The Omnipotent Poobah Speaks!

Americans are known as horrendous tourists. I’ve seen countless bucketheads taking a break from their guided tour of the Louvre to hector a Parisian waiter into speaking English. I’ve seen Americans scream because their hotel room didn’t come with a private bath or complain the elevator is too confusing because the first floor is what Americans call the second floor. They talk loudly in restaurants. They confuse Naples with Amsterdam and want to know why nobody serves pasta. They cuss the British because they’re almost run down looking left instead of right as they cross the street. They habitually stiff taxi drivers and porters and woe be unto the cafe or brassiere that doesn’t offer cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes.

I’m not sure why we treat the rest of the world this way. Perhaps it’s our long history of isolation where everyone else was “over there” and we were “over here”. Maybe it’s because Americans are taught from birth that they’re special and the world is theirs alone. Whatever it is, ignorance is at its core.

I’ve been extremely fortunate. I’ve been to 25 countries on every continent save Antarctica and Australia and to all 50 states and every Canadian territory and province except Nunavut. I can recommend a good restaurant in Paris and have seen two Buenos Ariens ask to feel my African American companion’s skin because they’d never seen an actual black person. I’ve seen the grinding poverty of Rio’s favelas and the fetid, cardboard shantytowns along the river in Asuncion. I’ve been present as history was made in Tehran and took tea and cookies in a small Turkish village. There was a Christmas Eve saved by the generous owners of a small German restaurant and a month made miserable by the blinding summer heat of Riyadh. I’ve even heard the soft applause of birds and visited Gitmo personally. I’ve been fortunate indeed.

Atoning for My Countrymen
I try to atone for my countrymen who push people around simply because they can. I’ve always tried, as best I could, to live like a local - taking meals at streetside vendors or trying as much of the local language as I could muster. In return, I’ve experienced many, many kindnesses from those “foreigners”. Even the famously rude Parisian waiters and cabbies are unfailingly polite to me.

Travel has given me the ability to see the world as a global citizen rather than a hubristic bully. Although proud to call myself American, I’m sometimes ashamed of my countrymen and wish they could see the world as I do. We consume the world like we consume everything else - large and in charge. It doesn’t matter if a country has oil, it’s ours. It doesn’t matter if they produce shoes, we’ll take ‘em - three pairs for $50 if you please. We convert the sweat and toil of peasants around the world into air conditioned comfort and wide screen, HDTVs.

However, there’s more to travel than simply setting foot in another country. A coworker once told me a story that perfectly illustrates the American ideal of travel and our power to consume.

He’d just returned from a trip to Egypt after flying there on an American airline and being met by an American tour guide who escorted him to the Cairo Hilton. The guide also escorted them to a cruise boat for a short trip on the Nile. Along the way to the river, my coworker marveled at Cairo’s tall buildings “just like we have” and all the prosperous people driving Mercedes. He arrived at the boat and found it more than satisfactory. “They all spoke excellent English and tea was wonderful, but they were almost 20 minutes late serving it,” he boasted. “Those people are so slow.”

Always Low Prices at Walmart
As they passed a small village, my coworker saw the villagers weaving cotton and probably correctly concluded that the woven linen would go to Singapore or the Dominican Republic where it would be “assembled” into a shirt ending up at the Des Moines Walmart on sale for $15.95.

My coworker was quite taken by this. As a bean-counter, he was impressed with the efficiency and the low cost. He raved about the shirt’s price and how much a person like him - with a six-figure salary - could save. “Americans just can’t compete against a system that efficient,” he said.

I’d guess former millworkers in North Carolina might disagree that it was the “efficiency” that made the difference.

“Of course you know that was a sweatshop,” I said. “Sure, its good for us and it’s good for them,” he said. “If it wasn’t for our sweatshops, they’d be starving.”

“So instead, they work 12-14 hours a day to make just enough money to starve, but only a bit more slowly,” I asked?

“Nah, people like that only need a few pennies a day. Do you know how much a good old American greenback is worth in Egypt?”

“Yeah you embarrassing asshole,” I muttered to myself. “It’s worth a hell of a lot, but it’s not worth working someone to death so you can buy a cheap T-shirt emblazoned with ‘I survived a trip down the Nile’ on the front.”

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

I used to be a frequent traveller to Paris. For three years, I went about once every month and a half. The trips were quite nice, but a day at the office dealing with persnickety Frenchmen isn’t quite as fun as it may sound.

Still, there were perks.

I usually arrived on Sundays and departed on Saturdays. Those extra days gave me time to wind down or gear up for the long flights. After seeing all the big attractions, I began spending those pleasant extra days alone, poking about and doing things the locals did. I got to know the city quite well. So well in fact, that when Frenchmen came from Toulouse for business meetings they looked to me - rather than an honest-to-God Frenchie - to show them the town.

