Writings of Lowell Thomas

PARIS, THE CITY OF CULTURE, NINETY-EIGHT PERCENT

AND THE EIFFEL TOWER

By Lowell Thomas

Paris, a city of ninety-eight percent. Ninety-eight percent smoke cigarettes. Ninety-eight percent use cell phones. And a massive number smoke cigarettes while using a cell phone. Another significant number drive motorcycles and motor scooters while smoking a cigarette, talking on a cell phone wedged between their cheek and their helmet-lining while darting like drunken mice through a maze, around those who are driving cars, trucks and busses. You know they are on their cell phones because their cigarettes are bobbing up and down like cold rain drops on a hot tin roof. The noise of the city drives out anything audible coming from the lips.

Before leaving for Paris, we had been warned about the French attitude toward Americans. “Don’t wear a flashy sport shirt because they will know you are an American,” some said. Others advised, “If the natives ask, tell them you are a Canadian.” Since 9-11 I have proudly worn an American flag pin on the front of my Tilly hat, and I was warned to remove it before going in public in France.

I don’t know what these advice-givers thought would happen, but I kept my flashy American shirt, adorned with colorful fish of all kinds and sizes, wore my Tilly hat American flag pin and even included my Michigan State University T-shirt under the flashy shirt (unbuttoned) on my trip to the Eiffel Tower.

I suspect nothing “happened” for a couple reasons; in the first place I was normally found in places where they were very receptive to taking my money, and secondly I was usually with a group of other people on our tour, and no one wanted to mess with a bunch of senior citizens from America. After all, those fighting Americans in our group, who once saved the French people from having to learn German sixty years ago, are all senior citizens. And we certainly weren’t going to force them to learn English.

Paris is a city of two million people, with another eight million commuting from the suburbs to work . . . all at the same time. It was a wonder our tour bus, which seemed to have more square feet than a double-wide mobile home, could maneuver the narrow and sometimes tapered streets lined with small historical buildings which were built long before modern history said we needed wider streets to accommodate large vehicles.

And Paris wouldn’t be Paris without the Eiffel Tower. Early on, during our three-day stay, I decided to make the journey to the top. My traveling companions decided not to. Little did I know how arduous that journey would be. It was our final full day in this city of ninety-eight per centers. Only a block from our hotel, the tower was an awesome sight, stretching vertically through the atmosphere the distance of more than three football fields. As I approached the ticket booth, I saw the sign that read in both English and French, “Approximately 30 minute wait.” I could handle that. Besides, that would give me an opportunity to observe people. But the sign wasn’t even half right.

The “thirty-minute wait” meant to the ticket booth. Right on schedule, I bought my ticket thirty minutes later, and then waited in line another fifteen minutes for the elevator that would take me directly to the top. Well, not exactly directly as I found out. This elevator only went the first ninety-five feet. Way over two football fields to go to reach the top. At the ninety-five foot level one had to disembark, walk past the gift shop (those French entrepreneurs are no dummies), and wait in line another forty-five minutes.

The lines, both on the ground and at the ninety-five foot level wound around cattle-like stanchions much like those in a bank lobby. I thought, Why am I putting myself through this? I looked around for a way to return to the ground. I didn’t see any signs in English or any arrows pointing downward. And I couldn’t ask anyone about how to leave the stanchion and return to earth because no one around me was speaking English.

But if the U.S. Army taught me anything fifty years ago, it was to be patient. That was right after you hurried to get somewhere so they could test your patience. And it gave me plenty of time to observe people.

One of the first things I observed was that the French people have an affliction for affection. Everywhere one went people were hugging and kissing. I guess this is Paris. I don’t mind this, but someone should remind them to get a room first. It was no different in line at the Eiffel Tower. At times it seemed like a contest to see which partner could extract the tongue from the other first. I guess this is French. Not that I noticed all that much. And the affliction wasn’t relegated just to the young.

The couple in front of me had more grey in their hair than did I. But they had to have been half my age and acted like they were half theirs. They couldn’t keep their hands, and mouths, off each other. In addition, they had with them four children, ranging from about four to twelve who loved to play in, around and over the metal bars separating the cattle-like lines of people. Perhaps that explained the premature grey hairs. And their immature, teenage-like actions in public might explain why they had four kids.

Finally, the cattle-like lines moved and we were herded into the waiting elevators for the ascent to the top.

The view was breathtaking, but I have been atop the Empire State Building in New York City, the Sears and Hancock buildings in Chicago and a 600 foot high structure in downtown Tokyo. Somehow the views are having their similarities. The “30-minute wait” from bottom to top to bottom, took just over two hours. Would I do it again? Sure, as long as I can soak up some French culture on the way to the top.

Oh, and I might have exaggerated about the ninety-eight percent of Parisians who smoke cigarettes. It is probably closer to ninety-six percent.