As my first night began to fall in Paris, I found myself willingly following a strange man who would not tell me his name. Why? Where was he taking me? Had Paris somehow evaporated all my common sense and safety concerns? To answer these questions, we must first rewind to the days leading up to my departure.
All summer, I felt that I was stranded thousands of miles away from my study abroad adventure. I was farther away from France than the Middle East is from declaring an amicable détente. Finally the big day began to approach. The night before my flight, I was in a perpetual state of trepidation as my father ran through the worst-case scenario guide of travel — his well-intentioned yet perhaps misguided way of preparing me for my voyage.
“There’s a good chance they will lose your luggage. I hope you didn’t bring anything you really like,” he advised. “And what’s more, I doubt if the airport computers, your computer, or your Wi-Fi will work. Electronics are inconsistent, unreliable and above all, treacherous!”
Nevertheless, my dad’s precautions and my ensuing doubts proved to be unfounded, and in the space of a few hours I was magically transported from my modest village to Paris, city of life, light and love! In the following week, my other study abroad cohorts and I squeezed more life out of Paris than some Parisians do in a lifetime. A whirlwind tour of Paris’s most prized attractions began the instant of our arrival: Notre-Dame, Sainte-Chapelle, l’Arc de Triomphe and more. One night, some friends and I climbed up an endless staircase to the Sacré-Cœur and admired the sea of luminescence below us — glowing street cafés, iridescent dance halls reflecting onto the Seine and, of course, the ever fixed mark, the Eiffel Tower.
While I’ve enjoyed Paris immensely, not every moment fits the fairy tale. Some of the students in my study abroad group seemed bound and determined to reinforce Europeans’ negative attitudes toward Americans. One girl refused to speak French at all and simply raised her voice to a conversation-stopping shout when she was trying to make herself understood. “Hell-O! Um, why exactly don’t you have low-fat vegan options? DO YOU UN-DER-STAND EEN-GLISH?” There is a saying, “one bad apple spoils the whole barrel,” and I felt discouraged, knowing that no matter how many smiles, “s’il vous plaits” and “mercis” I dropped, I wouldn’t be able to atone for the girls who imbibed heavily and then returned to the hotel at 4:30 a.m., gracing the patrons with a badly harmonized rendition of Queen’s “We are the Champions.”
On the other hand, many Americans would argue that it is the French who are rude. While Paris is celebrated for her exquisite architecture and breathtaking beauty, her habitants have an equally well-established reputation for their discourteous demeanor. Though I have yet to encounter any of these Parisians, I did meet many fascinating and approachable French people, all of whom were eager to share their Paris. One man in particular went out of his way to show us his city. I had just jumped off the metro with a few girlfriends at La Défense, Paris’s modern business district, when an older gentleman approached us, asking, “Les américaines, oui? Ah, yes, yes you are! Have you seen the line that goes around the world yet? Oh, but you haven’t? Come, come, I will show you!”
At first we were worried that he was a scam artist and wanted money for his information; however, his affable demeanor soon had us charmed. He quickly became our unofficial tour guide as he ushered us around the square, excitedly spewing out so much information that it would put a Jeopardy contestant to shame. With the energy of a man half his age, he trotted us around the square, passionately gesturing with his hands as he showed us countless modern art sculptures and a little known but beautiful church. After two hours of exploring, he still hadn’t volunteered his name. When I finally asked, he opened his mouth and then paused, before replying with a wink and a mischievous smile, “Je m’appelle Rumpelstiltskin.”
After dark had fallen, he simply made a quick bow, thanked us for the evening and walked away into the dark, whistling merrily as he bounced his closed umbrella to the tempo of his song. Rumpelstiltskin: the nice Parisian. Maybe some fairy tales do exist.
Kendra’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at k.kirk@cavalierdaily.com.
Read More
Khul Ke Nacho — a celebration of free-spirited dancing
By Malaika Rehman | 16 hours agoThe sea of attendees wearing desi attire and dancing joyfully throughout the night was a reflection of the thriving Pakistani community in and outside of PSA.
Holding onto every grain in the hourglass
By Mai Hukuoka | YesterdayNow that I’m back at school, I have made it my mission to take note of the sneaky passage of time.
Students brave the cold for a whirlwind sorority rush
By Mia Tan | 3 days agoStudents recount a mix of emotions from rush, with some disappointed after dropping from the recruitment process and others ecstatic to join Greek life.
