Spilled champagne on a crisp white linen tablecloth. French theatergoers at Lido, a burlesque cabaret in Paris-France surround me. I am at a long rectangular table, alone. During my time in Paris I had wanted to appear to be a poised and unassuming woman with class, this story details how I slightly missed the mark on that. The French definitely have stringent guides on social etiquette and decorum compared to North America. In prepping for a trip to Paris I’d followed many YouTube bloggers in Paris, mainly expats who echoed the same sentiment.
I had done my best when packing for my trip to Amsterdam, Thailand, and Paris, to pack a “Parisian-inspired” outfit to wear in Paris. Complete with mainly black pieces, the French love their black, and look understatedly elegant. I’d opted for several layers since it was early winter in Paris and the temperature was an average of 5–8 degrees Celsius. Black under layers with a black wrap dress overtop adorned with a pink flower print, black suede-like pointed booties, and finally my fanciest faux-fur black jacket. For makeup I did a simple face; no eye shadow, light mascara, a bit of a rosy cheek, and a bright red lip. I had read that Parisian women keep their makeup looks very simple but will spring for a bright lip from time to time so I wanted to emulate that.
Walking the streets of Paris with my bright red lips and light pink furry pom-pom’d hat, it was clear I was a tourist. I saw it on the faces of the shopkeepers I met and the people on the street. And the truth is, it takes years to perfectly emulate the understated French style. I wasn’t going to get it perfect my first time there with December weather to consider.
However, the extra layers did come in handy as I strolled the chilly streets of Paris, ending up at the Eiffel Tower. Of course, once we began to climb the tower, the layers soon needed to come off as the walk up to the second floor is 674 steps.
Gazing out at the grey December day in Paris atop the Eiffel Tower I couldn’t help but to internally squeal; I had finally made it. For as long as I can remember I’ve been a Francophile. Maybe it was the 1999 Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen movie my sister and I would watch as kids, Passport to Paris, or all of the other romanticized versions of the famous city one typically reads about and watches in movies. I owned Eiffel Tower pajamas, notebooks, jewelry, the works. I’ve taken French classes and have an end goal to become fluent in French in my lifetime and to spend some extended time in France. I love the history, fashion, culture, and food. If there are previous lives, I am convinced I was once a Parisienne.
That evening I had a ticket to see Lido a French burlesque cabaret. My friend and travel companion had opted for a night in as jet lag had reared its ugly head at her from the minute we arrived in Paris. I arrived for the show five minutes late and was one of the last to be seated. The young French waiter came and spoke to me in French, which I didn’t understand so I said the line I had been repeating my entire time I was in Paris, “Désolé pour mon français. Je parle français un peu.”
Which means, “sorry for my French. I speak French a little”. Luckily my waiter switched to English seamlessly. As he poured my included-with-ticket glass of champagne, he made an exasperated comment in French about how he hadn’t had enough champagne in the bottle to fill my glass and came back with more. To his comment I replied, “c’est pas grave”, which translates directly to, “it’s not serious”. The phrase has a similar meaning in French to the well-known English colloquial equivalent, “it’s no problem”. There is no greater feeling than delivering the appropriate term in a social situation in another language that you are working on learning. He seemed amused and intrigued that I knew the term and then bustled away to the other full tables.
As I was slowly and gingerly sipping on France’s proudest nectar whilst the dancers shimmied on stage wearing feathers and sequins, I couldn’t have felt fancier. That feeling was soon disturbed when quelle horreur, in my majorly jetlagged and slightly tipsy haze I accidentally spilled the remainder of my French nectar in a big puddle on the expertly pressed white linen tablecloth! Yes, I was tipsy off of half a glass of champagne, I blame the jetlag.
So much faux-French posturing on my part to culminate in such an embarrassing faux pas. And, of course, much to my chagrin this did not go unnoticed by a gentleman at the table in front of me a foot away. He smiled and chuckled and said something in French but it was too dark to read his lips and my French was not advanced enough to fully understand. However I took it as a friendly interaction. I smiled at him, laughed at myself and said in English “haha I got too excited”.
Then I remembered that “excité” in French is the closest translation to the English word for “excited” but has culturally very different meanings. If this French man had interpreted what I said in the French interpretation of “excité”, his impression might have been that I was telling him that I was aroused. “Excité“ in French has an amorous context and they do not have a word for excitement like we do in North America, describing enjoyment or anticipation. For the French, it is a love-making term describing arousal. So two interesting faux pas’s back to back on my first highly anticipated trip to Paris.
The show, which featured women dancing on a giant glittering chandelier that came up from the floor, wild and wonderful costumes, even a French mime at one point, was slightly eclipsed by my jetlag and my heavily drooping eyelids halfway through. Still, I powered through the evening and enjoyed myself.
Though my evening had been slightly clouded with my faux-pas, as I walked out of the theatre I was entranced by the glittering lights in the small trees that line the Champs-Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe in the background. I took a deep breath in of the Parisian air and I appreciated the moment. I had made it to a place that had been calling to me since childhood. It was a short trip (40hr layover) but I knew I’d be back.
Hopefully with a stronger grasp of the French language, and of my champagne flute.
