one look at me thinking, “What a silly bint?” No.
Well, I think, I’ve apologized, not to mention seen countless people open snacks for their children in this very same supermarket, but still apologize anyway.
So, I pay for my groceries and out I go. I think, “It’s a one-off thing. They can’t be all that bad. It must just be because my French is not good and I look foreign.”
Well, who do we see in the parking lot, but ole’ Bitchette herself. Is she tailing me? Is this the result of some weird FBI recruiting policy? Send bitchy old French women to tail unsuspecting women of Middle Eastern descent (actually, I’m ME, not descent, but…) and hope to drive them stark raving mad enough to go under the burka voluntarily?
Anyway, she glares at me some more. I’m trying to figure out what I’ve done to her or someone in her family. Anyway, she is parked right near me. Goody gumdrops. As I unpack my cart into the truck, put babyAna in her car seat, (who is by now very hungry and grouchy) and get in my car, she is pulling out of a spot behind me. Great, if she’ll just leave here before I do, it’ll be perfect. No worries, right? Wrong. Oops, I forgot to return my cart and get my 10F back. She starts blaring on her horn for me to move said cart. I am in the process of doing so when she starts to pull out, practically taking the cart with her. I wave my friendly, N American, “Thank you” wave and she finally pulls away, shaking her head. I’m sure when she gets home her desiccated old prune of a face will tell her poor husband all about the mean, rude American at the supermarket.
Arghhhh……this is not the best rant I’ve ever read, and I’m feeling better, but the main point I missed is this:
Why the hell do Parisians have to be so mean?
Not a smile from the moms at the park ( no smiles for me, no smiles for other moms, not even a grin for their own children). The moms look bored with life and as if they’d rather be on a beach somewhere sunning themselves than at the park with their children.
Argh…this is really starting to get me down. Thank goodness we are going away for a long weekend in a few weeks, to Dublin, which must be the most friendly city in the world!