Courtesy and Politeness of the French Nation

I will summarize points I have raised throughout www.ChrisGreaves.com/Tripping/Europe/Paris and www.ChrisGreaves.com/Tripping/Europe/Poissy

“The French are so RUDE”, my friends tell me on their return from the Parisian Vacation. “What happened?” I ask them, curious, because I worked in Paris and the suburbs for two and a half years half a lifetime ago, and have made two visits to the Ilê de France in the past two years.

A couple of problems stand out. One is that “People in the subway trains crowd you and are pushy. They rudely shove past you when they want to get off the train, and when they want to get on the train”. Secondly “The waiters are rude”. Which waiters? “OUR waiter, when we decided to have a coffee on the Champs Élysées”.

Let me make a quick reply to both these comments, then I will present a long and drawn-out description of how polite the French people really are.

In peak-hour the Paris Metro is crowded. All fourteen interlocking lines of it, ferrying workers between the mainline and RER stations and their places of work. Parisians have learned to exist in close proximity without taking it as a threat, therefore if you do not make like a water molecule and move to a better space, you will be in contact with a Parisian. If you are traveling for many stations, place yourself well away from the doorways, otherwise someone will move (not “will try to move”) past you to claim that bit of space. Do us all a favour, observe, and try to fit in.

The Avenue Champs Élysées is the world’s largest outdoor coffee shop; it is a commercial enterprise. Not any one coffee shop, you understand, but the entire kilometre or so of it, both sides. The name of the game is “Taking money off the tourists”, and so if you want to take part, be prepared to spend your money, drink your coffee, and then move out of the way for some other gullible tourist.

If you want to sit outside with a coffee just like the real French do, then don’t go looking for a coffee where the Real French wouldn’t dream of sitting – instead go to where the Real French live, in the outer arrondissments of Paris, or in the suburbs. There you will be welcome to sit for as long as you like with your drained espresso cup and saucer.

Pardon! Pardon.

While we are in the Metro train, fleeing the Champs Élysées and heading out to the station Pré St Gervais in the 19e arrondissment for a relaxing coffee, let’s watch and listen as someone prepares to get off the train. “Pardon!” they say, in a loud voice. Note the exclamation mark, also the tone of voice. On the Metro trains “Pardon!” can be interpreted as “I am going to get off at this stop and I have already started moving and if you do not move you will be pushed aside for I have decided to get off at this station!”.

Talk about economical!

The correct response to “Pardon!” is to determine from which side this person is likely to brush past you and move to the other side.

There is no need to make any verbal reply; just move your body to one side.

While we are watching, note too that people who are going only a few stops stand right at the doors; they do not burrow into the depths of the crowd. And when the train doors open, they step out of the carriage onto the platform, and wrap round the door exit so that people can get off the train. They wait until people from the platform are boarded (many of them moving in to the vacant areas of the interior), and unwrap themselves so that they are last to board the train, so that they are, once again, right by the doors for the next stop, which is theirs.

Parisians have been perfecting these customs and habits for a hundred years. They know what they are doing.

If you would like to practice your French by replying “Pardon” (as in “That’s OK, I excuse you”), then go to an open-air market. There are at least two, sometimes three markets each week right where you are staying.

Walk in the crowd at the crowd’s speed, and when someone truly accidentally bumps into you, or steps on your toes and says “Pardon!” (as in “Oh Dearie me! I truly am sorry. Did I hurt you in any way?”), just smile and reply “Pardon”, without the exclamation mark, to say “That’s OK, no harm done, and if that is the worst thing that happens to me today, then it will have been a good day”,

It’s really very easy to fit in.

Bonjour – Entry to Café

So you have walked into a café and, uncertain of the protocol at the bar, you have seated yourself at a table inside the café. The waiter has arrived and asked you something that sounds like “babble babble babble” and you, unsure of yourself, have replied “Oui, S’il vous plait” and it seems that you have ordered an espresso coffee. Tomorrow you can try saying “Café au lait”, pronounced like a Spanish request for coffee “Café ¡Ole!”.

Now watch, and listen, because you can read your newspaper back at the hotel later on.

