The French are OK….

 

Do the French really deserve the seemingly constant abuse they receive from the American media, particularly since the start of the Iraq crisis?  I certainly got sucked into bashing the French, and as an American who works abroad, believe me, I experience plenty of reciprocal resentment from French nationals who loathe the United States.

The media barbs come from more than just the FOX network (which I personally love), as even the financial networks like CNBC took off the gloves with the French following negative EC decisions against Microsoft and General Electric.  This new disdain had actually permeated my daily routine as I deliberately began ordering “Freedom” fries with my chicken breast in a “French” Angolan restaurant.

So wasn’t it ironic that I got stuck in Paris for 48 hours last month while waiting for an airline connection?  I’d done the whole backpacking thing in France during the 1980s, like many others.  However, now in my 40s and with no real desire to drink beer in youth hostels, I was trapped in what I was sure to be the epicenter of European anti-Americanism. 

Two days is too much time to hang out in a transit hotel room alone.  So I asked the consigner about local logistics and decided to head into downtown Paris.  Sure, there was the Louvre and Notre Dame, but I remembered there was also a McDonald’s in St. Michelle. I hadn’t seen a Big Mac in six months and I was going to have a real lunch.   I donned my Washington Nationals baseball cap, faded T-shirt, and sock-less New Balance sneakers, and bought a ticket on the express train between the airport hotel and central “Pariee”.  Hell yes, I deliberately wanted to look American because I am one and damn proud of that fact. The bastards just stole the Tour de France victory from us, and I’m not one to shy away from a scrap.

After exiting the train station at St. Michelle, I was ready to do battle for the flag.  The mid-morning weather was absolutely perfect.  I cracked open a pocket tourist map, started whistling Frank Zappa’s “In France,” and walked in the direction of Notre Dame.  The streets were busy, but nobody gave me the belittling looks I’d hoped my Nationals cap would provoke.  I stopped Parisians for directions (asked in deliberate English, of course) and was pleasantly pointed in the right direction by the “enemy” on three occasions.  In time, I began to lighten up, and my anxieties seemed to melt away as I was overtaken by the sense of history, architecture, and charm of Paris. 

I toured the Notre Dame Cathedral, which left me just as awe-stuck as it had been 20 years earlier as a back-packing youth.  The Louvre Museum was only a few blocks away, so I paid a visit to the Mona Lisa and the now famous inverted glass pyramids (was the Holy Grail really buried under there?).  In the neighborhood boutiques, several friendly salespeople helped me pick out some gifts for my family (despite my poor French, yes, I was capitulating) that actually looked just as good when I got them home as they did in the store.

After a few hours of indulging myself in some of the best Paris had to offer, my stomach reminded me of my original objective, finding fortress McDonalds, the holy grail of American fast food.  French smiles again pointed me in the right direction and alas, amidst several French cafes, the Golden Arches beckoned to me.  Home, I was back in the Green Zone again. 

I suspected I would be entering this American icon’s Parisian tomb but was surprised by the chaotic lines at the front counter.  Ten cash registers, each with ten people in line waiting to order at 4:00 in the afternoon.  The dining hall was noisy, jammed packed, and I would have turned right around and walked over to Burger King if given the same situation at a domestic McDonald’s (I’m impatient).  After fifteen minutes, I ordered the “# deux” with a large Coke from a young girl happy to help me in broken English.  No fight here, and I didn’t even gripe about the fact they charged extra for ketchup.  The McRoyale (I’d seen Pulp Fiction) was my fare for the day, and I ate my lunch in conversation with students from the neighboring Sorbonne University who never once mentioned my President’s name.  Did you know you can buy a beer with your meal at Mickey D’s in Paris?

I certainly left Paris with a new perspective on the French.  Paris and its people now had a warm face with a big smile on it, and I felt a little ashamed to have swallowed the negative rhetoric from the US media on the French.  Clearly, I’d let my strong patriotism prejudice good manners and common sense.  I was reminded again that we need to make our own decisions about people and cultures and not be led astray by the noise. In hindsight, I’d learned the same lesson in Iraq and Afghanistan recently too.  Certainly, there are French Nationals who are in the same boat as I was, who due to negative media now harbor animosity towards America.  I hope they might visit New York or Florida to kick America’s tires for themselves and come to their own conclusions.  France and the United States are both wonderful countries, historical friends, and I believe share the same ideals.  Yesterday I was actually looking at airfares to Paris and think I want to go back again for my vacation.  Hey, the French are OK with me.   

aldwyer