Writing It Down So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Paris

My grandfather has always told me that anytime I travel I should write down my memories, that way I'll always have a record of my journeys to look back on later in life. Like most advice given by my elders, I've completely ignored it - until today.

Having a kid has taught me, among many other lessons, that you truly have to cherish your opportunities to travel and see the world, because they come fewer and further between now that SOMEBODY has to be home to feed the little bastard all the time.

So in an effort to keep a record of our trek to Europe, I am going to try to file at least one missive from each portion of our journey. This is Paris.

I don't feel the need to rehash the entirety of our time in France; rather I think a snippet of one of the days will adequately sum up all of the thrills and frustrations that come with being a stranger in a strange land.

We had been told by a friend that there was an excellent falafel place in Paris called L'as Du Falafel. I realize Paris is known for food that is much hoitier and/or toitier, but in my experience, where there is falafel there is often also shawarma, and I made a deal with myself long ago that if shawarma were within a 10-mile radius of my mouth, it'd soon be in my stomach as well.

We went to L'as Du Falafel for lunch on Wednesday, and while standing in line for it, I found myself in a familiar setting. I recognized someone I knew.

Note: This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I have run into former campers at the Vatican, a former girlfriend's college roommate in Nice, and once, in Prague, a girl I had met at a high school retreat for one goddamn weekend in 10th grade (It may seem quite ridiculous that I would remember/recognize her, but to be fair, her first name was Hart. Hard to forget someone like that when you are me.). At this point, running into people I know all over the world is a trivial experience, much akin to the surprise I get when I win a dollar on a scratch and win lottery ticket.

Therefore, it was no surprise that standing in line for falafel was a girl I went to college with -- not even someone I was especially friendly with, just one of the multitude of Jewish girls at Texas that vomited in their mouths at the thought of hanging out with my fraternity. Not that I am bitter. All kidding aside, it was nice to see her and catch up for a few minutes, and while the "holy shit" factor of crossing paths so randomly with someone has worn off, it really is one of the warmest feelings you get when traveling.

That warm feeling was immediately followed by one of the coldest feelings you get when traveling -- getting solicited. It's truly one of the worst parts of being an American abroad. You are almost instantly recognizable and generally seen as a giant walking dollar sign. Or Euro. Whatever.

The falafel stand is right in the midst of the Jewish section of town, which in this case meant our solicitor was not selling Eiffel Tower replicas or handbags, he was selling something I'm even less interested in -- orthodox religion*.

* It is here I must give my standard disclaimer that everyone should feel free to believe and observe what they like, but I have particuar disdain for the fundamentalist sects of every religion, who often feel the need to lecture you on how you are doing it all wrong. GOOD. I'M GLAD I AM. NOW LET ME SIN IN PEACE.

As we ate, a Chasid with no regard for personal space entered ours to ask if we wanted to lay tefillin. We politely said no, and hoped that would be the end of it, but solicitors are not ones to take no for an answer, at least not the first several times. So he asked us if we were Jewish, which, thinking quickly and hoping to avoid an endlessly drawn out situation that no matter how it goes down does NOT end in me laying tefillin, I simply said, "No."

This caught him by surprise. "You're not Jewish?" he asked.

"Nope." I said.

"I could have sworn you were Jewish," he said, rightly assuming that any American eating at a falafel stand in fucking Paris is probably a member of the tribe.

"Sorry," I said. "B'Hatzlacha!"

Kidding! I didn't say that, but I wouldn't have felt any shame if I had. I am proud of my Jewish heritage, but the ends justify the means, and in this case the ends of eating my delectable shawarma undisturbed far outweighed any remorse I might have for baldly** lying right to someone's face. Also, to be fair, I'm pretty sure by his definition I'm not a Jew anyway, so I think we're all good here. 

** I suppose every lie I tell is done baldly.

After lunch Hilary and I headed to Montmarte to see Sacre' Coeur and walk around the artist colony. On our way up to the church, I saw a group of men trying to sell bracelets, and knew we'd have to get by them to reach our destination. One approached me, and once again any respect for my personal space went right out the window. I tried to change directions, but he beat me to it and began to try to forcibly put a bracelet on my arm.

I literally had to yank my arm free from him, and heard my self angrily say, "Please don't touch me!"

It's probably the angriest I've spoken to anyone outside my immediate family since I told Amy Cohen to PLEASE shut the fuck up when everyone was trying to nap on the last day of camp one summer. Both of them had it coming.

I'm curious how successful that level of aggression is as a sales tactic, but I had no interest in sticking around to find out. At least he didn't want me to lay tefillin.

As it turns out, traveling is a lot like being a parent. There are moments of sheer joy and wonder, but you often times have no idea what you are doing and you are constantly suspicious that someone is trying to steal your wallet.