Please excuse my delayed second post; I managed to keep myself pretty occupied these past few days with some noteworthy firsts:
- Successfully asking for directions in French,
then successfully flirting to get my 115lbs of luggage to cette destination;
- Training with a professional women’s soccer
team;
- Spending the night in an emergency room next to
a woman who soiled herself.
- Making unintentionally-sexual conversation with
a stranger thanks to Google Translate
- Testing into intermediate B1 French knowing only
2 weeks worth of Rosetta Stone and the lyrics to Lady Marmelade
But personal frivolity aside, I’m here to dish the dirt on zee culture francaise, and I must begin
with the most fundamental, indispensable subject matter:dog shit.
Yes, that’s right, canine feces. Doggie dung. Piles of Big O' Poop.
It’s literally everywhere.
While I have yet to fall victim to these sidewalk
landmines, I can predict with my clumsiness the inevitability of a future
shoe-cleansing.
The French love their dogs; that hallmark card of the woman in
a beret walking her poodle aside the Eiffel Tower clearly comes to mind. In
fact, I noticed during my strolls through the Luxembourg Garden in Paris, or
along the Garonne River in Toulouse, that the dogs themselves appear quite
content with their quality of life. And why wouldn’t they, born into the luxury
of fresh baguette heels each morning and the freedom to plant a big one
wherever they so please?
This poop predicament is no trivial matter; or at least, it
has put a stench on my daily routine (yes, pun intended) as someone who doesn't
particularly enjoy getting smacked with fecal fragrance every corner she turns.
Smells aside, constantly looking down to dodge oncoming piles has led to missed
opportunities. As a photographer trying to capture a candid kiss on the Seine,
or a lone traveler desiring the comfort of a friendly nod from a passerby,
looking up can make all the difference.
I do not intend for this blog to turn into a diary of my 1st
world problems where I relate Adele’s lyrics to my own life. However, I
must question how this idolized nation, the Romantic Capital of the World, has
managed to prevent this reasonably normal, yet still kind of gross, dog-poop dilemma
from tainting its image.
Why don’t the travel books discuss the lack of fecal pick-up
in a country where leather boots and pumps are acceptable footwear for taking
out the trash? Of course, a guide listing the best places for boat rides and
cooking classes will likely outsell the one labeling heavy doo-doo hot spots. Perhaps
excrement is just something not discussed, or not worthy of any online
article aside from a silly girl’s blog.
Yet at the same time, coming from the ever-mocked United
States to the land of hoighty-toighty, nylon-clad fashionistas, it actually
feels a bit relieving to see that Europeans have some not-so tidy habits of
their own. The French maintain their class and dignity while letting their dogs
live a little, and that’s not all. I’ve witnessed more than one elbow on the
table, mismatched socks, and a late night chug of milk… straight from the carton. These are the stolen moments, moments that contradict the image of poise so
desperately maintained, that actually make me feel most at home.
In the end, dog shit is dog shit, and the day it gets on my
shoe is the day I perfect my pronunciation of merde. Meanwhile, I will use what little language I've attained from Rosetta Stone to see what else ces personnes have hiding in their crepes.