Each person who enters the café says “Bonjour Messieurs!” (or “Bonjour Madame, Messieurs” if Madame Sylvie is serving today) .There are always men in the café.

Madame Sylvie, or Henri if he is on duty, will look up from whatever they are doing and acknowledge your entry with a cheerful “Bonjour Monsieur”, and it will be cheerful even if their hands are over wrist deep in sudsy water because they “Faisent la Vaisselle”.

This is your first real evidence of politeness. French people always announce their arrival in an enclosed space, and a café is an enclosed space, so when I walk into a café I announce my arrival with “Bonjour Messieurs” or, if I’m feeling really French “B’jour M’sieurs”. Most times I receive an acknowledgement from whoever is serving coffee right now, but if they have stepped away from the bar (so that they cannot respond) at least one of the customers at the bar will turn and acknowledge my announcement with “M’Sieur!” or similar.

Madame Sylvie, or Henri, as soon as they have finished serving the previous customer will turn to you, or come to you, and ask you what you would like to drink. By announcing your entry, you have given them the opportunity to acknowledge your entry, letting you know that you have been recognized and your needs will be attended to the instant they are finished with this other customer’s coffee.

I have lost track of the number of times in North America I have walked out of a store after standing there for three minutes without being able to attract a store-clerk’s attention. My fault ...

Bonjour – Entry to Boulangerie

Now that you have mastered the art of announcing your entry into a café, you might want to try announcing your entry into a Boulangerie. Or any shop that includes the words “Pâtisserie” or even “Choclatier” on the canvas awnings.

As you walk in you will notice two, sometimes three, ladies busy serving earlier customers. There will be high-speed formation of Tetra-Paks of paper surrounding delicate cakes, or sticks of bread will be retrieved from the bins along the back wall.

So, three ladies, right?

You announce your entry with an audible “Bonjour Mesdames!”. This is addressed to the three ladies behind the counter, although while at least two of them will look up and acknowledge you, if your accent is still not up to snuff, every other lady in the store will turn and greet you too “Monsieur”, or in some cases “Monsieur!”, and possibly one case of “Monsieur?”. Your polystyrene pants, lavender dress shirt and bright orange shoulder bag from that Air Transat vacation give you away, and the ladies are curious.

And the French are polite to total strangers.

When your turn arrives and one of the three ladies re-greets you with “Bonjour Monsieur”, they are giving you an opportunity to return the greeting, which is how all conversations and discussions and negotiations start in France. You are not obliged to give that second Bonjour, but I think that you are a fool if you aren’t gracious enough to accept the invitation that has been so freely offered to you.

Now obviously you aren’t going to say “Un café, s’il vous plâit”, but you can at least blurt out “Une demi-baguette, s’il vous plâit, Madame”, and don’t forget her name either. Her name is “Madame”, which is why you tag it there on the end.

But see also my comment on Milles Feuilles further down.

Bonne Journée! Bonne Journée!

I’m sorry, I left you there in the Boulangerie clutching the half-stick of bread. You have paid, haven’t you? Good.

Now we turn and make our way out of the shop, but just before you turn – probably immediately after you have taken your change from the little plastic tray (not from Madame’s hand, as that will be confusing), you can say your “Bonne Journée!” while still facing Madame so that she can see the warm smile on your face. Your “Bonne Journée!” gives Madame the opportunity to wish you a “Bonne Journée!”, you see, but she is waiting for YOU to initiate the farewell before she can conclude the farewell.

Think “FourteenthCentury Courtly” and you’ll be alright.

Allez! Merci! Au Revoir!

By now you will realize that you were short-changed in the café, for while I told you how to walk in, I omitted to tell you how to walk out, and of course your having grasped the initiation of farewell from the Boulangerie, you are wondering why we didn’t initiate the farewell from the café. But see also my comments on “Market Stall” further down.

Well, we can go into a different café to review our “Bonjour Madame, Messieurs”, sit and drink a coffee, and pay attention to people as they exit the café.

