Staring

She was screaming in foaming French. She had a phone in her right hand, hovering over her ear, and the other was waving and pointing frantically at a building. Her eyes were slits staring at some man with his tail tucked between his legs. Seems like he forgot something important, something very important.

Normally I would awkwardly choose another route around the incident with my head down and my mouth wincing a little at the harsh words. But as it happens, I’m in Paris. I was one of about five people who had stopped in their tracks to stare at the scene playing outside the bakery.

She finished, calmed down a little, and we all went about our business. Exeunt.

Coming from a country where personal freedom goes so far as to say firearms are a right, I think of personal space as just that: personal!

However, being in a country where there’s practically a dress code everywhere you go, everything that is in the public eye is just that: public!

One consequence is, apparently, the right to stare at anything.

In Paris, men are allowed to stare at women, women stare at fat people, and I stare at the man on the metro picking his nose with TWO fingers. Two.

At first, I was unsettled by this glaring (pun!) social allowance. “Who is staring at me? What if someone doesn’t want to be stared at?” I worried. It hasn’t taken long for me to get past those things. It’s been less than a month, and I already

a) don’t care who sees me

b) know others expect to be seen if in public

After some consideration, it became obvious: staring is a necessity. What are you supposed to do with your eyes and mind while on a long metro ride? What about sipping a terrible coffee at a café? Easy, you stare at those around and those passing. You take note, you observe and eventually these observations weave their way into your life. This is simply part of the intimate feeling of Paris. It is not the hustle and bustle of New York or the anonymity of Vegas.

You aren’t alone in Paris; you’re with millions of Parisians!

PS—This street performer was taking full advantage of the Parisian staring problem. Check out the kid in the Levi shirt. That’s staring.

While his colleague painted his almost bare body in the French Republic colors bleu blanc et rouge, he spoke eloquently of his Algerian heritage and his longing for all French to be seen as French.

“We don’t need to wear our colors or get tattoos,” he held, “We are French, and our pride shows through our love for La France.”

Gallic Dress Code

Every song of Paris is about her beauty. Every tourist talks about perfection in Parisian buildings, dogs and women. Every ex-pat turned Parisian has a story of suddenly being embarrassed at their own sloppiness in public. Before they arrived, sweatpants would have been a fine fashion choice, they sigh, eventually succumbing to the mandated splendor of Paris.

It’s more than scoffing at pjs in public, and it’s more than just a point of self-pride to look your best when you’re out. It feels like a common courtesy. If you aren’t looking your best, others will still see you. Even if no one is staring at you, it’s still your duty to dress the part of a Parisian. Paris is a stage, and the show is always on.

I’d never before considered sloppy dressing a guilty pleasure to be enjoyed, it was simply a personal right to be exercised. Losing that personal freedom isn’t all bad. I’ll now be relishing all the time I spend in my Spiderman t-shirt and ripped pj pants while lounging in the privacy of my own Parisian flat.