2003-05-03 - 6:00 a.m. confessions of an anti-social traveller I have a confession to make. I have a tendency to be an anti-social traveler. Although most of my past travels have been with other people, many of my happiest travel memories are moments I experienced by myself. Further, I love sitting in a cafe, letting voices swirl around me, not fluent enough in the language to understand that the girl next to me is complaining to her friend about what an asshole her boyfriend is, or how unfair her professor was, or how drunk she was at last night's party. It's so wonderful to be alone with my thoughts, soaking in the scenery, uninfluenced by the comments of those around me. My trip to Paris provided plenty such opportunities. Although I know the language well enough to typically understand the overall meaning/topic under discussion, if the conversation isn't directed towards me, I can tune it out quite easily. One major irritant I can't tune out, alas, are the comments of English-speaking tourists. Yes, I am one of those English-speaking tourists, but I don't stand in front of abstract expressionist paintings at the pompidou center and say "any kid could paint that." Additionally, I don't complain in front of a cafe window that there aren't any hamburgers on the menu. Instead, I try my best to blend in with the natives. My normal wardrobe or dark colors and funky shoes worked pretty well for Paris, although one pair of shoes, the two-tone fluevog angels with the swirl on the side, got lots of stares. I see a new potential market for fluevog shoes, I think, unless of course everyone thought they were quite awful. I also made every attempt to speak en francais at all times, unless I absolutely could not come up with a French word to express something I had to say. As a result, American tourist came up to me and asked me, in Franglaise, for Metro information and for walking directions to various shopping areas, and I was able to conduct all my shopping transactions, and most of my eating transactions, without speaking any English. The culmination of my efforts was on my last day in Paris, May 1st. I boarded the shuttle van to the airport with my Lily of the Valley sprig in hand, was seated next to the driver up front, and answered him in French when he asked which terminal I was going to (I am amazed I've remembered as much of the pronunciation of the ABCs and numbers as I did). As a result, he spoke to me only in French for the entire trip. Already on board the van were two ladies in their late 50s or mid 60s returning to St. Louis Missouri (though one's accent gave her away as a New York native), plus two twenty-something Japanese girls returning to Tokyo. The Missouri ladies were the chatty type, hungry for details about other people's travels. Upon learning the Japanese girls lived in tokyo, the New York transplant exclaimed "I was in Tokyo." The ladies asked the girls a few more questions, then settled into self-congratulatory conversation regarding how well they got along on the trip, other than a few times, and how their friend who was not on the van with us was "tight" with her money and hadn't had dinner with them at "Tally-vent" (as they pronounced it.) They left me alone though, assuming I was French and mean, like some unidentified French woman who they were just sure had been making a snide comment in French at their expense at some point that morning. The ladies kept pointing at buildings out the window and misidentifying them, and peppering the driver with questions such as "The Louvre -- is that left bank or right bank?" then not accepting the driver's response as correct. Once I confirmed his response though, they seemed more confident in it. We drove through the City center streets, heading towards a hostel near Sacre Coeur. Seeing police barricades set up in front of the Madelaine, I asked the driver if there was going to be a May Day parade. This cemented our bond, and the Missouri lady's idea that I was French. The driver wasn't sure where I was from, but, catching me smirking at some of the conversation the ladies were having, could see that I understood English very well. The last two occupants to board the van were a mother and daughter from Australia, who got to hear the "I've been there" comment, and to be asked a million and one questions about their travels. I, on the other hand, sat up front flirting with the dirver (who was trying to convince me to come back again within a few weeks or to move to Paris since San Francisco is full of men who are interested in cute boys, not cute girls), and translating for him what the Australian ladies were saying. Even after prying out that I was headed to San Francisco, which was where I lived, the driver didn't think I was American. He finally asked though, and I did 'fess up to my nationality. As luck would have it, the Missouri ladies and I were all going to the last terminal. I disembarked, and waited to obtain my bag, and laughed as the driver, who was a native French-speaking African, who'd already made a joke at his and their expense regarding which airline they were going to (Here we are -- AfricanAir. What? You're not going to AfricanAir? Oh, American Air, not AfricanAir") informed the ladies that I was also an American. "What? Aren't you French?" "Non" I replied. "But you speak French!" "Non, un petit peu seulement," I replied, still unwilling to be sucked into their nosy travel conversations, or to give up my last few moments of speaking French on my vacation. I happily loaded my carry-on bag on top of my rolling case, and said "Merci! Au Revoir!" to my fabulous shuttle driver, then sped off into the terminal, to get myself home. Some of you who read this may think I was a bitch not to play nice with the little old ladies, but life is too short, in my opinion, to spend too much time making small talk with people you don;t want to talk to. Besides, it gave them a great story for the the other ladies at their community center -- the mean American girl who refused to speak to them in English on their shuttle home from Paris... any comments? 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