Whose time is it?

One of the many, many disturbing notions for a New Yorker transplanted long-term in Paris is the notion of time.  We (New Yorkers) are raised on crucial mores when it comes to time:  Time is Money, Don’t Waste Time, Time Waits for No One. 

These concepts have not made it across the ocean.  The French scoff at those that rush around, clamboring to get things done quickly.  I know this because I’ve often been the scoffee as I shout, ‘Hey could we open another register here!’ Or ‘Excuse me, but will break time be over any time soon?’ (this last in the Post Office almost led to a fistfight between a labor activist and a fan both in line behind me–no one actually employed by the Post Office showed the least interest).

Now many love the idea of taking things more slowly, lazing over a long meal without the server shoving a check under your nose, strolling through a marche admiring the plump tomatoes and fragrant strawberries.  Most of these people, however, are Americans on vacation.  I’ve spent endless hours on line in Monoprix where the cashier has no problem filing her nails while the customer bags her groceries and the line snakes around the cheese counter.  

A large reason for these long lines is the idea in France that once you’re at the front, you own it. A salesperson will not even tell you which way the escalator is if they’re helping someone else.   So when it’s my turn my head explodes because my NY brain is saying, “faster, faster, look at all those people behind me” and my Paris brain is saying, “What people?  I don’t see any people.”

In fact, I believe that the French are persuaded that for something to be good it should take a long time.  Therefore the long meals, the three hour cycle on my washing maching and the two hour pedicure I just had.

All this to say, now I’ve got to move it, cause I’m out of time and time is money.

La Gringa.