Butt Confetti

Yesterday, a French guy purposefully dumped a bunch of cigarette butts on my head. And us Americans say the French aren't friendly.

You might think I am being paranoid by using the word "purposefully" to describe this undeserved (and unhygenic) butt confetti shower, but I assure you, I am not. As I was walking up the street on which we live, I noticed a guy who was curb-side, having a rather loud conversation with a guy who was in the window above. Obviously, the scene initially delighted me: who doesn't want to witness a public verbal spar in broad daylight?

So the window man/soon-to-be-revealed hooligan was holding an article of clothing and gesturing to curb guy. I thought maybe they were having some sort of lover's quarrel where the guy in the building was perhaps delivering some kind of "I've had it with you" diatribe and thus chucking the belongings of his former lover out his window in an indignant and dramatic spectacle. Or, you know, some similar version of the script I have lifted from a Levi's ad.

Anyway, they continued with their banter until I was just below the window and then the guy above me threw the article of clothing (it was a pair of pants, but that is really neither here nor there) to his accomplice. In the process of this exchange, a shower of about one-hundred cigs fluttered upon me, and a couple nested in my hair.

The two miscreants were thrilled with the result. I was less so. For one thing, I don't have awesome hair. Having cigarette butts in my coif makes it infinitely less appealing, and this was therefore a highly irritating turn of events given that I am working with sub-par goods to begin with.

However, now comes the reason for which I am sharing this rather tawdry tale: my reaction. It was tres francais. At least, I did not turn around with a perplexed expression and question why they were behaving so so rudely, as Maggie-in-America may have done (with a finger wag to boot). Nor did I automatically apologize, as Maggie-the-American-in-France-who-is-petrified-of-making-the-wrong-move-and-thus-giving-Americans-in-general-a-bad-name would have done. Instead, I turned to glare at both of them, scowling like they were despicable pond scum, and delivered a rather emphatic, "Pfffffft."

Oh it was dramatic, all right.

Later, my husband and I were eating in a creperie with our friend Nathaniel, who was visiting for the weekend. We all ordered our food, the boys orderd Cider, and I ordered a glass of wine. The waitress came back with the cider and said something in a really hurried and harried manner that ended with the information that it would be "five to ten minutes" before she could bring the glass of wine. This seemed reasonable, as she did appear to be really busy and whatever it was that she said en Francais eluded me. It could have been utterly viable or it could have been: "Listen, foreigners, I could give a toss about your wine, so sit tight and I will get it when I feel good and ready."

Turns out, it may have been closer to the latter. For a minute or two later, Nathaniel said, "Maggie, I think I know why she said your wine would be a few minutes."

"Oh yeah, why?"

"Because she is standing outside the door having a butt break." And sure, enough, there she is, puffing away like time has stopped.

Well, Franco-Maggie says: "pffffft" (in a slightly less scowly manner than earlier). But c'est la vie, because maybe she needed a break.

I will tell you what the moral of my weekend was though: the butts sure were not giving me a break.