The Art(lessness) of the Gaze

The French love to stare. And they’re not subtle or coy about it at all. They never aim a ginger look out of the corner of their eyes and then quickly turn away when the object of their gaze looks in their direction. Oh, no. Rather, they’ve perfected the habit of full-on, without-a-doubt, shameless staring right at you. This lack of discretion seems odd and more than a little bit nosy, because where I come from, staring is rude and something best remained hidden; on the other hand, there’s something so honest about unabashed staring—“yeah, I’m lookin’ at you”—that gets lost in the tangled web of American social niceties.

It used to bother me, because I’m often the target of stares. As an outsider, I tend to do certain quotidian things just differently enough to merit curiosity. After a while, though, I got used to the staring and decided to turn it around by defiantly staring right back, as if to say, “You lookin’ at me? What? WHAT?” Such a gesture would certain make most American starers back down, but the French usually keep staring. They cannot be deflected. Are they robots? Sigh. It at least makes me feel a bit better to (somewhat) take charge of my objectification.

Anyways, I’ve been able to determine a pattern to the long, uninterrupted gaze of the French:

1) Be a tourist. Well, I don’t fall into this category, but I’ve seen people stare at tourists like their lives depend on it. I suppose foreigners hold a certain universal curiosity, but come on, this is Paris, a large, international city—not some hick country town in the middle of nowhere. Just yesterday, a family of German tourists got on the RER. The dad was filming their entrance to the train, which admittedly was a tad stare-worthy because who needs to capture getting on the RER Ligne A, aka the oven of B.O., sweat, and suffocation? Anyhow, the guy turned off his camera once his troupe was safely on board and the family proceeded to talk quietly amongst themselves. I noticed nearly everyone on the train continue to stare at them for the next few minutes. Sorry, but they were not even remotely fascinating.

2) Speak a foreign language. This may have had something to do with the example above. Any time I’ve spoken English in public, I’ve almost invariably gotten stared at, especially on public transportation. I don’t like to speak on my mobile on public trans, but sometimes it happens, and I feel a lot less self-conscious doing it here because a) everyone else does it, and b) not everyone understands me. However, they stare at me anyway. It’s worse if you’re speaking to someone on the train in English, as you become the focus of attention. Big whoop! If I’m reading anything English, I also get stared at. Maybe the people are trying to test their English skills—that’s the only good reason I can come up with for why people feel the need to actually peek at the text in the book, essentially reading (or just staring?) over my shoulder. Yes, Philip Roth is that compelling.

3) Eat on public transportation. I don’t do this often, because let’s face it, it’s not ideal. However, I’m forced to do so once a week, when I have from noon to half past to get from one client in the center of town to the next client at La Défense on the western outskirts. It’s tight, but doable—just as long as I eat lunch on the RER. Everyone in my vicinity stares at me almost the entire time I’m eating. I’d understand it if I was a boorish, slobby eater with baguette crumbs all over my clothes, but I usually have a fairly neatly packaged salad or non-crumbly sandwich, keeping myself and the train car floor squeaky clean. I still can’t tell if the staring is due to people thinking I’m crude regardless, or to people being jealous. In case of the latter, I throw in a few satisfied, this-is-so-yummy looks.

4) Carry or drink out of a large water bottle. I’ve written about this issue before. The French cannot comprehend drinking out of a container that is bigger than a juice glass or small water bottle. Unfortunately, I discovered that my Nalgene was made out of a chemical-leaking plastic (eek), so I discarded it and have since been shelling out the big bucks for disposable plastic bottles for when I’m on the go. However, I tend to go for one- or two-liter bottles so I don’t have to constantly refill. Whether I’m sipping or simply toting such a gargantuan bottle, I get stared at on the street, on the train, in lunch spots—nothing to see here, just staying hydrated.

5) Wear gym clothes on the street. For prolonged staring, wear gym clothes on the street after you have worked out. For X-Ray strength staring, do the latter while really, really sweaty and running various errands. Now, I’m not in danger of running into diplomats or other VIPs while doing so, and I admit it’s not my finest-looking hour, but I refuse to shower and primp at the gym (like 98% of Parisian gym members) when I live only a seven-minute walk away. And if I need to pick up milk and veggies on my way home, I will do so in full gym regalia. Sweat included. So be it.

Conveniently, the one time Parisians don’t stare at you is when they’re trying to board a Métro or RER train. This is the one time when you become completely invisible to them, so much so that they practically walk right through you—or into you, as it were. And there are two occasions when Parisians don’t stare at each other, but can become the object of my gaze:

• Excessive making out in public. Anyone who’s been to Paris has seen a young couple all unabashedly hot and heavy in public. What’s funny is that they seem to choose the most visible spots in which to do so. I’ve seen: people sucking face right after the turnstiles to get into the Métro, on crowded Métro cars within inches of someone else’s head, nearly dry-humping on park benches, and against building walls on busy street corners. I’d rather not be a voyeur of all the hardcore PDA, but the openness of these acts (you’re not in Puritan America anymore!) tends to catch my attention for at least a couple seconds. Then I laugh to myself and look away.

• Vociferous complaining. This is pretty much a national sport in France. People love to sigh, cluck their tongues, “oh la la” miserably, or rant—loudly—over the most trivial mishaps. Is the five-minute delay on the train so horrible that you need to rattle off a thesis about the ills of RATP? Is the rain really such a menace to society that you have to gasp like you just saw the Four Riders of the Apocalypse? When N and I were at Orly airport, on our way to Barcelona, the airline reps announced that we would have to walk down one flight of stairs to a new gate. A middle-aged woman in front of us cried out, “Oh la la la la la la la la la la, on descend” (translation: oh crap, we’re going downstairs) with such bitterness, agony, and injustice that N and I burst out laughing. The woman’s teenage daughter noticed, which only made us giggle louder. The French may stare at me, but every now and again they give me good reason to ogle them, with hilarious results.