Tiny French dogs don’t vape…

Americans walk off the airplane at Charles de Gaulle International Airport with a certain set of expectations.  We’re somehow trained to expect rude waiters, slender, elegant, cigarette-wielding French women with impeccable fashion sense and lots of tiny dogs.  We somehow think we’ll be fighting for attention, starved of customer service and confronted by lots of Frenchmen who refuse to communicate unless we make an effort at their language.  

If that ever was the case, it is no more.  I have had extremely pleasant French waiters, very kind shopkeepers, pleasant people in the hospitality industry, and with the notable exception of that relatively rude guide at Versailles, some extremely patient and informative tour guides.  Today, we had more kind, patient Frenchmen take care of us.  Cas and I left the Airbnb this morning after bidding adieu to his family.  There was a bit of drama, as apparently, Jeanne arrived at the airport without her passport.  We searched her room at the apartment, dragged out the cushions and pillows from all the shared spaces and even went out into the street in front of the apartment to see if it had fallen to the pavement.  It turns out the driver of their van to the airport found it in the vehicle and brought it to her in the airport.  Her feet are on the ground in Texas as I write about this, so it must have all worked out, but this is what I mean.  The French people we have encountered have been kind, overall.  So different than what you’d expect if you pay attention to the narrative I have been fed my whole life.  

Maybe a large part of that has to do with our attitude.  We’re visibly happy to be here and open to learning new things, trying new experiences and seeing what there is to see.  

Today, Cas and I left the apartment, a little while after I was out in the street, wearing my pajamas and my slip-on shoes, looking all over for a missing American passport, and headed to a laundromat.  We washed all the things we’ve worn already and made conversation with a very interesting couple.  The woman was French by birth and Australian by choice.  She sounded British.  It was pretty confusing.  I think the clientele of the laundromat was 50/50.  Half of their customers appeared to be travelers who needed to clean their clothes, and the other half appeared to be local folks, just living their lives.  A little more authenticity, here.  When we got everything clean and dry, we loaded it up and headed to our hotel in the Latin Quarter.  It was a strategic choice, as the new spot wasn’t far from the old spot, and we had to move all our luggage ourselves.  Easy enough though the bag of folded laundry would have been simpler to manage if we’d repacked our suitcases at a laundromat.  Seemed like a bit much though.  

Our hotel let us check in two hours early, which was great.  We were just shooting for a spot to leave our roller bags, but they had our room ready.  Hey, when life hands you a victory, you accept it.  We dropped our bags in the room, took a moment to breathe, then headed to the main part of this area of town for a sandwich.  We sat at a table on a sidewalk, looking at a fountain and listening to a musician playing a stringed instrument that was part guitar, part bass and part tripod somehow.  It was nice to listen to, and when he came around to all the sidewalk tables after his finished playing, we threw a few coins in his tip jar.  It felt pretty French.  

We did stop on the way back to the room for a little ice cream.  Full disclosure, it seemed like an Italian gelato spot.  In fact, this part of the Latin Quarter reminded me of New York in a way.  Lots of people form different parts of the world settle in New York, just as lots of people from different parts of the world settle in Paris. I appreciate the nice Italians who came here to make gelato.  We saw restaurants from all over.  Lots of Greek places were all around, as were Japanese and Korean places, and there were tons of Lebanese restaurants.  So many, in fact, that Cas looked it up.  

There are lots of Lebanese restaurants because there are tons of Lebanese people.  France once governed Lebanon, and there was a little culinary crossover.  We determined the best course of action would be to take a nap of epic proportions, then have Lebanese dinner.  The nap was clutch, too.  We have been moving at such a speed this week that, when given an opportunity for a moment of rest, we really needed to take it.  We just reclined to see if the mattress in this new hotel was any good.  We rose hours later with a new outlook on the day.  It’s only on vacations that Cas can fully participate in a mid-day nap without incident.  At home, he has trouble shaking off the grogginess and returning to the living, but on a vacation, he can adapt to a siesta mid-day and keep on being a tourist.  

We strolled around the streets in this neighborhood for a while, noting the variety of dog sizes.  The tiny French dog stereotype doesn’t hold, and absolutely none of the dogs were smoking or wearing a beret.  Honestly, though, there was some smoking around, but there was also a fair amount of vaping.  Most folks didn’t do either.  We had a few cocktails at a local bar where Cas had to step inside to order.  I held the table we wanted on the sidewalk, so I missed the emotional and passionate responses to the tennis match that was on the bar’s TV.  He was in there when the tide turned and the local hero (probably, given the response) won the day.  One of the patrons yelled YES! In French, which is OUI!  Cas giggled, because a grown man was shouting what sounded like WHEE! At the top of his lungs.  Ah, to be in Paris!  

We left there after a bit and headed down the street.  Google told us we should try some Lebanese food.  Done and done.  We had tabouli, hummus, shawarma, labneh- lots of Lebanese things.  Did you know the Lebanese now make wine?  And did you know it’s not half bad?   And did you know that Lebanese Parisians really like it when you come in as a guest and want to try new things?  Well, that’s all true.  Try it out sometime.  Eschew the stereotypes, but believe me.  The French waiters are pleasant, the Lebanese food is good, the dogs come in all sizes, and the smoking isn’t as pervasive as you think.  And with that, please enjoy a funny thought I had, then explained to ChatGPT.  I wanted make a René Magritte-style image, based on his famous painting, which is somehow called The treachery of images.  You’re welcome to Google the original so you can fully appreciate my comedy chops: 

Also, here is the Heather-and-Cas photo album: tinyurl.com/dunlap-pl