Some will smile and turn after paying their bill and say “Allez! Merci! Au Revoir!”, others will say “Merci! Au Revoir!” and still others will merely say “Au Revoir!”. It’s up to you, really, but think of this as an announcement that you are leaving. You are closing this entire interchange that was started thirty minutes ago with “Bonjour Madame, Messieurs”, and it is up you – it is YOUR responsibility – to initiate the closing segment with “Au Revoir!”.

It is your responsibility, since you are the one who made the decision to leave, to give Henri or Madame Sylvie the opportunity to respond cheerfully with “Bonne Journée Monsieur”. If it sounds too cheerful, then either you tipped too much and they want you back, or you didn’t tip enough, and they are glad to see you go.

“Watch And Listen” is the plan

Garcon with Chairs @ Table in Café Cep

Did you notice how The Garçon or bus-boy or waiter rushed up as we were trying to shift the heavy table about six inches further out so that one of us could slide onto the bench seat against the wall? Good.

You might think that that is the Garçon’s job, but I don’t think that that is so.

I think it is just another manifestation of politeness. When I have dinner at your place, I offer to help clear the table, maybe dry the dishes, and you gently push me back down on to the couch and tell me “No! You sit down and relax. You are my guest here. I will do the dishes!” and so on. I said the same to you when you came over for lasagna last week.

Well Surprise! Right now we are guests in the Garçon’s café, and our host wants to do his best to show that he is the host and we are the guests. It is not for us to wash the coffee cup after we have enjoyed our coffee, not for us to sweep the floor of the cake crumbs, not for us to re-arrange the furniture. In fact, when I think about it, it seems quite presumptuous that we should even think about re-arranging the furniture in our host’s café.

“Merçi, Monsieur” will suffice, or if you feel up to it “Merçi Beaucoup, Monsieur”. In either case, with a smile.

Bus Protocol 1-2-3

There is a three-step protocol for boarding a bus.

Note that the first thing to do is greet the driver with "Bonjour!". French people always announce their arrival in an enclosed space, and a bus is an enclosed space, so when I board a bus I announce my arrival to the driver with “Bonjour Monsieur”. The driver, of course, wants to greet me, but since he is already in the enclosed space and I am the one who made the decision to enter the space, it is my responsibility to give the driver the opportunity to greet me.

Just like the café, and just like the boulangerie.

Tapping or swiping your ticket and moving to the back of the bus are important, but they cannot happen until you have boarded the bus, and you can’t do that without first establishing yourself and recognizing that two of you – the driver and yourself – are in the same enclosed space. And of the two, you know that the driver is the more important, because it is his bus.

Of course, the driver thinks this is all wrong. He knows for sure that You are the more important one, because he is your host, and you are his guest. But we are on vacation, so let’s not get hung up on protocol, OK?

Market Stall – Shears and Bonne Journée

So here we are, wandering around the Brocante, or annual rummage sale in the town square. It is, of course, an open-air market. We are walking in the crowd at the crowd’s speed, practicing our response to “Pardon!” with our “Pardon”, and doing quite well, I think. I told you that it was going to be a good day.

On this stall is a strange device. It looks like, and has the heft of a pair of pinking shears, a pair of scissors, but it isn’t really a pair of cutters. It has six blades, two sets of six blades, actually. What the heck is it for? Let’s ask the guy.

“Bonjour Monsieur”.

New paragraph while he acknowledges me with his “Bonjour Monsieur”.

Good. We established the fact that he and I are going to talk together.

What are these for? They are high-speed-babble-babble-babble Monsieur! Pardon?

His wife kicks in and explains in slower French for the benefit of the poor tourist that they are herb shears. She mimics grabbing some stalks of Persil and snipping a few half-centimetres of leaves from the ends. Neat. I get it.

“Ah! Merci Madame; maintenant je comprende” I say.

I turn to the man “Merci Monsieur!”, I say with a smile, and turn and walk away. Learn something new every day.

About to learn something else today, for I haven’t taken three steps when Monsieur calls out after me “Bonne Journée Monsieur”, and I die a thousand deaths of shame.

