Carnet de Voyage: Fitting In

Travel notes from the real France. Carnet de Voyage is a weekly personal travel story in France sent in by readers. If you’d like to write a story for Carnet de Voyage, head here for details on how to submit.

At home I really don’t think much about fitting in but when I’m in France I desperately want that. I know I’ll never completely blend in but I just don’t want to stand out. Nancy is stylish and speaks French, so she breezes through. When she orders in a café the server nods appreciatively but when it comes to me they often look at her, cock a thumb in my direction, and ask “Et lui?” At one point I thought that maybe it was the way I dress. I get many e-publications about France and Paris and when I read them I carefully scan the photos to see what the men on the street are wearing. I once asked a European friend of mine what I should wear so that I wouldn’t look so much like an American tourist. He pointed to a few items in a store window and then said, “But everyone will still know you’re an American. It’s your smile. Why do you all smile so much?” 

Before leaving on one of our trips I saw a photograph of young men sitting at sidewalk tables in Paris and asked my wife if she recognized what kind of shirts they were wearing. She told me they were called Henleys. Immediately, with a twinkle in her eye, she piled me into the car to go clothes shopping. She is much more fashionable than I am and I deferred to her every suggestion. Looking into my bag of stylish treasurers I figured, throw in a nice scarf and a pair of Pikolinos and I just might pull it off. 

We always start in Paris and that week I was walking down the rue Saint Louis en l’île and rue de Rivoli with a new swagger. Maybe I can’t wipe this silly grin off of my face but I am sure the Parisians passing by are noticing my perfectly tilted Jaxson Indiana Jones fedora, those classy Pikolinos, the form fitting chinos and, of course, that stylish Henley shirt. This isn’t the old Mike. I left that inattentive, mistake-prone guy back home with the beer shirts and baseball caps. For this special week I get to be that sophisticated flaneur that I’ve always dreamt of being.  

I took this new air of confidence with me when we caught the Metro to the Atelier des Lumières, an immersive digital art show that this time featured Salvador Dali works coming to life and moving across all four walls of a warehouse-sized space with Pink Floyd eerily synchronized to the frenetic presentation. It was artistic alchemy; the flawless blending of color, movement and sound. Afterwards, we walked out onto the sunny sidewalk and hailed a cab to take us to lunch at Le Train Bleu in the Gare de Lyon. We have dined there many times and it is truly an exceptional culinary experience. The crepe Suzettes are to die for! 

Le Train Bleu is on the second floor of the railway station and it commands an impressive view of Old Paris. The restaurant is over 120 years old and the Belle Époque gold gilt interior goes back to the 1900 Paris World’s Fair. One European guidebook described it as “awe inspiring” and “slack jawed beautiful”. I think even that is understated. The hostess seated us and our server, Emil (not his real name), was as perfect as perfect could be. He was charming and clad in a tailored tuxedo, white shirt and black bow tie. His presence made me sit up straighter. Emil took our order and glided from Nancy to me throughout our lunch delivering different parts of our meal at just the right pace. For our main course, my wife chose John Dory and I selected the lamb, sliced and resting on a bed of ratatouille. It was a wonderful meal and I tried hard to keep every bit of it either on the plate or in my mouth. Still, one small piece of sauced eggplant found its way to the white tablecloth and, in my mind, immediately marked me as not worthy of Le Train Bleu. Emil came by to clear our table setting and he spotted the evidence of my low birth resting just beyond the rim of the plate. He very discreetly, reached into his upper vest pocket and produced a table crumber, that flat stainless steel scraper used to remove the bits of bread that litter a tablecloth. With the agility of a true artist he deftly brought the blunt end of the tool to the offending piece of red splotched aubergine and, with a quick flick of the wrist, intending to scoop it up, instead sent it flying high into the air. It was one of those slow-motion moments and the three of us watched as it arced upwards and then came down dead center on my beautiful new Henley. Emil froze and for a second so did we. Then, Nancy and I burst out laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. Nancy spoke a few words of French to Emil and you could see the tension fade from his face. My laugh was deep because, at that moment, it hit me, impeccably appointed Emil, emblematic of this truly noble place and even France itself, was just like me!  At long last, I am with my people. I left the restaurant with a big silly smile on my face. 

Note: The server in the crepe Suzette picture is not the same gentleman featured in this story. Truly, all of Train Bleu servers are artisans of their craft. 

Read our other Carnet de Voyage entries here.