If you call yourself a true Parisian, you’re going to have to deal with them sooner or later. Yes, you know who I’m talking about. The fanny-pack-clad, twenty-pound-camera-wearing, running-shoes-white-socks-and-shorts-sporting hordes that infiltrate Paris beginning ... oh yeah, NOW.
Parisians—consider yourself warned: they’re back and they want YOU to tell them where they’re going. They tend to have maps and guides enough to fill a Virgin Megastore, but some how I still get caught in the “where do we go” crossfire. (Friends reading this are probably laughing their asses off.) I’m the very last person on the planet you should ask for directions; unless that is, you want to take a detour to Asia. “Just keep going until you see Chinese people?” was my geographical genius at work when someone asked how to get to the 13th.
I’ve done my duty a few times when family or friends came to visit—gotta pay your dues. But you can only see the Eiffel Tower so many times before you turn to your travelers and dispassionately announce, “Yeah, yeah, it’s big, it’s there, enjoy.” before you mosey on over to Shakespeare & Co and let them fight the army of globetrotters at the top of the mythical phallic pillar of French pride.
Now, to be fair, I was once one of them. I was seventeen and I wanted to do absofuckinglutely everything there was to do. Twice. I did allll the big stuff: Sacré Coeur, Notre Dame, Louvre, d’Orsay, Grand Palais, l’Opéra and the list goes on. By day three, I had trigger finger, was partially blind and had a permanent cramp in my cheeks from smiling for the birdy. I even have a photo with a panhandler and his drugged pets. I thought they were so cute, “sleeping” under his blanket in a baby carriage, and I gave him a few coins for kibble. So naive, was I.
This past experience has really helped me to sympathize and I always stop if someone’s giving me the “I’m lost and I’m about to WIG OUT!” look. Besides, not all tourist are bad news, some can actually be really lovely and I am glad to get their appreciative smiles if, by some miracle, I’ve helped.
But for my friends who’ve been here longer, the good-Samaritan-high has lost its appeal. They’re tired of being bothered and just want to go about their business without someone saying, “Aahhh Eh-scu-zay-mwah, par-lay Ahn-glay?” and I can kind of understand their point of view.
Here are a few hints to identify the annoying visitors and avoid becoming a tour guide to the slow and infamous:
1) Maps, cameras and casual dress ... Oh my!
I mentioned this one above. People poring over guides, or giant maps of Paris will obviously not be locals. Taking photos of the curb? Probably not from around here. Dress is also a key indicator. Look for socks and sandals. Look for running shoes. Look for backpacks. These are the traits of the wayfarer crowds.
2) Take it one, painfully-slow step at a time
They’re going to walk too slow, staring at your local Monoprix like it’s a work of architectural genius. They may even stop in the middle of your path to snap pictures of some random block they’ll probably delete later from the “buildings” phase of their journey. This specimen will have their heads craned to the sky, so try not to run into them when they’re haphazardly walking directly at you on a collision course.
3) Isn’t the entire world on holiday?
They’re on vacation, you see, so everyone else in their path must be as well. They don’t realize when they stop you in the metro on your way to work, or in the street when you’re off to meet friends that you have somewhere to be. This vacationer will be watching everyone who walks by, looking for a local to chat with. Avoid eye contact at all costs; Parisians know you never look someone in the eyes.
