A Parisian response to fear

I was focused on the situation so don't have
good photos, but man it was fun and loud

What do you do when terrorists want you to be afraid? To be closed off, fearful of strangers, and angry? To stay locked in your house, suspicious of others, scared of crowds and skittish of loud noises? Well, if you’re Paris, you throwing a mutha-phunking techno parade to draw in the crowds and blast out the windows, that’s what you do.

Because screw fear! Sucks to your divisiveness! And extremists can kiss my unafraid not-shut-in tolerant liberal western ass! It’s time for a party so loud everyone’s invited whether they like it or not. Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Zoroastrian, and Animist, I don’t care, if you have eardrums, you’re at the party.

And who cares if modern music seems to have forgotten musical instruments, because for the moment all we need is the sort of gut-thumping noise that makes everyone feel the rhythm in their ribs and the beat in the bloodstream as our hearts accelerate to match.

And if it’s my tour group, midway through my Paris walk, caught and beached somewhere between the converted church and the place where the boy king’s life changed forever? Oh well! Change of plans! We’re travelers: we adapt. And so we hold off on the French Revolution for a moment and instead lift cell phone cameras to the beautiful and blissfully idiotic thudding of a techno resistance movement. And if that swarm is hefting bottles of booze to the sky? Good for them. Ain’t nobody driving, ain’t nobody fighting, but all of everybody is moving and defiantly alive. Tolerating each other, who cares how you dress, if you can sing, or whether you pray and to whom.

Paris is unafraid, and these thousands of hoarse shouting, public drinking, sexual tension exploding, uncovered, unashamed, and celebrating youngsters are going to make sure you know it.

Because Paris is a city attacked. Once by terrorists, and repeatedly by fear. A city maligned by well-meaning purveyors of information, and by loving and thoughtful individuals who are right to feel fear, but wrong to act on it.

How did my group act on it? Did they stay home and huddle in front of the panic-inducing television? Nope, they came and saw for themselves. And when I asked them in the Champs de Mars if any of them felt afraid of Paris, they laughed. The correct response. They’d seen for themselves that fear on this global scale is a packaged commodity you don’t have to wear. And shouldn’t. Because locked inside, it’s quiet and safe and dead and complicit. But outside? In the traveler’s world, the citizen’s reality, the truth of the shared experience? It’s doing just fine.

Paris is alive and well. It is not unsafe, and it is not dangerous. Nor is it afraid and lashing out. It’s alive. It’s joie de vivre. It’s all those hearts beating defiantly together, celebrating and loud.  Can you hear it from there?

The Secret to Europe

No photo of the boulangerie, but this was just down the street

The smell of fresh baked bread. Is there anything on earth so glorious as that smell on a Paris morning? It was Friday and the perfectly round fruit-topped tarts were glistening with sugar and the muffins with their floured plumpness were the first part of an equation whose answer was a comfortable chair, cup of tea, and a good book. But it was the freshly baked baguettes that drew me in.

The mademoiselle behind the counter was chatting with the dignified madame l’customer ahead of me, their words lilting about in that frolicsome French that seems always on the verge of a loving tut-tut.

When it was my turn I stepped forward, gave a friendly smile and nod, and said in my very best French “Un baguette si vous plait.” I was killing it. An integrated part of this morning in the boulangerie.

Except maybe not. The mademoiselle seemed annoyed by my presence. She wasn’t rude, but nor was she nice. She was curt and briskly businesslike with my bread, so different from the affectionate glow of moments before, and barely looked at me as she handed over the bag and greeted the next person in line with a friendly hello.

Maybe the old stereotypes were right. Maybe the French (or Parisians at least) really were still rude to foreigners. Maybe my inevitable accent was just not good enough for their demanding sensibilities. How terribly disappointing!

Good thing it wasn’t true. It took me some time to figure out. Countless more small interactions across the continent, but eventually I noticed the missing piece. And what a difference it made.

So when I watched three young Americans make the same mistake I had, ordering their sandwiches on the Rue Cler last time I was in Paris, and receiving the same terse Parisian response, I was ready to share what I’d learned.

That's my big mystical secret

“It helps a lot if you say hello first.” I told them (not bothering to say hello first because we’re Americans). “It took me awhile to notice it, since back home we smile and get straight to the point, but over here they really like it if you greet them before saying what you want.”

Being Americans, they were guarded about this stranger speaking to them, their defensive caution struggling against the desire to learn and enjoy their vacation.

