David and Claire, nos hôtes extraordinaires
Sometimes you get a sense when something will be fun, despite your fears. David and Claire, our amazing hosts in Paris, invited us along to a party soon after we got there. “Don’t worry, they’re all fluent in English,” he said. I sure hope so, I thought, not quite standing astride my ten words of French and ready to take on the city.
It was our third night in Paris, and we were still getting up at ten and not falling asleep until two or three in the morning. So despite the fact that both my wife and I are terminally shy, especially around people whom we don’t know and who don’t speak the same tongue, I was up for adventure. We accepted the invitation and hoped for the best (and, as always, took the baby weasel option for our Plan B, excusing ourselves after an hour because, well, we have to get the kid to bed).
The first thing I noticed at Parisian dinner/house parties is that even though this one had a distinctly grown-up flavor (in other words, the party was so the grown-ups could get together, not so the kids could have a play date), the kids all come along. No reason why the adults should have all the fun of trying to make small talk with perfect strangers in a foreign country. No sitters… the kids play together have something to eat, and then when they’re tired they all go to one of the bedrooms and crash. And the party goes on. Amazing system.
So here we are in this wonderful Paris apartment, surrounded by bright, funny, engaging people, the food is delicious, the apple cider is flowing (“No, Liv, you can’t have any, it’s not that kind of cider”), and laughter and good conversation is filling the air.
On this night, four days before the Olympic announcement, naturally everyone was curious about what the race to see who would be the host city looked like from New York. Michel, who works for the French equivalent of NASA, asked me point blank, “Is there excitement in New York over the possibility of the Olympics?”
Being a good New Yorker I replied, “No, just derision.”
Now I tend to this that the contrarian, world-weary, slightly jaundiced eye that lifelong (or even long-term) New Yorkers cultivate is in its own way roguishly charming. “Oh, those New Yorkers, they’re soooo cool…” And one of the things I have come to love about Paris and Parisians is that they are the only match I’ve found for New Yorkers in their urban energy, vibe, and just-this-side-of-cynical eye. So I knew Michel would totally identify with our anti-Olympics attitude.
The Tour Eiffel gets into the act.
But Michel was completely taken aback.
“There is no excitement over this?” he said.
“We’re actually rooting for you guys. We’re hoping Paris gets it.”
Forget the language barrier (though Michel’s English was impeccable). I could have been speaking Ku and he would have understood better.
“Why wouldn’t you want the Olympics?” he said in a tone that was starting to indicate an insult to sensibilities, though he was never anything less than unfailingly polite.
Undaunted (or clueless), I blundered on. “Well, you know how New Yorkers are. We’re like Parisians. The Olympics are nice, but it’s not worth the aggravation.”
This he seemed to get. “Ah, yes. We know about aggravation. And yes, having the Olympics in town would have it annoyances. But I think there is also national pride at stake as well. There is great national pride in the Olympic bid. So it is balanced between aggravation and national pride.”
I didn’t have to ask… national pride was coming out ahead.
I also didn’t have the heart (or common sense) to go on and tell him that in New York, we don’t have the counter-balance. That most NewYorkers refer to their home as “an island off the coast of America.” That where the Parisians have no problem carrying the flag for France, most Gothamists think about the rest of their country and say “what have you done for me lately?” And that being told by our Mayor that we’re inviting the Olympic Games was like being told by your mother-in-law that she’s inviting five more cousins to the family dinner you’ve been persuaded to throw.
Apparently Parisians weren’t as much like New Yorkers as I thought. At least in one respect. Parisians proudly consider themselves French. In fact, they think of themselves as almost uber-French (pardon the mixed metaphor) --- no one is as French as them. New Yorkers think of themselves as, well, New Yorkers.
And yet I never felt more in touch with being American than when I am in a foreign country. You have no choice but to embrace your nationality, for its wrapped around you whether you like it or not. And to my surprise, it was a very comfy fit. It’s amazing how having an ocean between you and the homeland can make all the differences and feuds with your countrymen seem a little fuzzier. I never felt like I had to make a stand for the stars and stripes, but I did feel them around me.
Suppose we had marketed the New York Olympics that way… Come to New York, for the real America! No one’s more American than New Yorkers. That instead of the bid trying to avoid, and therefore unintentionally reemphasizing, the disconnect between New York City and the U. S. of A., it sailed right into the teeth of it. For to most of the people at this party, and to most of the folks we met in Paris, we were not New Yorkers, but Americans… in fact, uber-Americans. No one is as American as we are.
As a postscript, the party ran on until after one in the morning, with many more discussions about politics, sports, the state of France, the state of the United States, the difference between liberals in the two countries, and the price of real estate (at last, something real!). Two days later, London beat out both Paris and New York for the 2012 Games. Paris lost by a whisker. New York wasn’t even close.
Even though no one is as American as we are.
