Avoiding French Boys: Speak English

(1 in a series of 3)

“Remember, the French only smile when they’re laughing or when they’re interested in someone, “ my French professor says to me every semester. 

For those of you who know my overwhelming tendency to smile, you may be concerned to learn that tidbit of information.  Not to worry Mom and Dad, we’ve got that under control.

At this point I have developed three strategies for avoiding French boys:

1) Speak English. 

Example: After we got off the train, we had to travel below the train tracks to get to our next destination.  Due to my inability to pack lightly, I found myself with two large suitcases, a backpack, and a purse, together equaling my bodyweight.  (This, for once, is not any sort of exaggeration.  My luggage really did weigh as much as I did.)  The exit signs all pointed to a sketchy, dark staircase but, being the smart women that we are, we knew that was not a good idea to go down those stairs.  Dangerous people could be lurking in all sorts of corners. 

So instead, we took the elevator.  The elevator was not full of any dangerous people but it had the same sketchy feeling as it slowly made its descent underground.  As I looked around the elevator, enjoying the sounds of the gears clicking and grinding against each other, I noticed the big red sign reminding the riders not to have more than five occupants.  Since I was currently crammed between Megan and Hannah and standing on one foot to make room for all of our luggage, the thought of five people made me laugh.

*click, click, click, pause

But then I remembered I was carrying around an extra person with me.  That would be fine.  Four is less than five.  I remained calm and reassured myself that the elevator always made those sounds.  Then I mentally calculated the weight of Megan’s bags.

*click, click

Not quite a whole person.  We’re still ok.

*click, pause

The three of us look at each other.  Now, I can’t read minds, but I’m about 99% sure that the three of us were thinking something along the lines of, “If this elevator breaks down, that’s it.  We’re about to be eaten by French rats.  Not Ratatouille.  He’s nice.  But those other ones will get us in no time.”

*click, click, click

The elevator keeps moving but at this point I realized that the three of us and our luggage would be more than the weight limit.  (Now, you Americans are probably thinking that we’re nothing but little girls and when they talk about people for occupancy reasons they mean full-grown men...  Well in France full-grown men are smaller than me.  I hope you feel ashamed of what the Obesity Epidemic in America has done to you.) 

*click, click, stop

*pause

(panic starts to set in)

*door opens

While we walk through some type of underground tunnel we all breathe a sigh of relief that we are done with that elevator.  And then we see another one... this time going up.  At this point, my arms are burning from dragging around my extra self all day but there was no chance the three of us were getting back on any elevator.  Instead, we start carrying our bags one by one to the landing, then finally to the road.

As we are in the process of doing this, a teenage French boy decides he will take a break from his cigarette and scampers down the flight of stairs towards us.  I thought he might want to help us but he also could have wanted to steal my luggage.  Either way I wouldn’t have to carry it up the stairs so I just went with it.  As he goes to grab it with one hand, I warn him in English that it’s heavy.

Maybe he didn’t speak English.  Or maybe he was trying to be macho.  Regardless, this frail teenager picks up my 50-pound bag with one arm, Hannah’s bag in the other, and stumbles to the top of the stairs, being sure that we noticed his impressive physical feat.  Personally, I was too concerned that his twig-like arms were going to snap into pieces to be impressed by his good deed but he pauses just long enough at the top of the stairs to give us a big old smile.

He runs down the stairs again to bring up our last bag and tries to say a few suave things to us in French.  We, of course, don’t know what he’s saying but out of habit we say something to him in English.  He looks at us confused for a moment then mutters a disappointed “Good night”  to us as we walk away.

(Note: The “Speak English” tactic will not always work.  Sometimes that only makes you more of a target.  If you think this might be the case, you better hope I post the other two defenses really soon!)