“So if you just start with a quick ‘Bon jour madame’ in France, ‘Buon giorno signore’ in Italy, whatever, you usually get a much better reaction.” They kind of mumbled a response, still wondering when I’d demand their wallets, so I let them be and stepped up to the counter.

“Bon jour madame” I said to the mistress of sandwiches, who chirped back the answering greeting. “Un sandwich au jambon et fromage, si vous plait.” And we were best buddies by the time she passed across my lunch.

The Americanas were immersed in their guide book when I turned around, but perhaps somewhere down the road they’ll speak from experience when they whisper to someone “It helps if you greet them first.”

Responding to Paris. Islam is not the problem.

Inside a mosque in Malaysia

What can one say about what happened in Paris last week? How to adequately address this manifestation of humanity’s darkest potential? I’m not sure how to do it well, but I’ve seen some examples of how to do it incredibly poorly.

So, as John Oliver said: “after the many necessary and appropriate moments of silence”, I want to shout that this, as all of these incidents, is not a situation of Islam versus The West, nor Christianity, nor democracy, nor anything else. This is a case of Extremism versus Human Decency.

If you’ve met any Muslims through any medium other than TV “news” you know that they are people. Not terrorists, not extremists. People. Just like you and I. I wish I could take anyone who says differently with me to my class, where tables full of Syrian, Iraqi, Rohingya, Eritrean, and other refugees show me the true face of human kindness, the profound depth of human decency. They are solidly on “our side”. The talking heads of the TV networks on the other hand, seem solidly on the side of extremism. The danger of that is insidious and shameful.

Being a boy in rural Turkey

This misunderstanding of the nature of the conflict is what allows “our” government (and its business interests) to pursue the “War on Terror.” The tragedy of that strategy goes far beyond my ability to express. You can not go to war with Terrorism. It is an idea, not an opponent. It’s like trying to dry your clothes by spraying them with the garden hose. It only makes the problem worse.

We’ve seen, time and time again, that “our” bombs don’t just land on extremists. They land on innocents, and bystanders, and angry people, and sad people, and markets, and schools, and hospitals, and weddings. For every extremist “we” kill, we create a dozen more. We’re standing in the sun, hoping it will cure our sunburn.

Somewhere in Tanzania

You already know this. Every child knows this. Little Jimmy says Tommy is a doodoo head. The other kids aren’t so sure, Tommy seems fine to them, though he doesn’t share his potato chips very well. Then Tommy comes up and punches Jimmy in the face. Now everyone agrees, Tommy is a complete asshole.

It would be funny, except we do that with missiles.

So how should we respond? That’s the challenge of our age, to somehow improve the rampant inequality that fosters this anger, the widespread lack of education that allows extremism to take root, and most of all, the profound absence of hope for any better option that makes someone pursue the type of indiscriminate violence that I believe is fundamentally against our human nature. We don’t want to kill, but if you saw only bleakness ahead for your children, what wouldn’t you do? And as if that isn’t difficult enough already, we will have to do it, for an extended period, even in the face of the ongoing attacks that are already growing. It seems an impossible goal, but given the world’s capacity to generate wealth, I bet we can do a step or ten-thousand better. Call me an optimist.

Growing up in Diyarbakir

But for starters? How about we stop making things worse? We stop blaming an entire religion for the actions of a few. (We can talk another time about the truly insane quantity of violence perpetrated by each of the religions of Abraham, but for now, do the Westboro Baptists represent Christianity?) We can acknowledge that Islam is only a religion, not a personality type, and certainly not a psychological dysfunction! Once we stop actively producing more terrorists, we can start to heal the deeper wounds that are producing them in the first place.

Not terrorists. Just people. Good people.

I’d like to give it four years. Just one presidential term. Instead of spending billions of dollars on bombs to kill Middle Easterners, we spend it helping those people who want to help themselves and each other. Pour ourselves into peace and improvement, instead of death and Halliburton. If you think there is no one left in the Middle East who wants peace, wants safety, wants a better world for their children? Then you’ve been watching the wrong TV.

Okay fine. I give up. I love Paris too.

Locks, love, cathedral landmarks, history, yada yada yada
I get it, Paris is beautiful.

There’s something terribly cliche about loving Paris. It’s like loving chocolate, puppies, and The Princess Bride. Of course you love those things. So does everyone else. Not interesting. After reading the 10,000th love poem to the City of Obvious, I had decided I wasn’t going to comply. I was going to snob the snobs.