I am a crude and ignorant tourist, and a typically rude foreigner to boot. Although I remembered to initiate the conversation with “Bonjour Monsieur”, I forgot to initiate the parting with Bonne Journée Monsieur”, which is the equivalent of my “Allez! Merci! Au Revoir!” when I decide to exit the café.

It is I who decided to turn and walk away from the stall, It is I who should have initiated the closing sequence of our conversation.

Monsieur-la-table waited as long as he could, but then the farewell from him just HAD to come out, even though I had failed to initiate this parting grace.

First Question from La Presse. Courtoisie?

So my first morning in Poissy I walked up the Avenue Cep, dropped into La Presse and bought a copy of Le Figaro. How much? €2.20. Here you are. “Bonjour Monsieur”s , of course, and “Bonne Journeé”s all round.

On my second morning in Poissy I walked up the Avenue Cep, dropped into La Presse and bought a copy of Le Figaro, handing over €2.20. See? I learned yesterday that it is €2.20 so we need to talk about something else, once we have had “Bonjour Monsieur”s, of course, and “Bonne Journeé”s all round.

“Il fait beau aujourd’hui!” Je suis d’accord.

By the third morning it has become apparent that I am a regular, at least for the time being, so we can’t do idle chat about the weather. What can we discuss that is important? Monsieur La Presse asks me if I am finding that the citizens of Poissy are courteous towards me. Not “courteous” but “courteous towards ME”.

It is possible that this has been worrying Monsieur La Presse for the past twenty-four hours. As a visitor, am I being well-received? Are people being nice to me? For all that my command of the French language is poor, am I being treated properly and not ridiculed? More important still, do I feel that I am being treated well? Politesse and Gentillesse are words that spring to my mind, but Monsieur la Presse knows that my vocabulary is not so hot, so just “Courtesy”. Am I finding that the citizens of Poissy are treating me in a kindly and courteous fashion? Well, yes, I do find that, and I tell him so.

Monsieur La Presse straightens up and looks proud once again. His most pressing concern has been addressed, for his honour, and the reputation of his little shop, and the honour of every business on Avenue Cep and all the streets of Poissy is at stake here. It would never do for a visitor to return home and say that People in Poissy were rude, and inconsiderate.

In the days that follow we will have a little conversation each day and get to be comfortable with each other (but see “The #12 Bus” further down), but no conversation was more important than that one of the third day.

Are we being polite towards you?

“i” Guy Running Out to Catch Me

In the Gare Sud is an information booth, a little chalet, and inside the door is a case of timetables for the 30 bus routes that originate in and serve Poissy, plus a few more route timetables Just In Case.

Behind the counter sits a young man who, day by day, grows more amused at my project to ride every bus that passes through Gare Sud and Gare Nord in Poissy.

“Where did you go yesterday?”. Well I took a 9 express to Versailles and then hopped on a B to Porchefontaine where I caught a 171 which took me to Pont de Sevres, ...

One day I caused a small problem on a bus, and the next day went into the Information Chalet to ask the officer if he could track down the driver of the bus and pass on my apologies. Sure. Not a problem. Don’t worry about it. But I did worry about it. Every bus driver is so tolerant of my ignorance, and every driver had assisted the weird old tourist with the orange shoulder-bag. And now I had caused a perturbation, so please, tell that driver ...

The weekend came and I had things to do on foot in and around Poissy, so I did not pass through the bus station, and did not pass the information chalet. Monday came and I took an early bus to Saint Exupéry. I did not meet my friend.

On Tuesday morning, I walked out of the hotel, through the grand arch into the Gare Sud and walked to the platform to wait for the arrival, and then departure, of the #8 for Chambourcy. A loud “Bonjour Monsieur!” came hurtling through the air, followed by the young man from the Information chalet. He had seen me walk past, darted out from his desk, to the door, out of the door, and chased me across the Gare Sud to re-assure me that everything was OK, he had passed on my apologies to the driver, and I was not to worry.

He had, he said, been watching for me every day since I spoke to him.

I have a mental image of this man spending eight hours each day in the kiosk, looking out for me, and in not seeing me, feeling that his whole day had been wasted because he had not had a chance to be a part of a conciliation process.

