Week 3: Mischief

Having a very limited French vocabulary in Paris can feel a bit isolating. It simplifies and mechanizes interactions, and allows for no eavesdropping on conversations happening all around you. I find that I really want to blend in and conduct myself in French as much as I can, but sometimes this can leave me feeling cold when all I can say is “Bonjour, … s’il vous plait, merci” instead of the option of any kind of small talk. This is why I relish the occasional friendly or playful acknowledgement I receive: I have two examples that happened this week.

            Last weekend, I decided to check out the Elizabeth Peyton and Richard Avedon shows that are up at Gagosian gallery. When I found the gallery I walked up to the glass door, and the man standing inside noticed me and partially opened it to sternly say something in French. I kind of got the gist of it, something along the lines of a special membership ticket for entry, but I stammered, “Pardon? Je ne parle pas francais…” He repeated in English, asking me if I had a Gagosian card. “No… sorry, I didn’t realize…” at which point his expression softened, the door opened all the way; he smiled and welcomed me in. I laughed it off with him but immediately felt a new level of discomfort. There was a certain truth to his playful teasing – the gallery is very high end, very clinical feeling – I did not feel the same warm energy from the other security guards or from the people behind the desk, but rather felt like my every move was monitored. I understand that the gallery business is tricky and can be stressful, but to say it was different from visiting a museum would be an understatement. Regardless, I enjoyed the work, and as I was leaving the same security guard at front asked, “Where are you going?” as if I was leaving the party just as it was getting started. He nicely directed me towards the second level and wished me a good day, and I really appreciated this contrast from the very tight display of the art.

            Later in the week, on the day that we went to the Rodin museum, I arrived about 20 minutes early so I decided to find a place to wait. There was a fence surrounding the park, the bottom portion creating somewhat of a stone ledge – I decided to hop up and position myself in a corner against the upper portion of metal bars. I assume that this is not a typical place to sit, since it is high enough that you have to do a bit of climbing, and since I received many odd stares from below me on the sidewalk. Shortly after settling into my perch I felt someone softly clutching my right foot for a second as I dangled my leg over the side. I was surprised and looked down just in time to make very brief eye contact with a man in a group as they walked by.  I realized it was just a spontaneous playful gesture, his own version of the quirkiness he may have seen in my unconventional choice of a seat, and although I couldn’t crack a smile quick enough I felt that we were in on the same joke.

            In general people seem to conduct themselves very professionally here, which is fine, but it is the rare moments of lightness and play that make me feel more like I belong.