On my big Europe solo wander, I spent a couple days in the city. Just long enough to meet some of the smelly fellows who shared my dorm room (including one who didn’t seem to have packed anything but underwear), walk rain-soaked streets where fancy people were being fancy, and disprove the stereotype of delicious Parisian cuisine: the kebabs were just as greasy and gross there as everywhere! Take THAT!

Finding a copy of The Tropic of Cancer on a hostel shelf a couple towns down the road made me more kindly disposed...but only to Paris of the 1930s. That age of Gallic elegance amid crass ennui and the inherent decline of being on top was past; the 21st century could keep its tourist temple!

Then I got this tour guide job, and where must I guide, every tour? Friggin Paris! Of course. So I went to Paris. Ready for snobs, stinky cheese, and pretentious wine. Over-dressed fashionistas sipping café in a café, staring at ca-mé. Grandiose museums with grandiose price tags and inscrutable art that we come see because They have told us we should.

“Yup.” I’d say, snarky and justified. “That’s the Mona Lisa. Just like it always looks, on every postcard and dorm room wall.”

What did I find? Precisely poignant cheese to go with eloquently savory wine that tastes like the place it grew. A city so dedicated to living well that they dress well just to go to the café, where they make no pretense of isolationism but angle all the chairs straight out to overtly people-watch. Just the way I love to do. And if I now have nicer clothes by several notches than when I came around as a vagabond? Feels good. Doesn’t mean I’m superficial now. And the museums? Succulent with centuries of creativity and culture, enduring manifestations and reflections of the historical, or spiritual, or emotional, or sexual, or tragic, or any number of the other passions in human life. All it took was a little education, a little context, a little knowledge of how to look, some kind of (ahem) guidance, and it all came alive. Not inscrutable. Beautiful.

And the last piece? The snobs? Did I find them? I found one. But then I stopped being him.

So next season I’ll go back to Paris. I’ll walk those gorgeous boulevards, thinking about Baron Haussmann, past the Hotel de Ville (which was never a hotel) and the Conciergerie prison (which kind of was) until my feet ache with satisfaction. Then I’ll sit on a wicker chair beside a mid-sized stream of joie de vivre, and eat the flavors that tell me where I am. (I know a great place for boeuf tartare if you want to come along.) I’ll watch petanque, sit by the Seine, mirror the emotions Rodin placed in clay, and get the chills when I hear Emmanuel ring out of from Notre Dame’s south tower, the way the 13 ton bell did when it announced the end of Nazi occupation.

And best of all, I’ll sit down to dinner, or lean back to a coffee or stroll around with a gelato, visiting with the friends I’ve found in that city. In that city which I’ve found to be a friend. Yes, I admit it, I love Paris.

It's always a good time for a French vineyard

“You are going to Beaune?” said the French sisters, their fine Parisian brows lifting in Gallic surprise.

“Yes. Why? Is it...not nice?” My slight trepidation.

“Non non non!” They reassured. “It is very nice! It is just zat no one goes to Beaune. We only went zere last year, and we go everywhere in France. Vive la France!”

(Okay, I added that last part.)

After the frantic pace of Must-See Paris, often seen through an aftertaste of jet lag, our tours spend a night in French countryside tranquility. And what’s more French countryside than Burgundy? (Quiet down, Provence.) So why Beaune? A quick walk through the streets answers that question. It’s like a Museum of Adorableness. But real-life, not replicated. An Adorability Expo? And for bonus, you can see what happens when the region's wealthiest man (in a time and place where three out of four people lived in feudal poverty) begins to worry about his soul. (Spoiler alert: it sometimes involves drilling holes in people's skulls.)

But we have another reason.

Did you know French wine is classified not by grape (pinot noir, merlot, etc) but by the region where the grapes are grown? And that there are French words involved that have no English equivalent? And that there are fancy French certifications of quality and origin? And that Burgundy is a top region for wine production in the world? And that the Rick Steves people have longtime personal friends over there?

Our bus parks on the side of the road that winds past innocuous hills that produce world-famous wine, and when there is a break in the sparse traffic of spiderlike harvesting tower-truck-things, we walk across the warm pavement and up the long driveway between vines to the manor house that looks like, well, like something from a wine label.

Downstairs we feel the precise temperature that fosters optimal fermentation, see the stacks of barrels made from French oak (of course!), and notice the fine gray mold on the ceiling that affords the vintage its penicillin protection.

