Berets: true! Body odor: false!

Stereotypes. They’re little bastards. They creep around inside your mind waiting…. just waiting for the exact moment, the moment you’re in a bar and a guy wearing a ZBT fraternity hat approaches. That’s when they run berzerk inside your head and scream so loudly that your regular thoughts don’t have a chance.

“He’s a fraternity loser,” one yells. “He probably still sleeps in a bunk bed. He only drinks beer upside down from a keg. He tries to convince girls not to wear condoms. His room is lit by blacklight. He still gets an allowance from his parents.”

You don’t realize it, but you listen! Then you tell the ZBT enthusiast that you’re just not interested. And the guy walks away, itching under the cap he borrowed from a friend because he got a bad haircut. He doesn’t even know what ZBT is. He went to Cambridge.

But the stereotypes rejoice. Wahoo!!! Some retreat to celebrate while others stay vigilant, waiting for a Mexican guy wearing black to walk behind you on the street at 3 am.

The only antidote to these fuckers is awareness. Once you hear them jostling around inside, you must make an effort to quiet them. Not a physical effort because this is all just a metaphor and you would look ridiculous.

The point is, I knew all about these bitches and was aware they’d be trying to take me down in France. Everyone had given them ammunition: “The French are so rude….They stink….They won’t help you unless you speak French.”

So I crept into France fully alert. To my surprise, I found that many of the stereotypes were true! Fortunately, none of the negative ones. I only found perfectly perfumed citizens who dropped everything to point me in the right directions. Most were the opposite of rude.

But the visuals fit flawlessly into the molds in my head: There are hand-crafted cheeses and tiny glasses of Bordeaux served in cute little cafes on every corner. Old men walk through cobblestone corridors with baguettes. Some even ride bicycles and carry the loaves in their front baskets! The croissants are these achingly crispy puffs of puff. The bakeries waft the sweet smell of fruit tarts, and the women at their registers sing out ‘Merci” every few minutes. Exquisitely fashionable men talk art as they sip café-au-laits with their friends. Shop windows are wonderfully crafted fashion editorials. Little kids wear tiny trench coats and say in tiny voices, ‘Mama! S’il vous plait.” And the best, the most wonderfully Parisian element which I thought existed in only the minds of stereotypes: the beret. It’s alive and well and sits atop heads of women and children, and of course– painters! France is exactly as splendid as I’d imagined.

When you’re in a foreign land, your ear picks up English like a trained hound. So, inevitably, I did hear some Americans talking.
“What’s the best part of your France trip?”
“Meeting other Americans who aren’t as rude as the French.”
Eruption of laughter.

Those people let the stereotypes have their way with them. What a shame. How amazing it is when you stop listening to those jerky voices and experience what is really in front of you.

Bordeaux! At noon! Cheaper than water.

Maybe it works for the French, but it made us both look like my uncle Edmond.

A beret-clad street artist! How wonderf— waaait a minute. He’s flipping me off. Maybe the French are rude.