Julius Caesar, V-E day and other conquests of the Gauls

James Miller Miller on Tap

PARIS - Paris is the older sister of world cities, especially to Americans. "Paris has a 400-year tradition of supporting the arts. Paris has a clean, efficient system of public transportation. Why can't you be more like Paris?"

There are some things here that are just as wonderful and cultured as we've been led to believe - things we should emulate. The aforementioned two are just the beginning. Nearly all the public and private buildings in Paris have that kind of cut stone beauty seen only in the oldest American cities. There is little street crime and the most polite bums in the world, except for the gypsies.

But something is rotten on the Ile de France. Parisians are inconsistent. You see it in their homes. Picture an apartment in a very rich and exclusive neighborhood, the kind of apartment that make children root and wait for their parents' timely demise. Marble fireplaces in every bedroom, high ceilings with tapestries, paintings and ornate furniture to make the smallest living room look like a mini Versailles. Now picture the same apartment with roaches, cracked plaster, crooked wallpaper, exposed fixtures and a paint job that looks like a blind guy did it with his fingers.

All those charming little corner bistros that I used to think existed only in Henry Miller novels have fetid Turkish toilets, filthy cigarette butt-covered floors and tiny little glasses for the weak, yellow beers.

It's like the whole city lost interest in maintenance and technology after indoor plumbing and the steam engine. The only building in the city that looks like someone has cared for it since Sputnik is the Louvre and that's only because a country with usurial income tax rates depends on tourist dollars, pounds and deutschmarks.

The people are like this too. There is this French social convention "la politesse" (the English word "polite" is taken from the French) that every time you enter a place of business or public building everybody says "Bonjour Madame" or "Bon soir Monsieur" and "A bientot" upon leaving. It makes them feel all nice and courtly. But Parisian gentility is like the winter sun, bright and cold. There were three people in the whole city who didn't give me eye daggers upon realizing that I wasn't French, let alone not Parisian.

Similarly, it amazes me how, in a city that is so fascinated with fashion appearance, there can be so many ugly women. There is something about Parisian women, with a few glorious, transcendent exceptions, that turns them into foolish Moliére characters when they hit 50. Their hair inflates like Jiffy-Pop, and they walk their tiny dogs in full-length leopard coats and Fendi sunglasses big enough to make punch. It's hard to take a country seriously when they have you believe that all of their women look like Catherine Deneuve when, upon personal inspection, they look like Lucille Ball.

And while we're at it, let's talk about Parisian men, shall we? To their credit, they have to be the best dressed single population I've ever seen. At least half of the men on the subway in the middle of the afternoon are in ties and creased pants. Even the bums are usually clean shaven and have some kind of collar on.

Yet it doesn't look right. Look closely at a Parisian man. His clothes are immaculate, but the man is shady. They have shifty eyes; fat, sallow cheeks and noses like meat cleavers. They stare at you in restaurants and you can hear them thinking: "Peasant."

I know it violates journalistic canons to do this, but the most accurate and evocative description of the Parisians I can give you is not the most logical or the one that the rest of my paragraphs demand. Imagine the worst, most snotty, constipated, self-important stereotype of a GSI; the kind that works at a restaurant, works on his thesis at night, writes poetry, and hates you for reminding him that Marxist theorist and raconteur is not a full-time, paying job.

They have more museums than we do, more jazz clubs, more bookstores, and more libraries. But, if you ever need a nationalistic, patriotic pick-me-up when the Gauls have you down, or when you feel inferior, just think of this: There is a McDonald's three minutes from the Louvre and it's packed all the time. The museum itself is half-full.

Parisian inconsistency. They curse our culture with one hand, establishing a whole ministry to keep it pure, while they inhale our movies, our music and our largest commercial entities.

In spite of the Parisian inconsistency, it's still comforting to know that I'm never far from an Extra Value meal, and that imperialism means never being far from home.

- James Miller can be reached over e-mail at jamespm@umich.edu

01-07-98