In the process of becoming a New Yorker I learned to do things differently. I learned to eat at odd hours of the day, thrive off very little sleep, and most importantly, always walk with a purpose and look like I know where I'm going. I've always taken pride in this last quality. Those annoying tour promoters in Times Square don't bother me; tourists practically leap out of my way when they see walking down the street; I feel almost invincible. Of course, I brought this quality with me to London. So far I have noticed petitioners with their clipboards decide I probably won't slow down for them, people once again step out of my way when they see me strut down the street, and quite possibly my favorite thing, tourists will pick me out as the local who will probably be able to give them directions. There's something so gratifying about the look on someone's face when I am able to get them to where they need to be, bonus points for the look of bewilderment when they discover that I am actually an American. My inner New Yorker has definitely come in handy this semester, but it has also landed me in some sticky situations.
On my second day in Paris I found myself walking down the street, minding my own business on my way to meeting a friend outside the Hôtel de Ville. Like any other day in Europe I walked like the confident New Yorker I have trained myself to be. When stopped at a very busy intersection a woman approached me with a cell phone in her hand and began to point to an address and asked me how to get there from where we were standing. At least, that's what I think she was saying. I'm not entirely sure. You see, I don't speak French. I can say bonjour, merci, s'il void plaît, au revior, and all the character names from Les Misérables. My knowledge of the French language is limited to cultural references, the shared Latin roots it has with Spanish, and that time I played Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast. So when this woman spoke to me all my training as a New Yorker went out the window. I had what could probably be described as one of the most dumbstruck looks ever to be seen on my face. My response to this woman's desperate plea for help was, and I kid you not, "Lo siento, pero... Non parlez... François?" That strange Franglish/Spench phrase I spat out translates roughly to "I'm sorry, but no you speak Francis." Needless to say the woman gave me one of the strangest looks I have ever received and walked away into the crowd.
I guess that's just what I get for walking around with such confidence in my stride. On the one hand I'm flattered that an actual French person thought I could pass as a Parisian, and on the other hand my inner New Yorker was absolutely disgusted with myself for the way that all happened. Oh well! You win some and you lose some, I guess.
The moral of this story: I'm not quite sure. It's probably to do a little more research on the language of the city I'm about to visit. I'm sure not about to stop strutting down the street like the fabulous New Yorker I am. There's something so gratifying about the way crowds seem to part when I walk with a little more confidence in my step. It's like, for just a moment, I am the most powerful person on that sidewalk. It's what I imagine Beyoncé feels like all the time. Besides, every time I part a small crowd there always seems to be someone else a few yards ahead of me that can split the even bigger crowd I have just joined. That's just one of the realities of New York that I carry with me everywhere.
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