Too, I had the feeling that now that we had re-established contact life could continue on its course, as it should. I was struck by the importance he assigned to this business of wrapping up the complete dialogue which had stretched over five days.

It seemed so very important that loose ends be tied up, that every one have a smile on their face, and his life would be worthless if he went to his grave not having completed this most important task.

Maule Bus Driver

On Friday I took a bus to Maule. Maule is a small dormitory town with a church and a market square and like all towns, with very good Boulangeries. I visited Maule two years ago, hopping off the train from Montparnasse before continuing my journey to Mantes La Jolie. That day was a hot day, and after walking around the town I dropped into the church, to rest my feet, to cool down, and to use the toilet.

The nave was quiet and cool, as old church buildings are, and after a few minutes a lady came and sat next to me to ask if she could be of any help; there was a guided tour starting in five minutes. No thanks. I am just resting my feet.

We chatted for perhaps ten minutes; she was Scottish and had married a Frenchman and moved here. Perhaps she was lonely for Real English. It can’t be that common in little Maule. For my part I was glad to have conversation in French.

Maule has pleasant memories for me.

So. Here I was on the bus to Maule, with my little timetable that showed me, clearly enough, that if I allowed myself sixty minutes to make an abbreviated tour of the town, there would remain two more buses that could take me back to Poissy for the night, just two. So I checked with my bus driver that I had the times correct, and as an afterthought I suggested that if, therefore, I was here at the railway station five minutes before the bus left there would be no problem.

Aha! A problem. THIS bus was the last bus of the day that left from the railway station in Maule. The remaining two buses left from the stop on Rue Babble-Babble which runs off Avenue Bibble-Bibble, which is about two hundred metres up the hill once you reach Boulevarde Bubble-Bubble. Yes. This is my blank look.

“Look”, he said, “I’ll be back in two hours, and I always spend five minutes here at the station. Just make sure you are back here fifteen minutes before the scheduled time of departure from Rue Babble-Babble and you’ll be fine”. I thanked him and we went our separate ways.

I thought it kind of him, courteous you might say, to recognize that I may not have understood his directions, and that it was his job to make it easy for me to get back to my hotel bed that evening. It is no big deal for a driver to open his door to a paying passenger, but this fellow was no longer a bus driver. He was an ambassador for the 30 bus routes that ran through Poissy. Or perhaps an ambassador for the TransDev bus network, or even for the entire Transilien Network – trains, buses, trams ...

Or else he was just another Plain Jane Ambassador for France.

The Jokes

Here are three jokes that I recognized. There may have been more jokes that I didn’t recognize, but these three I treasure. Madame Sylvie made a joke about me one day and people nearby laughed. I didn’t get” the joke, but I had initiated it by asking for “Tartine au beurre avec la confiture”, and when she said they didn’t have it, I asked in mock indignation what kind of café we had here. I assume that my retort was good enough to warrant an extension of the joke, so I was well-pleased.

Anyway, back to these jokes. Every person I spoke with or dealt with in Poissy was well aware that my French is not really so good. And every one recognized me as that weird guy who has chosen to spend three weeks in Our Poissy!

So when local people made a joke with me, I took it as a compliment. I took it as polite acknowledgement of my status. “Look, we understand that you think your French is not so good, but we happen to think that you’re not doing too badly for a Western Australian. In fact we think it’s pretty good. And we are ever so proud that you chose Poissy to study.”

“We also think that you are pretty bright, and we hear that you spend sixty to ninety minutes each morning in Café Cep studying le Figaro and circling difficult words in pencil, so we think you’ll appreciate this joke.”

Ecoutez!

Joke #1 the #12 Bus

I wanted to buy new editions of my two Michelin sheet maps for the Ilê de France, so in La Presse I asked Monsieur if he sold Michelin maps. No he didn’t, but he thought the bookshop on Charles de Gaulle would have them. That bookshop is directly across from the cinema.

“Yes” I said brightly, as is my wont, “I know the place. Madame sent me there two days ago when I was wanting a dictionary.”

