J'adore Paris

“What is it with the American fascination with Paris?”

This was the question posed by Ribka’s college buddy. We’ll call him Mickey. Mickey, an ‘Asiastani,’ Sverige-phile, and exquisitely rare Dubai-native living in London, seemed both disgusted and utterly perplexed, as he read a rather superlative description of the cultural seat of France in our Fodors guide.

For fear of American litigation I’ll paraphrase; Ahem...

“Paris is our modern-day Eden, replete with the finest fruits of humanity. This city is what civilization (and your Visa card) have been waiting for; it is the ultimate expression of how our world, at its heart, should aspire to be. If you haven’t been consider yourself void of any true pleasure, virtue, or capacity for love.”

At least that’s what it said between the lines.

So of course, this begs the question, just as Mickey did, why do American’s adore this city? Granted we aren’t nearly as bad as the Japanese. Rumor has it the Japanese Embassy has set up a hotline for those suicide-pondering Japanese tourists who, having grown up with the media-sponsored nearly delusional belief that Paris should be an indeed perfect heaven on earth, are disappointed beyond words at a very...well...French city. For reals. I can’t claim to know why per se America is so fascinated, but I can offer suitable reasoning for why we shouldn’t be.

Paris is magnificently and elegantly inefficient.

Let’s take the sojourn of Ribka and I through the labyrinth that is the Charles de Gaulle airport. As we parted the doors of the cavernous ticketing counters we were greeted by not one, but two Air France representatives asking for our destination, passports and the like (only to be ushered to an automated check-in kiosk). After discovering that we needed again to interact with another representative at the counter, we decided that the process was unnecessary. As we, still blissfully, arrived at the counter of Air France, the representative briskly typed away and sent our luggage swiftly to wherever they go. Then a pause.

“Euuuh.....(add consternated and nasal Parisian accent here).”
“Yehs. This will be a bit difficult. You arrrrh leaving from gate E83.”

With a rather smooth grace that is truly a French birthright, she began to draw the path to our awaiting plane on a smooth square of paper.

“You see you muhst take tis corrrridohr heerrre and follow the signs to the foyer. Once in te foyer, a bus will take you to the auxiliary gate.”

At this point, I was a bit annoyed with the idea of having to walk so far, but thought little of it. That is until this:

“The bus will take approximately 20 minutes.”

What? The two Americans before her quickly raised eyebrows and exchanged a stare that said, “What about our duty free wine?” We would barely make it to boarding.

So off we went. Our persons, tickets, our hand baggage was inspected, cross-inspected, and practically molested on practically every 10 yards. Glorious inefficiency. We stopped counting at about 13 checks (this actually does not count we actually boarded). Amazing.

Thankfully however, the French system of inefficiency worked in our favor vis-à-vis our duty free shopping. With mere moments to spare before our supposed boarding time, a honey-toned disembodied voiced called over the intercom.

“It is impossible to board at this time, as the plane is currently refueling.”

Obviously, this meant an extra 45 minutes to try our hand at the French wines (another story all together). I suppose the socialist job-creation system combined with an inane government mandated 35-hour work week is responsible. For a person from the United States, where efficiency and economy are always of paramount concern, it can be incredibly frustrated.

That being said of course, it is blissful to have the opportunity to annoyed by France. It makes one feel...how-do-you-say...French. Its any wonder that anything gets done, except for bewitching American tourists.