Paris: Apricots

Irish rugby fans, European hotel keys, Medda Leeka, and how to say “apricot” in French even though no French person will ever understand what you’re saying.

Visiting the trash shop next to the carousel at the bottom of the Sacre Coeur steps has become a Paris ritual for us. Tania always stocks up on tourist purse hooks with Eiffel Towers and shit all over them. I take pictures of keychains and snowglobes.

On our first morning in Paris I visited the café in our hotel lobby for a café and to jot down some notes. You know, French shit. The lady behind the counter said bonjour and asked me in French what I would like. Without really thinking I said, “Un Americano, s’il vous plait?” She repeated Americano and nodded, oui, I can make that. I was mildly embarrassed for being a very obvious American tourist with a terrible American accent ordering an Americano.

“Cliché, je sais,” I said in an attempt to improve my status. She chuckled so I think my pronunciation was close. For once.

I sat in the corner next to the window for a full view of the lobby’s morning activity. The barista brought me a coffee and a croissant on a little plate. I opened my notebook and began scrawling nonsense in pencil. How very French. I like doing French shit when I’m in France. But I didn’t get to do much French shit because I was interrupted by a constant pageant of English-speaking knuckleheads parading through the room who commanded my full attention. Watching and judging people while sipping coffee is also French shit, it’s just a little different from the French shit I was trying to engage in.

French shit.

Every English speaker who went by, whether they were English, Irish, Australian, or American, had this peculiar flippancy towards language. They spoke English like it was the only language in the world and that everyone should understand what they were saying regardless of whether they spoke English or not. The barista definitely didn’t speak English, but the guy who ran the front desk, the Manager, seemed to have a pretty good grasp of English. His French accent was so thick, though, that it was obvious he didn’t speak much English outside of the day-to-day English required for operating a hotel with a lot of English-speaking tourists. Yet all of the English speakers that strolled through the lobby that morning peppered their small talk nonsense with all kinds of slang and patois that even someone fluent in English might be unfamiliar with.

“Here’s the key to our room!” one older couple announced as they emerged from the elevator presenting their key to the Manager. If you’ve been to Europe you know that your room key doesn’t leave the premises at some hotels, you check it in and out at the front desk.

“But we’re going to be right back!” the woman added. “We’re just heading out for a few minutes. We’re gonna grab breakfast somewhere nearby. Maybe up on the corner, there? Anyway, we won’t be gone long, we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Even if anyone understood them (I don’t think anyone did), no one cares where you’re going or when you’re coming back and your key just goes on a hook on the wall behind the front desk. Your room key will not be busy when you return. You can ask for it any time.

“Oh we usually send the room keys down to the basement to be cleaned and polished for our guests when they step out,” Tania imagined the Manager saying after I told her of this incident, “so thank you for letting us know what you’re doing because otherwise—mon dieu!—your room key would be sterilizing in the autoclave for the rest of the day! I will stand here and diligently guard your key while you enjoy breakfast. A bien tot, madame.”