The Usual Frenchmen

It was Carnival — Carnival seemingly everywhere, but Nice would be warmer than Venice, closer than Rio and saner than New Orleans. And, under the diplomatic circumstances, ideal for taking some sun and testing the waters. Franco-American relations were as bad as the canned spaghetti; French fries were being re-christened and the outlook for German potato salad was grim. Of Belgian Waffles I dare not speak.

Still, according to my personal study — anecdotal and relentlessly unscientific though it was — the usual rude Frenchmen were not to be found, and the reasons were as elusive as they.

I gave them every chance. For one thing, I am often lost and always male, but seldom in denial about it. That is, I routinely ask for directions, leaving myself wide open to scoffing of all sorts. Also, I don't speak French and, worse, I do. Sort of.

That is, I have acccumulated unreliable and obsolete snippets of French from between-the-wars British fiction and present-day crossword puzzles, which often resort to the likes of "ete" and "amie" (wittily clued as "Hot time in Paris" and "Pierre's pal") for their brevity and high vowel-content. My French is assembled from such shards, with the gaps filled by English words of Latin pedigree and the whole pronounced as Frenchly as I can manage. The result is never a solution but sometimes a starting point.

In Saleyas, Nice's wonderful old marketplace, the proprietress of Chapellerie Ganterie was first to fall for this approach. A handsome femme d'une certain age (mine), she actually encouraged my attempt to buy a beret in French. I sailed confidently through the "je voudrais" part before failing utterly at 'buy.' We flirted our way coyly to the verb "acheter" and a fine beret basque (bleu marine, et impermeable, or rain-proof).

I generally do less well at restaurants, but at Auberge des Arts in Old Nice, Yves Botasso, owner and former chef, introduced Nicoise cooking personally, and then introduced his chef. Together we worked it out: it's similar to Ligurian cooking (Nice was once, after all, Italy 's Nizza) and is the specialty of some two dozen restaurants in the city, each bearing a Cuisine Nissarde placard. Quite a lot of wine helped us.

Hotel staff had their fair chance: I'm an inveterate sampler and always try at least two hotels per town. I stayed at the Hôtel Atlantic, agreeably old-style and a little bit inland, and the Le Méridien, racily modern and smack on the Promenade des Anglais. Clerks at both explained to me, without sneering, the workings of the phones and TV remotes, which eternally baffle me.

At the Chagall Museum I mentioned to a guide that the figure of Adam was unusual in that it had a navel. She laughed, admitted she'd never noticed, and gave me a personal tour. Later, at the Carnaval parades, people were too busy being jolly to grump about politics.

From Nice I TVG'd to Avignon. I admit I took the easy way out here, buying tickets online through the RailEurope website, (www.raileurope.com) which is amazingly simple and blindingly fast and decidedly not just for rail passes any more. But I braved live railroad personnel later: I had to check which track to go to and which car to board, determine whether Avignon 's TVG station is separate from the regular gare (it is). And everyone was pleased to help. At the station in Avignon the sole information window was occupied with someone clearly facing a major problem. While I composed myself toward patience a young woman deep within the office saw me, rose from her desk and came outside to steer me to the shuttle bus. The driver made sure I understood that my fare card, if used within one hour, was good for the local bus too.

My hotels here were La Mirande and La Cloître Saint-Louis, at opposite ends of the Rue de la Republique but dead even in passing my phone/remote acid test, recommending restaurants and getting me to Pont du Gard. The rooms were as nice as the staff. Both hotels are in ancient buildings, but La Mirande, behind the Palace of the Popes, favors the plumply upholstered traditional style. La Cloître, which surrounds a serene, tree-filled courtyard, leans to the sleekly modern.

Of course I observed the decencies. Politeness and patience need no translation. Boyish charm is good; I have vast reserves left over from the days when I was boyish but lacked the wit to use it. (Yet it can be overdone. Winsome bumblers of Hugh Grantish mien — "Oh, excuse me, but could you just, I mean, if it isn't too much trouble, perhaps you could, really, I don't want to be any bother, but..." — drain patience, fray nerves, incite loathing. They should be hunted for sport.) I smiled always.

It was becoming ridiculous. No one was interested in rudeness, spontaneous or calculated. No one wanted to talk about rash, unilateralist cowboy Bush any more than I wanted to rant about cheese-eating surrender monkeys. A cherished prejudice was in jeopardy. Why?

Surely money was part of it. International tourism means literally millions of jobs and $463 billion a year — or did until 9/11. Since then all events have conspired against it, to the point that even a tongue-tied fumbler like me gets a lot of slack just for showing up. There's also the fact that most people neither desire nor understand the conflicts of their governments; often they respond by informally "declaring peace" as a way of distinguishing between humanity and policy.

Another reason is that we perhaps believe too much in the media. They are noisy with rants about “freedom fries” and boycotts, yet in truth I have personally heard only one person mention them. Finally, a cynic said it was really because I hadn't been to Paris.

True enough, but my friend Kitty Graham had. After a late dinner in Montparnasse she'd gotten lost trying to find her hotel. Then it began to rain. It rained chats et chiens, in fact, and soon she was soaked and blind from eyeglasses both fogged and spattered. Disoriented, she was searching for a familiar landmark when a car pulled up to the curb. A very well-dressed man got out and Kitty asked him whether he knew her hotel. He said the car would take her there. "You're in very good hands," he added before he walked away. As the driver pulled away she realized it wasn't a cab — there was no meter, and in front were two men wearing suits. But it was too late for anxiety: Within minutes she was at her hotel, apologizing for her mistake and trying to pay the men at the same time.

"Not necessary, madame," said the driver. "That man we dropped off is one of the most important politicians in France, and we are the French equivalent of the U.S. Secret Service. Bon soir, and enjoy your time in Paris."

And I mean "superb" as the French say it. "Superb" with a drawled R and a deeply reverberant B.

Bill Marsano is an award-winning travel writer, and a veteran writer on wine and spirits. Among the numerous magazines to which he contributes are Hemispheres, the in-flight magazine of United Airlines, Food & Wine, Saveur, and Spirits & Cocktails. He has won the Lowell Thomas Award for travel writing, and a James Beard Award for wine and spirits writing. When not on the road he makes his home in New York.

Editor's note: It seems appropriate to include here a note by Patrick Goyet, Director U.S.A., French Goverment Tourist Office:

In light of the current situation with Iraq and the different positions of the American and French governments, I wish to take this opportunity to address certain concerns you may have about traveling to France.

I would first like to emphasize that Americans have always been and will always be welcome in France. Since the late 1940s it is estimated that 35 million Americans, over 12% of the U.S. population, have already come to France at least once in their lifetime.

I am certain that a few American visitors will be asked about the U.S. Administration's policy on Iraq out of concern and a genuine wish to understand. But if indeed, as has recently been reported, there have been some unpleasant encounters, I strongly believe that they were few and far between. Speaking as a Frenchman and for the overwhelming majority of my fellow countrymen, I consider any such behavior embarrassing, offensive and ultimately very ignorant. We believe that travel is about people meeting people to better know and understand each other. In the end, there is much more that brings us together than what divides us. In life it is not the similarities that enrich us but rather the differences. We look forward to demonstrating our true hospitality and friendship on your next visit.