NYC vs. Paris: How to Fight like a Frenchwoman
Everyone is asking why—and how—on earth I practically got into fisticuffs with another mother at little D’s first ballet recital last Saturday.
Paris. It was a dark and stormy night. (It really was.) Parents, grandparents, aunts (the uncles were watching Brazil vs. Chile), and roped-in siblings were impatiently crowding the narrow entrance to the theater where their little darlings would be performing froggy jetés and quivering arabesques. Or in the case of little D’s class of four-year-olds, skipping around and waving arms out of sync with the music.
The doors finally opened. Septuagenarians were punted aside as overzealous mamans raced in like artisanal cocktails and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep were awaiting them.
Or was that was just me? (To the elderly gentleman at my left: Je m’excuse.)
I made it to the nearly vacant second row and plopped down close to the middle when a wiry, leather-skinned woman who’d charged the theater doors like a foot-massaging, Calvin Klein underwear model was awaiting her, stormed over.
“This seat’s taken.”
I looked down the empty row. “By whom? There’s no one here.”
“I’m taking these,” she announced, gesturing to the ten best seats in the middle, including mine. “My family’s coming.”
“So go down that way,” I said, waving further down the narrow row. “Sorry, but I’m not moving. We got here at the same time and you can’t commandeer all the seats for yourself.” (I may not have been this eloquent since I realize I don’t know the French word for “commandeer.”)
She huffed, her face twisted in anger, and muttered sour somethings I couldn’t understand anyway.
I settled in and pulled out my iPhone, ignoring the seething woman beside me, when all of a sudden, she leans over me—no, onto me—to throw a jacket on the seat next to mine.
“Excuse me!” I looked up at her.
She gave me a wide-eyed apology. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Now on the passive-aggressive scale, I run hot towards aggressive. If I shove someone, it’s on purpose. I don’t invisibly trip people and I imagine that if it ever came to it, I’d stab my husband through the heart, not the back. (Love you, honey.)
So I believed it was an accident. Aside from being a seat-hog and never having heard of sunscreen, this woman was a klutz. I accepted her apology and went back to my phone.
But then…
SHE PUSHED HER ENTIRE BODY WEIGHT ON ME AND MY HEAD FOR THE SECOND TIME—in the guise of tossing something else on the other seat.
I glared at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
The rest of this happened in English because I’m more effectively angry in my native language. Also—race card being pulled here—French people often see me as a clueless Asian tourist or a mild-mannered immigrant who’s used to keeping her head down.
The first snarling “Fuck you, asshole” in perfect, American English is better than a suckerpunch.
She paused, then gave me the Anglo version of her exaggerated beg-pardon, “Oh, I’m zo zorry. Eet was an accident.”
“No it wasn’t and you know it.”
“I was just trying to save that seat for my daughter since you won’t move.” Her eyes glittered down at me. “So sorry.”
I stood up and stared her down from my four-inch height advantage. “Are you kidding me? You pushed into me on purpose.”
“It was an accident. Why are you so angry?” She smiled with all her teeth.
All of this was in a mocking tone that honestly perplexed me. After fourteen years in New York City, you learn to either zen out your anger or express it forthrightly and bear the consequences.
This was some Matrix-level passive-aggression. She was judo-ing my straightforward anger against me by giving this bullshit apology, while grinning malevolently into my face. It was infuriating. I swear the only thing that kept my fist by my side was knowing that I’d miss my daughter’s recital and I’d wind up in the clink, or whatever they call it in France.
After six years here, I was familiar with the deft (daft?) way Frenchwomen operate.
It’s never a full-frontal assault, more like side-boob.
I’ve had French girlfriends flirt with my husband in front of me, then titter to me right after about how silly all men are. I’ve heard them bitch about their boyfriend’s cheapness then immediately coo to said boyfriend about how wonderful and generous he is. It’s a mindfuck that my practical Korean-American brain can’t—and doesn’t want to—fully grasp.
However, fighting fire with fire (or ice with ice) is something I have learned how to do.
I smiled at her. And pushed her left shoulder with my right hand, deliberately and with feeling. Her skin was weirdly mushy.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was an accident.”
My eyes felt like they were glittering, too. Especially since she looked doubtful now and a little scared. The alarm bells were going off. Crazy blonde Asian lady. Back off and back away.
I sat down in my seat and she tried one last attack as her daughter came into the row. “Is it okay if my daughter sits here? Would that be okay with you?” She flung the words like unpinned grenades.
“Fine by me. I only want this one seat.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to be angry.” She told her daughter to sit and said to her in French, “This lady’s very angry.”
The teenager looked at her mom in discomfort as the woman turned to me again. “I just want to be sure it’s okay for her to sit here.”
I glanced at her curiously and said calmly, “What’s your problem?”
She was speechless for a second but then her husband arrived and she quickly informed him how ill-mannered me wasn’t going to change seats. She left and he hovered awkwardly before asking, “Could you move since a group of us want to sit here?”
“No. This is my seat and your wife was incredibly rude, pushing me, among other things. So I’m definitely not moving.”
The resigned look on his face confirmed that he was used to his wife’s lunacy and I felt sorry for him and their daughter. They both quietly left. I scooted over so I was right smack in the middle of the row.
Best seat in the house.
