Paris_ The Collected Traveler - Barrie Kerper [56]
In my correspondence with Gerald, he mentioned in passing that one of his Traveler pieces he likes best is “True Glitz,” about Monte Carlo (May 2007). In addition, he and his wife, Joanne, are the coauthors of Fatima’s Good Fortune (Hyperion, 2003), a novel set in Paris.
We’ll Always Have … Questions
ANN BURACK-WEISS
I LAUGHED OUT loud when I read this piece, especially when I got to the part about the handheld shower head. I, too, have never understood what, if any, logic there is in this device. If the shower stall has a built-in bench, you can sit down, which is easier and makes some sense, but most of the time there is no bench—and often there is no shower door or curtain, so the water goes all over the floor, the walls, the sink, everywhere.
ANN BURACK-WEISS, who claims to have never progressed beyond high school French, is also the author of The Caregiver’s Tale: Loss and Renewal in Memoirs of Family Life (Columbia University Press, 2006). This piece originally appeared as the back-page essay in the travel section of the New York Times in 1996.
THE JOHN TRAVOLTA character in Pulp Fiction had it right about Paris—things there are the same as here, “just a little bit different.” His interest was piqued by the McDonald’s special (a quarter-pounder transformed by the metric system and nostalgia for the monarchy into The Royal). Having just returned from a month in France, I share his quotidian observations. Mine, however, are awash in puzzlement. Would a French person take pity on me and answer the following:
Do you really save money on those timers?
Paris was probably dubbed the City of Light in irony—by a victim of the timer (aptly called a minuterie) that is attached to many lights in hallways and bathrooms. I picture this person midway up a winding staircase, or perhaps otherwise involved in a sealed six-by-six room, when the light clicked off. The French have combined their twin passions for privacy and frugality into the diabolical construction of Les Toilettes. The stall has a floor-to-ceiling door and a light that invites you to enter and fasten the intricate lock before the light suddenly turns off, leaving you to grope through a succession of awkward acts in total darkness.
Do you carry flashlights? Candles?
Doesn’t it get expensive plastering up those holes in the wall?
Is there an expression for “penny wise and pound foolish” in French?
What do you do with the shower head while you soap and shampoo?
The French had to invent the shower à deux, not for its romantic possibilities but as a practical solution to an enduring national problem—the handheld shower. Alas, a shower partner is not always available. I have mastered the trick of never getting between the handheld shower and the wall in the curtainless tub. I accept that I will be standing in a foot of water, as tubs are short and deep and drains take their time. But I still don’t know what to do with the shower head when I need both hands.
Do you hold it between your teeth? Under your neck?
Do you have special knee-toning exercises at the gym to work up your grasping strength?
Are you free mornings at seven?
Is attendance at scarf-tying classes mandatory in the public schools?
Every woman in France, nymphet to granny, wears a scarf. Squares, tiny and huge. Streamers, thick and thin. Silk, polyester, chiffon, wool—with everything from jeans to gowns—all tied with insouciant elegance. Not for them our continuous instructional videos at the scarf counter illustrating three obvious maneuvers: the shoulder triangle, the twice around the neck, and the sailor’s knot. They intertwine two or more long scarves, they drape lightly and tightly, sling high and low. They wear scarves as hats, as belts, as hair bows. The men have only one style. And it is grand—very long, very trailing, very sexy.
Do you take off your scarves when you get home or do you keep them on till bedtime?
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