Monsieur la Presse nodded, then spoke carefully “You take the number twelve bus from Gare Sud ....” and I burst out laughing.

The joke is that La Librairie was but two minutes walk from where I stood, but it was a seven minute walk back to Gare Sud, a ten-minute wait for the bus, then a five-minute ride to arrive at the bus stop right outside La Presse. The joke was that it was well-known by now that my goal was to ride every bus route in and out of Poissy, that I was attaining an encyclopedic knowledge of every bus route, and that as a bus-fanatic I wouldn’t dream of just walking to the bookshop when I could have an opportunity to ride the #12 bus yet again.

That’s the joke.

The kindness and courtesy was that Monsieur la Presse thought highly enough of me to treat me as his equal, and to share with me something personal that would be amusing to no-one else but the two of us.

It’s OK. I know that the joke isn’t funny to you, either. The point is the confidence, the closeness, the acceptance of Me as being one of Them.

Joke #2 Milles Feuilles

So, back into the same Boulangerie as last Wednesday, and last Monday. I am working my way through their stock, picking up a different pastry each evening for my dessert back in the hotel room where I type up my draft notes of the day’s journeys.

Madame recognizes me when I announce my entry, and looks on with amusement as I scan the dozens of pastries looking for something that (a) I have not tried before and (b) I think will be difficult for me to pronounce correctly. It’s Friday, the start of the weekend, so I decide to give an exceedingly flaky pastry a shot. It’s about as flaky as my command of French, but these are exercises in pronunciation, so “S’il vous plaît Madame, je voudrais essayer avec un Milles Feuilles.”

“Je suise desolée Monsieur”, she said, “mais aujourd’hui c’est Vendredi!”. Vendredi? Why would Friday plunge you into desolation? “Because there are only nine-hundred-and-fifty leaves on Fridays”.

OK, so you Had to Have Been There, but in this there are many jokes – doing without rich stuff on Fridays - Ten percent off, Today Only! – and perhaps just the desire to make a little bit of impromptu theatre in the quiet of an afternoon.

It’s OK. I know that the joke isn’t funny to you. The point is the confidence, the closeness, the acceptance of Me as being one of Them, and being invited into a secret little world of everyday people with simple but effective jokes.

Also note that today was indeed a Friday and that I had chosen the Mille Feuilles. The joke was based on my decision, my time, my place, my situation; the joke was brought out tailored to fit me exactly.

How charming.

Joke #3 Doucemont!

Each evening I trotted into the Istanbul outside the railway station. The Istanbul is essentially a hamburger-and-fries joint, but instead of hamburgers there is that Shwarma meat spindle, and a dozen or so different plates of chicken, pork, beef, lamb, accompanied by French fries, rice or couscous, a salad and, it seemed to me, always an over-generous serving of salt.

I was already dehydrated at the end of each day’s bus journeys, even though I traveled with raw carrots, apples, and a bottle of water, so my evening meal was ordered with a carafe of water, which in restaurants like this is a wine bottle of water drawn from the tap. My favorite drink at a meal. A 26-ounce bottle of regular water at room temperature.

Came the night I was thirstier than usual. I finished the bottle of water before I had finished the plate of salt, so I held up the empty bottle by the neck and caught the eye of the young and cheerful waiter. He nodded. We were using the unspoken language of diners and waiters across the world. No need at all for words.

A minute later he arrived at my table, plucked the empty bottle by its neck and as swiftly placed the second wine bottle of water in front of me, then leaned forward with what is known as a Conspiratorial Whisper and said softly with a knowing smile “Doucemont Monsieur”.

Of course, “Go easy, sir. That’s your second bottle!” is the joke, the more so because it was, after all, just tap water.

It’s OK. I know that the joke isn’t funny to you. The point is the confidence, the closeness, the belief that after ten days of eating there, my habits were well known, perhaps even discussed later each evening “He goes through an entire bottle of water!”; “They say he rides the Poissy Buses all day long!”, “Henri from café Cep says that he reads Le Figaro for ninety minutes each morning!”, and even “He must have a hell of a bladder!”.

