Those dirty French!

When I presented my member card at the gym counter this morning, I noticed several cans of deodorant displayed almost at eye level. A sign explained a promotion on deodorant for the club's members (!)

I shed my coat in the locker room and entered the main studio where all the machines of boredom (treadmills, cross-trainers...) are. Was it sheer coincidence that my nose was affronted by a distinctly body-odorish aroma hanging heavily in the humid air? Or had the management decided to provide their clientele with some much-needed encouragement in personal hygiene?

Part of the problem at the gym is that, like all public buildings in Paris, it is heated to a stifling point in winter, and, believe it or not, not air conditioned in summer. If anyone turned up the heat that high in an American gym, the members would riot. So it's not surprising that everyone is sweating a lot. And to be honest, I haven't really noticed too many cases of terrible B.O. since moving to the country of alleged deodorant-spurners.

But it is true that using deodorant isn't considered de rigueur by everyone here, and antiperspirant, I get the impression, is thought of as downright unhealthy. Now, this isn't as disgusting as it sounds. It's just that the French are curiously at home in their bodies, rather than being engaged in all-out campaigns to sanitize them. Meanwhile, I admit that the only thing I ask my family to bring me when they visit is several extra-large containers of Ban unscented roll-on.

On a larger scale, as enthralled as I am with the beauty of this city, I'm forced to admit it's dirty. Even though hordes of Men in Green--the city's custodians and street cleaners--work ceaselessly and ingeniously to remove litter and dog droppings, they simply can't keep up with the torrent of litter and egotistical pet owners who consider themselves above stooping to clean up after their dogs.

In fact, too many Parisians just refuse to clean up after themselves. Like children spoiled by parents who scurry after them tidying up, they don't consider it their responsibility to throw away their own litter. That is the city's job, in their absurdly paternalistic view of government. To a degree, they are right, in that it has always been that way, and in that no one seems to have inculcated them as children Not to Litter. Perhaps it's just that the Men in Green can no longer keep up with the litter production of a burgeoning population, most of which have dogs.

At least, that was more or less my theory until I realized that today's Parisians are really sterile and sanitized compared to their counterparts a couple of hundred years ago. In fact, your average Parisian, dropping his sandwich wrapper in the gutter or standing patiently by while her dog relieves itself in someone else's doorway, is merely expressing his or her cultural continuity with a history rich in...stink and stench.

This past summer Denis and I were on a short flight from Mandalay to Yangon ( formerly Rangoon), high up in the hot skies of Burma (now Myanmar). He had just finished the last page of a book he'd been reading for some time, Qui étaient nos ancêtres? (Who were our ancestors?), by Jean-Louis Beaucarnot (published by J.C. Lattès). After a moment looking back through it, and hesitating just an instant, he handed it over to me.

"Take a look at this chapter," he advised. "I think it'll amuse you."

Well, I'd always heard that the French invented perfume because they were so filthy. But I had no idea until I read "Sales ou parfumés?" (Dirty or perfumed?), which was the title of the said chapter. The glorious past of the French was so drenched in filth that I scarcely dare tell you about it for fear you'll never come back to this web site.

First there was the manure problem. Already in 1139, Louis VI passed a decree banning pigs in the streets of Paris, after his son died falling from a horse which shied from an errant hog. Unfortunately, like so many French laws, this one existed only en principe (theoretically). Anyway, the problem of manure-choked streets persisted because in 1539, Francois I was forced to pass a new decree banning not only pigs, but also geese, rabbits, and pigeons from Paris. The pigeons are still here.

Of course, the problem--how to put it delicately?--wasn't one solely of animal manure. All the walls and arcades of the city functioned as public urinals. To quote the author, "the streets of the capital were veritable cloacas where everything was thrown into the streets." And he means everything.

Parisians at the time, at all hours and without any hesitation, thought nothing of dumping all their garbage and the contents of their chamber pots into the street. All that was required was the warning call "A l'eau!" ("To the water (gutter)!") before emptying urine and feces onto the heads of unsuspecting passersby in the street below. Apparently no one was too holy to be spared such a fate, as Saint Louis, on his way to matînes at the Cordeliers church, received the contents of a student's pot squarely on his head.

Well! you're probably thinking. That may very well have been the case among the common people, but in the royal courts of the time, think how glorious life must have been!

NOT. If anything, filth took on grander proportions in the decadent quarters of the rich. The halls of the palace at Versailles (think about this when you're there looking at all those royal bedchambers) were filled with urine and excrement. There is an account of the Admiral of Bonnivet, trying to warm himself (and undoubtedly blowing his nose in his fingers, notes the author with vicious glee), at the fireplace of a countess, being drenched with the urine of François I, who, relieving himself after having "straddled" a woman, did not notice the unsuspecting admiral in his dark corner.

Because the architects of the Louvre neglected to account for public latrines, the halls and courtyards of the palace had to be swept of visitors' urine and excrement every morning. And then there was the Count of Bracas, who, on a rainy day and in the company of the queen, didn't hesitate to excuse himself from her for a moment to urinate against the tapestry on the wall behind him. As the author points out, the odors in the palace weren't much different from those of the most rustic farmyard at the time.

And remember what I said about the French just being so at ease with their bodily functions? Well, that has historical precedent. Every morning, Louis the XIV would be installed on his toilet throne by a special official dedicated to the royal excretory functions. Once comfortable, the King would receive a select group of guests who were allowed to visit with him during this "time of intimacy" especially favored for the most private conversations. One dare not imagine what they were...

Things got so bad that in 1531, a royal ordinance held that all Parisian houses had to be equipped with septic tanks of sorts, which were emptied by the city's Maîtres Fifi, who dumped their collections in the Seine. What an improvement! Hey, next time you're in Paris and feeling culturally intimidated, just remember whose country invented toilet paper. The U.S. of A.--yeah!

Now, to be fair, we must remember that there was of course no running water at the time. Water had to be carried into the city and sold, house to house. It was of course very heavy, and therefore expensive, and once acquired, was stored in various tanks and fountains and used and reused sparingly. Not surprising then, that when running water arrived in Paris at the beginning of the 20th century, that no one was about to leave that faucet running. It's easy to see, isn't it, how all these factors conspired to give the French a certain reticence about bathing or washing their clothes too often.

Well, you can see why Denis didn't leave this book--as we did most of the books we finished on the trip--with our young, book-starved Burmese guide. "Its language would have been much too difficult for her to understand," he demurred. True, but of course, we both knew he didn't want her to get the wrong impression of the mythical French.

And how have I adjusted, you may be wondering, to living among such a--shall we say, earthy?--people? Well, on a day to day basis, most of them aren't personally offensive. But I continue to find it a shame that Parisians litter up their beautiful city so badly, and I hope that children are now being educated in school at least to be aware of public cleanliness and responsibility.

Meanwhile, I've learned--even though I am blessed with a washer and dryer (a luxury here)--that it really isn't necessary to wash a pair of jeans after wearing them only one day, as I was prone to do in the States. You might say my standards are slipping a little, or that I've picked up a bit of continental frugality.

But the thing that my female readers will probably find most difficult to believe is that I now only wash my hair about twice a week, as opposed to the daily scrubbing I gave it Stateside. Of course, no one here washes her hair every day. Maybe it's because my hair is much longer now, but I find that refraining from washing it so often has resulted in a head of hair much more luxurious and healthy than I've ever had, not to mention the savings in expensive conditioners.

But if any one out there is coming this way soon, would you mind bringing me a couple of large bottles of Ban unscented roll-on?

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