Old and Lost in France: A Senior Missionary Story (Part 2)

Part 2

French politeness extends beyond cars to other modes of transportation such as trains, metros, and busses, where the disabled, the infirm, the pregnant, and the aged have priority seating. There are signs politely urging able-bodied passengers to give up these seats to those who fit the priority category.

I’ve also noted that, on occasion, the inebriated are also sometimes welcomed to these priority seats by passengers eager to vacate them. Every day I look for an opportunity to be a gentleman on a crowded train or metro. Once or twice, I’ve created a sort of domino effect among the other passengers, with several of them following my seat-relinquishing example by the end of which, I ended up being reseated in a different seat while everyone around me laughed. 

One gentleman, himself reseated, smiled at me and observed, “Ah, a gentleman.”  I responded, “Comme mes parents m’ont enseigné.” [As my parents taught me.]  

Occasionally, to my everlasting chagrin, I myself have been politely offered a seat by someone younger, eager to vacate their seat for the little old man they foolishly perceive me to be.

The first couple of months, I graciously declined the offer with a smile, commenting “Merci beaucoup, mais je ne suis pas encore si vieux que ça.” [Thanks very much, but I’m not yet that old.]  Then one day I realized that I was systematically lowering the French national politeness rate, which had been growing slowly but steadily over the past few decades according to Le Monde (a major French newspaper). More importantly, I was also withholding the blessings that God was eager to bestow on generous French citizens, so I began accepting these kind offers of a seat with gratitude and thanks.

(I hasten to add, however, that there’s no truth whatsoever in Delys’s observation that I sometimes affect a limp while getting on a crowded train or metro.)

Besides “bonjour” and “bonsoir,” the French word I use and also hear the most frequently is “pardon” [excuse me] because Paris can be extremely crowded with people bumping into one another—on the train, on the sidewalk, up and down the escalator, navigating narrow shopping aisles, standing in line for whatever, eating in small restaurants on tiny tables jammed close together, in the Louvre wedging past people to get close to the incredibly overrated Mona Lisa to get a photo proving you were face-to-face with “la Joconde.”  It’s no wonder that pickpockets are a centime-a-dozen in Paris. The second most used word in French is probably “merci” [thanks], to which there are a range of appropriate responses:  “de rien” [it’s nothing], “il n’y a pas de quoi” [there is nothing to worry about] or simply “pas de quoi” [no worries], “excusez-moi” [excuse me], and “je vous en prie” [you’re welcome]. I still haven’t figured out how to rank them precisely from the least to the most formal. 

Even the isolationist behavior that some people (like gregarious Americans) might consider to be extreme rudeness is actually extreme politeness in disguise. Without an aloof refusal to look anyone in the eye, for example, there’s no way a normal human being could survive being smushed like sardines among total strangers in standing-room-only trains and metros during rush hour twice daily without an acute attack of claustrophobic anxiety.

Once I managed to break through this wall of pretense when I noticed the elaborate and lengthy bejeweled fingernail art on the fingers of a woman holding on to the same bar as Delys and I were. After a big bump that jostled everyone, I caught the woman’s eye and said, “Il faut faire attention à vos ongles si magnifiques.”  [You need to be careful with your magnificent fingernails.] 

She responded with a smile, and immediately those around us added to the conversation, asking her where she had got them done and so on. Miraculously, all of us squished together there began engaging with our temporary little metro car community, uniting in our mutual appreciation of an outrageous—and decidedly impractical—manicure until the next stop.