The View From Sacre Coeur

One night, our group of Americans, Britons, Dutchmen, Italians, and Spaniards walked up to Montparnasse to see the sunset and have dinner. We watched from the steps of Sacre Coeur. A panoramic view, a brilliant sunset, and a slow dissolve into the City of Lights made it a very pleasant time. Afterward, we strolled down the back steps of Sacre Coeur into the neighborhood below where I knew of a nice little Lebanese place with heavenly couscous and a good selection of wines.

We chatted and chewed. We were much louder than the French tables and were loudly sushed by the waiter after a woman and her dog complained. Sure, it was OK to let Pierre the Poodle sup from his own plate at the table - slobbering water and scarfing raw chicken gizzards with canine delight - but it was impermissible to laugh and talk. Such is the way Francaise.

The Mechanical Floggers of Place Clichy

After dinner we walked to Place Clichy, near the Moulin Rouge. It’s flanked by strip clubs and whorehouses, but the seedy neighborhood thrives off tourists and the occasional horny Frenchman so it remains safe. Besides, the garish neon lights make it bright as day, even after dark. There’s something squeamishly romantic about the streetwalkers bathed in garish neon light.

We walked slowly past the sex dens, ooh-ing and aw-ing at the pervs on parade. A hooker headed for her next appointment clad only in a long, unbuttoned overcoat that didn’t do much to conceal her moneymaker. A sex toy shop sported a window featuring masked mechanical manikins in the throes of BDSM delight. The male statue gently flogged the female’s bare, plastic butt with a wimpy looking cat-o-nine tails. Believe me, it was as sexy as it sounds.

As it grew late, we headed for the Metro before the trains stopped. Place Clichy station smelled of urine and humanity. The air was hot and dry. The usually blinding white tile was a little grimy in this depressed part of town. The platform was spotted with drunken tourists and local pervs on their way home after an exciting night at the peep shows.

Soon, a train rolled in and our group poured aboard. We squeezed in, shoved up against a young man holding the overhead commuter bars with both hands. I was first in and was pressed too close to his sweat and cheap tobacco smell. Behind me, the others jostled to get in before the doors closed.

Attack of the North Africans

In close quarters, I always hook my thumb over my wallet. As I did it this time, I was surprised to find a hand already there, pulling mightily on my wallet. Suddenly, a woman screamed. Reflexively, I kicked backward in the direction of the hand. I felt my shoe sink into stinky man’s crotch. He fell and the chain reaction took everyone else down too.

He was back up in a flash, running toward the exit with his companion before I could figure out what had happened. I lost them in the crowd, but was unscathed. The others weren’t as lucky. One man lost his passport and a woman lost her passport and all her credit cards - recently replaced from a pickpocketing in Milan.

The Metro police refused to take a report, but helpfully pointed out that the assailants were probably, “North African”, the French euphemism for anyone they don’t like. The Metro boys pointed us to the local Paris police station about a half-mile away. The station was up an incredibly dark alley in this very seedy part of town. It was a long walk through fields of filthy dumpsters and inhabited by giant rats. We arrived at the station relieved we hadn’t been robbed again.

Tootie and Muldoon

Our Toulousianne spoke with the police and directed us in filling out our reports. The unkempt police kept asking us about Hill Street Blues, smiling constantly and joking with us. We watched wild-eyed as a prisoner who’d been complaining non-stop finally pushed the police too far. After repeatedly telling him to shut up, the cops - a unshaven, sweating, Laurel and Hardy duo - walked to the pen and opened the gate. Stan held it open and Oliver reached in, grabbed the suspect, and threw him against the back wall of the cell with a thump. It turns out that those thuds you hear in movie fights actually sound the same in real life. We never heard another word from him again.

As crimes go, it was actually a pretty enjoyable adventure.

By the time we filled out the paperwork, dawn was tickling the horizon. With Paris still asleep we knew we’d never find a bus or taxi home, so we asked Tootie and Muldoon if they could take us. They meekly protested that it wasn’t allowed, but finally relented. We all climbed into the back of a creaking Citroen paddy wagon and off we went. We asked, jokingly, if they’d turn on the lights and siren, and they immediatly obliged on the principle that if you’re going to bend the rules you might as well do it in style.

Sirens blaring, we rolled up to our hotel on a quiet residential street near the Opera. Residents peeked out the windows to see the hubub and one man yelled at the cops to shut up. They explained, in filthy French I’m sure, that we were their important guests and fellow Hill Street Blues fans. The man merely gave the Parisian shrug, said, “certainement” and went back to bed.

There’ll Always Be Paris

For some, a night on the town in Paris means a bateaux ride on the Seine or a stroll down the Champs Elysee. Some people prefer the beautiful view from the Tracadero toward the Tour de Eifell at the end of the other end of the Champs du Mars. Me, I preferred the Hill Street Blues and the mechanical floggers of Place Clichy. They say Paris has something for everyone and our little night on the town was proof of it. Each time I remember this story I think to myself, “Well, there’ll always be Paris.”

I know I had the time of my life.

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

And, sometimes dispenses wisdom at Less People Less Idiots