French people like to walk one step into the crosswalk before looking in any direction. When they realize they are about to be struck by a bus, car, moped, bicycle, or pedestrian, they take a step backward onto the sidewalk, then seem amused with themselves.
At 8:15 this morning, a French girl lunged through a rapidly closing door on the #14 train. She – at a jogger’s pace – made partial contact, but not enough to wake me.
The cleaning guy at my work is a Colombian named Italo. We spoke Spanish for about two hours today as he showed me around some apartments. He kiped some ham, cheese, and butter from the mini-fridge at the one on Rue d’Arcole.
A man called the office phone speaking French. I told him in French that I did not. In broken English, he said he would call back later.
Pretty much everyone in Paris can tell that I speak English after hearing two or three French words come out of my mouth. (Sometimes it’s one. Literally. It’s hard to say un – sounds like the grunty version of “uh”). Or sometimes, they can tell just by looking at me.