Congratulations. You are in Paris. You’ve made it. You are obviously one of the elite fortunate enough to exist inside the safety of the Périphérique. Hopefully, you have the good judgment and resources to not inhabit one of the lesser parts of town, or the sheer abundance of unadulterated bohemian style to turn this into a Good Thing ™.
Now stop smiling. This is serious.
Particularly on the Metro, the Parisian is not a jolly animal. With the possible exception of desperately unaware tourists or the occasional tracksuit-clad Balkan refugee shouting into a cell phone, it is not permissible for the corners of your mouth to rise above the horizontal. That’s right, you have a duty to show the world that, not only do you mean business, that you are prepared to approach the task of dealing with living in the world’s most perfect city with the appropriate gravitas, but you are reminding those around you of the earnestness of life, of the literary-grade Weltschmerz that you experience through the act of being the superior creature you are.
No, it’s not a threatening display, you are not displaying your simian teeth to warn off potential rival suitors (although after 3 years of living here on and off, Parisian mating rituals are still a mystery to me, more on that some other time). Rather, you are refusing to condescend to the trivialities of “fun”. Even if you are engaged in something as nonsensically hilarious as, say, riding a Segway to work, like the elegantly dressed middle-aged gentleman I saw this morning, you must ensure that nobody around you believes you are so simple-minded as to actually be having “fun” in your daily serious pursuits. Discourage the casual approach or interaction, project your mighty aura of disdain, for it makes you a stronger being.
By extension, all humor must be eloquent, cerebral, intellectual beyond the grasp of common mortals, unschooled in the literary eloquence you are privy to through whatever Grande École your olympian birthright destined you to attend. Which, of course, makes the occasional penis graffiti on Metro placards all the more absurdly hilarious. But that was probably drawn by a foreigner.
Which, in reality, opens the door for all sorts of shenanigans. For example, smiling at the perfectly composed supermodel-lookalike, struggling desperately to announce to the world about her that she is a divine creature, god’s gift to men, and would not in a million billion years deign to interact with the likes of yourself. Then, smile broadly. Don’t forget to follow up with an audible snicker when she turns her head away sniffily. That really ruins their composure.
I sometimes feel like the only foreigner in existence who generally does not have a problem with Parisian humorlessness — mainly because I make it a rule to never take it seriously. But really, they’re probably humoring me for dressing like a lumberjack.
No, seriously, Parisians can actually be quite nice. When they feel like it. Just don’t expect them to smile all that often. It wouldn’t feel right, anyway.
