LETTER FROM PARIS #4 tourists

It is a popular vanity to exempt yourself from the world of the “tourist.” As in: “We ate at this wonderful place. Not touristy at all. All the patrons were locals. We were welcomed into another world." Sure Sure.

Because this is about our 12th trip to Paris, I lay claim, legitimately, to having passed from curious tourist to insider, resident, “voisin” to everyone else. It helps that I speak reasonably unaccented French; However, I am always dismayed when a waiter hears my opening “bonjour” and speaks English to me.

I did say that I would be looking at more than “things” because I have seen most of the things. However, with Racherl in tow, with the curiosity and awe of a 13 year old, we look at “things.”

So it was off to the Eiffel Tower and hoping to beat the crowds. This may be possible but probably only between 2 and 3 A.M. It was jammed. They were everywhere. Cameras always pointed snapping every possible view of the famous tower, embellished only with some friend or relative standing in front of it grinning foolishly. Alright. Alright. I’m trashing the tourists. Wait. There’s more.

The mandatory boat trip was next. Here we found the archetypical tourist: the one who is there to see everything and will step on you if you get in the way. They are not people. They are ravening monsters. We rushed to get a seat near the bow of the boat. There was a gang of 20-somethings from Brazil who, in every way possible distracted, obstructed and generally got in the way. The loudspeaker asked that passengers remain seated while the boat is underway. You have to be kidding! These people not only crowded the rail at the bow standing up, blocking the view, so their pictures were good – but two of them indulged in endless PDA. (look it up.) I’m no prude, but do I care about some stranger’s public love life? And they did it standing where they could best block the view. In fact when we neared places like Notre Dame, the rush to photograph overwhelmed any scintilla of politeness. They were like celebrity-mad paparazzi.

It was as if the cruise was just for them and we were non-people. Rachel, a very polite person, was really outraged. I tried to explain that some tourists (notice how careful I am)) will trample everyone to be first in line. They have no shame. They are also the ones who mindlessly toss their ordure where it pleases them. Later that day I was overtaken by reality: a Frenchman in our neighbourhood was standing on the sidewalk peeling an orange and letting the peel fall into the gutter. I stopped. I made an angry noise. As I walked on he called after me: “Something the matter with your head.” In French of course.

The shining bright side of the walk past the guy peeling his orange into the street (we were not ten feet from a garbage receptacle) was that finally, at last, after many times of being discouraged by enormous lineups, we made it to Entrecote de Venise known also as Entrecote de Relais. (With branches in New York, London, and Barcelona.) It is rumoured to be one of the great places to eat and is frequented by Parisians. We arrived at the ungodly hour of 5, but the sign said they open at 7. The dilemma: do we walk back to the apartment and risk not getting a decent place in line? No. We go around the corner and after two beers, a glass of wine, coffee, and two carafes of water for Rachel, return to the restaurant. It is 6:45 and there are already about twenty people in line. But at last we make it inside.

The restaurant is famous for two things: its superb sauce, a greenish concoction tasting faintly of lemon but beyond that totally mysterious and heavenly; and for not having a menu. (except for desserts) That’s because there is no choice. It is “steak-frites.” Your only choice is how well done the steak is to be. First a salad lightly laced with an ethereal dressing and topped with crushed nuts. The “main” arrives. Recognizing that the French stay slim because they do small portions, I am not at all surprised that my small plate has about five thinly sliced medallions and a heap of fries. Exquisite. I am helping Shirley with her fries. Rachel is standing guard over her plate. Then the surprise: from the serving table next to us, our server refills our plates with even more steak and even more fries. So much for the diet-wise small portions. A great experience and a great surprise: the price, including three desserts, two large bottles of mineral water and our mains: just under 100 Euros.
Astonishing.

We trudge painfully back to the apartment which is mercifully about five blocks away.
I flop into bed – aching but replete.

And there did not seem to be a single tourist – the kind who complains and speaks to waiters as if they were a lower form of life.