T
H E F R A N C E D
I S P A T C H E S
photos and story © 2001 Doug Plummer
no use without authorization
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| Who Wants To Be A Millionaire was on
(Who Wants To Win The Millions in translation). This was a great way to review our French.
On the American version, people show excitement, stress, ambivalence, the thrill of
victory, the agony of defeat. The French know only the latter, even when they win. The
contestants all look like they’re being picked for an execution. The unlucky chosen
one only has the agony prolonged. There is no joy, no celebration. There is no emotion
save for terror. A right answer only delays the inevitable humiliation. As one contestant
edged up to a half million, then a million francs, he showed only a tight pursing of the
lips, with a slight downturn at the corners. I’m going to miss the next one and then
they’ll beat me, his face said. Yet I’ve been waiting to meet the rude Parisian. He hasn’t appeared yet, despite all expectations. The waiters indulge our pathetic French, and then help us along in English when we get stuck (though Robin says that I’m just not noticing the snubs. Ignorance is bliss, I respond). The shopkeepers seem glad for our business, and tolerate our indecision. |
At E. Dehillerin’s, we browsed as
in a museum. They sell culinary implements for kitchens way more serious than our
own--shelves of copper saucepans, an aisle of carbon steel knives of every dimension, a
whole wall of whisks from micro-petit to mega-grande. There was an enormous electric one
that looked like it ought to have a hydraulic hose to a compressor, for burly men in hard
hats to wield. The proprietor said, "Photograph, please!" and for the first time
I set up my tripod and finally got my legs in Paris. I felt truly here. Doug Plummer Paris, France |
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