Since there’s no washing machine in our Parisian apartment, we do laundry down the street. It’s the hub’s job. I went to check on him today, to find him standing sheepishly in an inch of water. Somehow the machine he stuffed a week’s worth of clothes in wouldn’t open and had exploded water everywhere. Imagine that.

Add to the stress was the laundromat’s caretaker, who was mumbling “mierda” and Spang-french, which nobody could understand. He attempted to pry the machine open with a screwdriver. My hub fled the scene.

I thought I detected a bit of Spanish in his ramblings so I asked where he was from. Spain. Of course. So I began my broken Spanish conversation. We’re headed to Barcelona tomorrow. It’s our first time. It’s Dia de los Tres Reyes, no? That will be good for my son.

I could see his blood pressure dropping. Finally he got the machine open. By now he’s feeling oh-so-courteous to me, so told me to wait rather than putting my soap-laden clothes in the dryer. I should wait to wash them again. Heck, he’d even pay since it was the machine’s fault (not his opinion just 20 minutes ago).

Finally, my clothes safe in another washer (stuffed by him, I might add. Clearly the stuffing of 47 articles of clothing was not the cause of the issue), I returned to my apartment. But when I went back, I brought him a bottle of wine.

Es para usted. Por su ayuda.

Like any polite Spaniard, he refused twice, then greedily took the bottle to his back room (did I hear a clink? Like there’s multiple bottles back there??) and came back to help me with my laundry.

Something tells me I have a new friend and a great place to do laundry.

I posted on Facebook that every day here in Paris, we go to the store and buy cheese, butter, eggs, milk, and wine. It’s true. And we eat more of these items than we do their counterparts at home. Why? It’s in the freshness and the simplicity.

Take cheese, for example. I’ve always been a huge fan of the food category, but eating French cheese every day takes it to a whole other level. I even bought a book (in French) on 350 types of cheeses from all regions of France. There’s soft cheese, easy to spread on a fresh baguette. There’s harder cheese, which may or may not be “strong.” And by strong I don’t mean like Sharp Cheddar, but like “make an American’s eyes water” strong. I’m not much a fan of that type. Read more…

There are stereotypes about people everywhere. In France, they think Americans are stupid and self-centered (”I want ice in my Coke! Why isn’t there ice? And why don’t you speak English??”).

We’ve heard that the French are snobby. That they hate going out of their way to help people.

I’ve long defended the French against this stereotype, but no longer.

I was in the post office, attempting to buy stamps. A man asked if he could help me and I said (in French) what I needed help with. He took me to an automated machine. I showed him my postcards and said I needed stamps enough to send to the US. He punched in what I needed and walked off…before I could say I also needed another stamp for the Netherlands.

I attempted to figure it out myself, but dammit, I don’t know how much postage it takes to send a letter to Holland. Sighing, I asked him to come back. He added the stamp I needed, and when I explained I didn’t need the erroneous stamp I’d added, he deleted the whole order. And walked away.

By now, I’m steaming. Max even noticed it was rude of him. So I take a deep breath and walk over to his counter (where he’s doing nothing, I might add).

“Excusez moi, monsieur, je suis Americaine et–”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than he dismissed me with a wave to another counter. No waiting to hear what I needed. I was American, and that was more than he felt like handling on a slow day at the post office.

The rest of the transaction was fine. The other French guy was nice and helpful, and I even played up my handicap by speaking English.

I wanted to be pissed about it. Ok, so I am a bit. But the stereotype is true. Some French people aren’t willing to go out of their way to do their jobs. And that’s ok. Because others will help. I won’t let one bad French apple spoil the bunch. And you shouldn’t either. Just don’t go to the post office.