Smiles All Around

I don't think I have ever been as aware of the intentions and effects of my American smile as I am in Paris.

My very first day in the city of lights I headed over to my school to pay my arm, leg, and first born child among other similarly delightful formalities. The final step was taking my picture for my super duper official Sorbonne ID card. The lovely woman who herded me through the process kindly notified me that I could smile, an important reminder since throughout my entire visa and entry process it seemed to be a universal rule that smiling was forbidden is such official matters. Partly out of relief and partly out of overcompensation for a hot summer day and jetlag I have her a big grin. "Ahh there's that American smile!" She observed astutely. "Americans really know how to smile." Kind of in an unintentionally offensive tone that we don't know how to do much else. I left a little confused by my oral oddity and generally thankful for her help.

But she was the first clue in a long trail. My thousand watt American smile is a peculiarity. It's also an instinct. I make eye contact with people on the street, because we're all staring at each other, and I automatically smile, saying "hi! I'm not an axe murderer!" Or I'm racing down the metro steps because I "hear my train coming" (jokes, it's the other direction you fool) and I smile at the figure stooped at the foot of the stairs, shaking his measley 47 cents at me, saying "I'm sorry, but my poverty level is too dangerously close to yours for me to help you." Or I'm walking through le jardin de Luxembourg and I see an adorable spaniel running around with a stick, whose owner is using a rectractable leash to give him the illusion of freedom, and I smile at the dog saying "damn your life is good! How did you get so adorable?"

But generally I think these are read as "she's going to attack me! Why is this joker rip off staring at me?!?" And "she's going to give me money!" And then "cruel cruel world..." And "stick! Dirt! Tree! Owner pulling me away from weird foreigner!"

And it's not like I'm a smiley person by nature. I have to consciously make an effort to smile more often when I meet people because my resting face looks manically bitchy or suicidal. But it's an American instinct. "Stay calm parisians, I come in peace" I mean to say, but instead I apparently express my interest for men to approach me with all varying degrees of flimsy excuses. Sir, there is no way that I, an obvious foreigner, know the metro better than you. Leave me alone.

And how could this be? Is a smile not a universal symbol? A natural human express in? I guess now that you mention it the French do seem to all walk around with this neural grimace, the facial tick of a perpetual observer I suppose...is that the French equivalent to a disarming grin? Seems unlikely...

And yet, new friends smile when they greet me (and kiss me on both cheeks, how Parisian am I ?!?), my landlord smiles hello, our professeur is bubbling with energy and laughter, so maybe it's a personal divide. Another pleasure relegated to the private realm of France, reserved for those deemed worthy of the residual wrinkles. An interesting solution, but not one I have any confidence in adapting myself. Even in foreign language, the gratitude of Merci commands a small upward pull on the corners of my mouth. How could everyone not feel the same?

They just don't. A smile means something slightly different. I have yet to test if coke has maintained its correlative relationship. But, regardless of the implications, a smile is still contagious. Not in all cases, maybe more like a yawn than an airborne illness. But buying my dessert at the bakery, trying so hard on my French accent, the lovely boulanger hands me my change and I give her the whole nine yards: the full cheeks, the tilted head, the slightly lifted soldiers, as if to say "I understand how annoying I am but I am so grateful for your patience in both baking and language" and she smiles back, eyes twinkling, as if to say "d'accord."

Contagious and controllable. Last night I went to a picnic armed awkwardly with deux baguettes and a Bordeaux, none of which were touched. C'est là vie. Si i returned awkwardly armed with a full baguettes and 7/8 of a baguette. And then I passed a man on the stairs at my metro line shift pleading for change. I paused for about a billionth of a second, my only second thought being what if he is offended. You see French bread is incredible fresh, but it's fresh for about two hours. So there's no way I could eat that much, nor should I. So I said, with a humble smile, slightly bending, "Bon soir, monsieur." Pulling the baguette from its crinkly sheath "vous..." And using the formal, respectful you and an lifted brow I handed this man the bread. He nodded almost imperceptibly, not because it was a slight movement but because his smile, the relief, the joy, the gratitude, was blinding. Including the home video where I got puzzle place pajamas for my 5th birthday, I have never seen anyone in my entire life look that happy.

So they do smile in Paris after all. Maybe it's reserved for those big little things, like warm bread on an empty stomach. Not like weird foreigners on Rue des Écoles.