Upstairs we sit around a long table loaded with ripe fruit, potent cheese, fresh bread, and savory meats. The jambon persille was my favorite, despite looking kind of suspect with its herb-flaked jelly. And when the friendly hostess pours a glass of white wine, it's liquid sunlight. And when she pours the red, it's the personality of the land you're holding.

I don't really buy souvenirs anymore. But when even the un-certified stuff, humble beside the grand cru, tastes like Burgundy dreaming, I bought half a case. Vive la France!

Playing French, eating like a Bourgondier

Belgians consider themselves quite the lovers of good food and drink. So much so, that they created a term for that side of themselves. Know what they chose? “Burgondiers.” That is, people from Burgundy. France.

If your food and wine are so good that when other people want to exclaim how good their eating is, they compare themselves to you? You’re probably doing something right.

So when I got to Burgundy, arriving through the sort of scenery that could drive an Impressionist into ecstasy and/or insanity, soft green hills supporting sprays of lavender blossoms and tranquil white cows, and learned that those cows are specifically bred and destined to be boeuf bourguignon, I knew what I had to order for dinner that night. You see, it’s a tour guide’s responsibility to know what he’s talking about, and I am determined to pass on that little animal husbandry factoid to tour members for years to come.

But do real life Bourgondiers eat only this apogee of beef stew? Non non non! The meal began, of course, with a small metal plate like a watercolor palette, each of whose half dozen concave niches held an impressively large snail shell. The verdant green of the herb and garlic sauce erupting around each mollusc was delicious to the eyes. Escargot, si vous plaits. Très délicieux!

I could only discipline myself to take this one photo from
the meal, so you'll have to imagine the rest. Je suis desole!

Then came the boeuf bourguignon, so tender and savory that it deserved each and every one of those superfluous letters to ornament its palatial presence on the plate. But was that all? Time to go home? Non! And what was next? Why, fromage of course!

The three wedges of cheese arrived like something out of Greek Mythology. Three sisters of ominous potency, unique in character but sharing origin and essence. They built upon one another’s strength in a potent triumvirate, from the seductive creaminess of the first, through the herbal punch of the second, and into the toe jammy potency of the third. And of course, my wine was tailored to match, because we are civilized creatures.

Normal street detail in Beaune, Burgundy, France

I savored every slith and slythe of cheese on taste bud, and when the plate held only a smear to trace my achievement, my belly felt plump as, well, as a farmhouse cheese. No way I could fit anything else in there.

So it was time for dessert. When it arrived, I looked at the sugared expanse with remorse, knowing I was inadequate to the task. But wait! I was not alone at the table! Two new friends framed my overloaded belly, but alas, one of my mentor’s orientation culture talks mentioned that Europeans do not share food the way Americans do.

“You are always passing your plates around, saying ‘Try this!’ What is that? Why do you do this? No, we don’t do it. You order your own food and you eat it. By yourself.” Suddenly those words were like smoke signals from my rescue ship as it steamed off towards the horizon without me, leaving me lost, abandoned, hopeless in a sea of creme brulee.

But I am not a European. And as an apprentice guide, I am granted a certain amount of leeway. Cultural compromise, if you will. With my mentor’s mercenary help, our two tiny spoons progressed through the wealth of perfectly golden vanilla bean luxuriance.

So the Belgians claim culinary sophistication and epicurean qualification by comparing themselves to Bourgondiers? Yeah, they got that one right.

Riding a theme through Europe, 3 quick photos

If I tell you a story, I’ll want to sit down. If I sit down, I’ll fall asleep. If I fall asleep, I’ll miss the next story.

So instead, I’ll take the easy way out, the modern way out, with a bit of a tap on the nose on my hurried way out, and I’ll show, not tell.

But with so many to choose from, I’ll return to an old friendly theme, whose population grows in a reliable…cycle.

Tour guide training moves to a new city, a new country, a new tour tomorrow. So for now, grazie and ciao from Rome.

Ze Germans, zey are riding zheir bicycles so fast! But not zis vun, zough,
he isht sleeping.

Ah, but mon amis, to ride ze bicycle on a night so soft, so romantique,
it would be a crime tres 'orible! We would 'ave to put you in ze Bastille!

Il Duomo a Firenze, in Italia, e molto bella, of course.
Ma anche una bicicleta puo essere molto bella, if you ask me.

Not quite fitting in, in Paris

Sweating and styling, today in Paris, on the vagabondurges.com post today.