Feeling the Chill

A Paris metro car

Don’t get me wrong. There are times when I am thrilled to be in Paris. Nights when, after a glass or two of wine, I get wholly wrapped up in a conversation and forget I’m having it in French. Walking to yoga class through the charming, cobblestone streets of the 5th arrondissement. Chilly, scarf-wrapped autumn mornings that feel so Parisian. It’s a feeling of luckiness, of knowing I’ll never feel quite like this again.

But much of the time, to be perfectly candid, I feel tense, isolated, or just plain irritated with Paris. For just this one entry, I’m going to let the indignation and negativity run their course… after all, Paris gets enough good press, right?!

As I went about my day today—rushing to class, transferring in the metro, waiting on line at the supermarket—I became aware that I was bracing myself. My shoulders felt tensed, my hand gripped my shoulder bag tightly, and I tried to take up as little space in the crowded metro car as possible. It seems, now that I’m accustomed to the thorny manner of many Parisians, I expect to be met with it wherever I go.

In public settings, I notice especially the lack of physical accommodation (like allowing someone to pass on the sidewalk), and the habit of staring without smiling. When I’m not with friends, I find myself turning much more inward than usual: focusing on my iPod or my book, staring into space, or scrutinizing my shoes (bag/jeans/etc.) Contrary to what I expected, my increasing fluency doesn’t bring with it an equal sense of cultural ease. My language skills may be a good disguise, and even fool a store clerk into thinking I’m French, but they don’t change the other-ness I perceive on the inside. The real differences between myself and Parisians, I’m finding, have more to do with attitude than with language.

In New York, women on the subway have told me they like my earrings. Stretching at the gym, inquisitive strangers have asked me, “Are you by any chance a dancer?” I have watched people help each other with directions. In my first few days in Paris, I smiled at those who met my eye in the metro, only to receive a puzzled look or a quick aversion. An employee at my local grocery store took my familiar pleasantries as a sign of other motives, and promptly asked me out. God forbid I should stop and offer help to a lost-looking person: they’d probably assume I was a scam artist.

I know this all may sound extreme. And there are, without a doubt, kind people in Paris. I met a half-Tunisian boy from the suburbs the other night who told me he feels the Parisian coldness is a real shame; he purposely gives people on the street a huge smile, just to get a rise out of them. And the Parisians friends I have, as well as those I’ve met through them, have been inclusive and eager to get to know me. But the fact of the matter is, human beings spend just as much—if not more—of their time on their own, going about their tasks and traveling to and from places. In those times, when we are apart from our friends, families, and institutions, we are surrounded by those we don’t know, and will likely never see again. But does that mean we need to treat them that way? Does it mean that, since they are unknown, they may be dangerous or unpleasant to interact with?

When I feel someone on the metro scanning me from top to bottom, judging by my expression and what I’m carrying who I might be, I feel like turning to them and saying, “Hi, I’m Aniella. What’s your name?” (En français, bien sûr!) And that’s the funny part about it… I’m not even the friendliest person I know. I’m a New Yorker. I’m kind of reserved. God knows I never won the prize for team spirit (errr, back in 8th grade, the last time I was even on a team…!) But here, surrounded by a level of aloofness that I’ve never experienced, I long for a cheery smile or an innocuous compliment—things that would have felt quotidian and unremarkable at home.

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