Who knows? But the tourist is treated, fleetingly, as one of the boys with a shared joke. All that was missing was the finger on the side of the nose.

Crossing the Streets

If I told you that I felt safer crossing a street in Poissy blindfolded than I would fully-sighted in Toronto, you’d have to wonder what this had to do with Courtoisie, Politesse, or Gentillesse.

Well, I’ll tell you.

For starters, most crosswalks at intersections aren’t at the intersections at all. They are set back about twenty or thirty feet or more away from the intersection. As a pedestrian you cannot walk along a sidewalk and maintain a straight-line path of travel to the other side of the street. You must deviate left for twenty feet, and then cross the street, then deviate right again to regain your line of travel. If you wanted just to walk around the intersection, you would describe one of those crosses outlined in green neon for each pharmacie.

But regardless of where the crosswalk is sited, the business of cars and pedestrians is radically different, certainly from North America, and a million dollars (U.S.) to one dollar (Canadian) the business of cars and pedestrians is radically different from Downtown Toronto.

In Downtown Toronto when a pedestrian and a vehicle meet, the essential question is “Which one of us is going to get to use this shared space first, and which one of us will, therefore, lose out and go second?” In Toronto, Pedestrians and Drivers alike wrestle with the problem of who-goes-first.

In France, land of politeness, when a driver and a pedestrian meet, the event is seen as an opportunity to co-operate. Neither party actually rubs their hands with glee, but it is in the air. An intersection provides a chance for us to work together to make absolutely certain that neither police no ambulance need be called, and we won’t have to waste our time filling out forms and doing paperwork.

So. Across you go!

No, I’m retired and am on holiday, you go first.

No! I insist. I can see that you are a tourist and my job is to take care of you. Off you go!

But no! As a tourist, I have a camera (holds up a telephone and in so doing wrenches the ear-buds out of his ears)

Yes, I can see that, my little fool, and its not about whether anyone is watching me, I just was never taught how to claim first prize in Driving School, so you may as well walk across while I am at a standstill.

Oh, I know what you are doing, and I know and love how this works, but really, my bus doesn’t leave for another ten minutes, well, nine by now I suppose, and ...

This goes on until some vehicle half a mile back honks its horn, and the call is taken up by every other car up to the one behind the car waiting for me to cross, so just to make that distant car happy, I hop across and salute my new-found and quickly-forgotten friend.

Words don’t do it justice. It is as if every driver hates the police, and will die happy if they never get introduced to a policeman on the road. And it is as if every pedestrian is as distrustful of the police. We are in this together, and we will work together on this.

But it is not that at all. It is a different attitude. “Oh good! We have been blessed with an opportunity to out-manoeuvre each other in courtly gestures.”

Speaking of which, I have a habit of gauging a car’s approach speed and if I am sure that there is plenty of time, I gesture with a wide and gallant sweep of my arm that the car should pass in front of me. It’s all about eye-contact, but especially, if you know me, about Being In Control.

I tried this on a bus-driver wanting to turn right, across my path, to enter Gare Sud one evening as I strolled home after a full burping dinner at the Istanbul. I was not thirty yards from my hotel door, with a showered body, fresh clothes, a full belly, and all evening to document a hundred photos. So I made my gallant arm-sweep to the driver of the bus.

Now remember, it’s not about who-goes-first, it’s about how we can best work together on this situation.

The driver acknowledged my sweeping arm by almost rising out of his seat, took his right-hand off the wheel, and starting up near the roof of the bus, made a series of rolling gestures that ended up near his feet and would have embarrassed the heck out of Douglas Fairbanks had he been a passenger

I conceded defeat.

For one thing that many arm-sweeps would have wrenched my shoulder blade out of its socket, and I really needed to type up the notes to my photos. For another thing, I didn’t have anything bigger than a pair of soft leather shoes. There was no way I was going to out-bid his lofty perch.

My shoulder slumped, I gave a wan smile and made my way dejectedly to my front door.

We both won, I felt, for we had co-operated warmly in a little five-second street theatre, and we both ended up with a pleasant tale to tell to our friends.