I Guess I Don't *Really* Hate Paris

Paris

Walter Agnew Moore II, Roving Reporter
26 November 01, Somewhere in Paris:

The young orange beast of a monkey orangutan sits on the "limb" in its cage, mindlessly considering the empty plastic 2-liter bottle that, the sign assures us, once contained the iced tea that they were given at lunch time an hour ago. He starts to gnaw at the bottom of the bottle in a loose-lipped lazy-eyed way.

We are inside the "Singerie" at the Menagerie in Paris. A "Poissonerie" sells poisson (ie fish) but a singerie does not sell its monkey-singe inhabitants as far as we know. They are doing life without parole in an old-school animal-prison.

Most new zoos are of the white-collar correctional-facility variety, the type with the illusion of freedom such as where the Watergate conspirators got sent, or where Bush Jr. would have gone if there were laws against cocaine abuse.

The Menagerie is more like a 1930s James Cagney prison. The critters get small cages with bars, and if they had opposable thumbs and Bronx accents they would be rattling their tin cups and yelling for the warden.

The one consession to modernity in the singerie is that they have replaced the old bars with plexiglass, a good idea for two reasons: the obvious one, from the evidence smeared here and there on it, is that the wee monkeys can no longer wreak their classic form of vengeance on the human audience. The other reason is it must certainly cut down on the awful stench that would have formerly wafted through the bars, but the way I see it is that if I can get used to the smell of Paris, well then, the monkeys can too.

I Guess I Don't Really Hate Paris

30 November 01, The Somme, Northern France

So only a complete rookie steps out behind a car in France. Contrary to popular myth, the French are not rude drivers. They will courteously stop and let you cross in front of them. They will not run you off the road when you are on a bike, the way certain inbreed Texans who try to buy manhood in the form of a truck will do. They won't scream themselves into a red rage at you like a Dot-Commer in a Beamer will do. I never even see them jabbering on cell phones while they drive, and Lord knows they do love their cell phones.

No, they are not rude, ze Franch. What they are is a nation of people who, for no good reason that I can see, will without warning throw their buggy into reverse, stomp down on the gas, and look in the rear-view mirror, in that order.

"I have a rendez-vous with Death,

At some disputed rear-bumper..."

(apologies to Seegar)

So I was walking around down in Ile-de-France, dodging backwards-racing cars, just hatin' me some Paris, and it occured to me this one rare day that it wasn't really a bad place. In fact, I started counting the people I met to see who was a jerk and who wasn't, and only about one in six people was actually unpleasant. Higher than the small towns, sure, but I had to admit there were plenty of cool folks.

Of course, the mere fact that you are walking around some town counting the jerks should be a flag that something is wrong deep down, and it is, literally. It's the Metro. The Metro stinks, it's filled with scuzzy pick-pockets, and it stinks.

Now, I, Walter Moore, am willing to make a deal, a truce, a peace settlement with the good people of Paris: I am perfectly willing to concede to your conceit that you are the center of all civilization, and you, in return, will clean the Metro for me.

Hell, arrest the pick-pockets and make THEM clean it. It can't be that hard to tell who they are; I can spot them right off, they act like bad actors from a low-budget film about pick-pockets. They weave in and out of the crowds repeatedly, flashing hand-signals to each other. They stand in the same spot in the same station day after day, eying their marks.

And Parisians; thanks for telling that nice Japanese businessman that the teenage girls lifted his wallet. Now let's try it again this way: Next time, tell him they are taking his wallet BEFORE they get off the train.

My cousin and another girl got pick-pocketed once in the Metro. They chased the thieves down and beat the slop out of one of them, got more money back than what they started with. But hey, they are from New Orleans. It would be refreshing to see that kind of spirit in the Parisians, but let's be realistic and work with what we've got.

What can you do? Staying above ground as much as possible seems to help me when I'm in Paree. Nice buildings. Big trees here and there. Walk free among the Eloi, and forget the Morlocks who lurk below.