The conductor at the Roscoff station was unmistakably French. His uniform was perfectly pressed, and his shoes were shiny enough that he need only glance down to see if he had anything stuck in his mustache. He also had the stereotypical French nose that all the cartoons love to exploit.

“Why, Grandpa, what a long nose you have!”

“All the better to look down at Americans with, my dear.”

Or perhaps it’s for smelling the bouquette of France’s many wines. I may never know.

The conductor seemed determined to wear a path in the pavement as he paced while waiting for our departure time.

He looked more like the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier than the guy who checks train tickets.

He walked ten paces, stopped, looked at his watch, turned the other way, walked ten paces, strained his neck to see if anything was coming down the track, turned and started all over again.

Finally, after about 10 minutes of pacing, he blew his whistle and we were on our way.

I actually found the conductor to be rather nice. When he stopped to stamp my ticket, he tried to tell me that I could get a cheaper fare if I did this or that. I nodded and mercied.

This was only the second real Frenchman with whom I spoke, if you consider saying “merci” speaking.

The first was on the ferry from Ireland. The boat’s crew were split about evenly between British/Irish and French.

The chef was French. But chef isn’t really the right word, as all did was ladle out spaghetti. Maybe he cooked it, too. His big white hat said “Le Chef,” after all.

“Fran bleu de Bastille du centre Pompidou?” he asked as I approached. It was either that or some other equally nonsensical (to my ears) string of French.

“Spaghetti, s’il vous plait,” I responded.

Apparently, that wasn’t the question.

He gave me a scornful look and mumbled something ending with “Am‚rican” as he slopped some spaghetti on a plate. It probably wasn’t a nice thing that he said, and I’ll have to ask my mother if her ears were ringing that night.

I knew, however, that I was headed for a land where they take their eating seriously when he put one of those plate lids on top of my cafeteria food.

I turned and made my way to the checkout line with a bit of a nervous smile.

Thankfully, the lady was English. “Don’t mind him, love. He can tell an American a mile aways,” she said.

I’ve found this to be a common trait among the French, at least here in Paris.

I’ve only had to resort to charades on a couple of occasions.

Often, as I stand by a counter, looking cautiously at the menus or pastries or whatever, trying my damnedest to remember the word for “order,” someone on the other side has said, “Yes, may I help you?”

A sigh of relief escapes as I get what I’m after. These people should be canonized by the French tourist department. Granted, I won’t improve my French at all, but I won’t go hungry, either.

I suppose picking out non-Francophones is pretty easy to do.

You just look for the idiot whispering poorly pronounced French words to himself with his eyes rolled back as though the proper words were written on the inside of his skull.

Of course, this is not to say that I haven’t attempted to speak the native language here.

Why, just last night, I said “Un nombre quatre extra value meal, s’il vous plait.”

The hostel I’m staying at offers a bit of a refuge. Almost all of the occupants are Americans.

The stalls in the restrooms are covered with graffiti saying “ATO RULEZ” or “GREEKS SUX.” Some things seem impossible to escape.

The Americans themselves are about evenly split as to whether they hate French people or other Americans.

Either way, they’re in the wrong place.

It’s easy to see how some of these “cultured” Americans can get upset at the “tourists.”

Listening to people with that PTA voice say “Excuse me, we’re from America. Can you tell us where this is?” all through Ireland started to give me a nervous tic.

Now I’m the one with the PTA voice; I just hope I’m not annoying anyone with it.

Overall, I’ve found everyone to be willing to help an American student find and talk his way through the city.

I’ve even had a couple people stop and ask if they could help me find something. Anyway, I’m off to the Louvre.

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Chris Crouch is a sophomore in political science from Rapids City, Ill.