by Whitney Lakin, bona fide Francophile

Whether you’re a single student, a dandyette about town or a married gal on vacation from housewifery, Paris is the place to go.

“Ugh, Paris! You couldn’t pay me to travel to such a snotty city!” So say the uninitiated when I’ve mentioned my love affair with the City of Lights. They usually add that they’ve never actually been there...but of course, “they’ve heard.” Ah, poor misunderstood Paris. Never has a city had such a mixed reputation. As an avowed Francophile, I’ll give you the straight scoop in six easy steps.

Numéro un: Paris is more than a city, it’s an attitude. Yes, pride is a big part of that attitude. Parisians have something that Americans don’t—2,000 plus years of history, and you bet your last baguette they love to show it off. That said, all you need to do is profess an interest in French history/language/culture and they’ll spend hours and hours filling you in, probably over a nice cognac or café. Flatter the pride of a Parisian, and you’ve made a helpful friend.

Deux: Parisians aren’t inherently rude. It’s easy to see where this misconception arises. In any American city, ask someone “You got the time?” They’ll flip a glance at their watch and give you the hour. No sweat. Not so in Paris. If you say “Quelle heure est-il?” in your most perfect accent, that’s just not enough. (Don’t be surprised if the Parisien or Parisienne huffs away, mumbling about rude tourists.)

Even if you purred like Brigitte Bardot and batted your eyes...well, that might work on some French men, but I’ll get to that later. The point is, you’re still violating the rules of basic Parisian social interaction. In Paris, everything is treated like a hassle. People are busy, they’ve got kir to drink, croissants to buy, poodles to walk. So if you have to ask a Parisian anything, and I mean anything, start with these words: “Excusez-moi de vous déranger, mais...” (Sorry to bother you, but...). Then, and only then may you continue your request. Even if you ask the rest of the question in English, you’ve still shown that you’re an américaine bien élevée (literally “well-raised American,” and in Paris, that means the world). You see, in Paris, cultural interactions are built around the fragile infrastructure of politeness. In America, soliciting information from a passerby is routine and functional, an everyday thing. In France, it’s an art.

Trois: Parisian women aren’t necessarily snottier than their American counterparts, they’re just more confident. But what about their natural good looks ? you ask. Aren’t Parisian women, like, 10 times more gorgeous than American women? Won’t I feel like a big, clumsy vache (that means « cow » for all you ladies stateside) around all those swizzle-stick legged, toothpick-armed girls? No, you won’t, if you understand a few things.

First, Parisian women believe that they’re beautiful, and belief is nine tenths of foxy. You see, from birth, they’re raised to be comfortable in their bodies. If you were brought up like this in the good ol’ U.S. of A, then you’re a rare chick indeed. Sadly, American women are always being told what physical flaws we need to fix. How often are we given the green light to just let it all hang out? (Um, in the shower, avoiding the mirror at all costs?). American women use clothes to hide “problem” spots. Parisian women use clothes to highlight the body, regardless of size, rolls or lumps.

If an American gal wears something that’s too tight to work, she gets flack from everyone. (Don’t tell me you’ve never thought slut when a co-worker dared strut around at 9 a.m. in that designer mini-skirt while you were beating yourself up for eating a donut). Alas, the torturous legacy of Puritanism. Now, if a Parisienne shows up in loose-fitting duds, people ask if something’s wrong (maybe an evil poodle stole her clothes from the laundromat?).

My well-educated former colleague Virginie once remarked that she didn’t like American men ‘cause they never whistled at her no matter what she wore.’ I stared at her like she’d just erased two hundred years of feminism. It took poor Virginie an entire Gaulois to explain to her slow American friend that French women own their beauty, and they’re not gonna let it go to waste. Ladies, even pregnant women, flaunt it. Seriously, Paris is no place to be shy, especially about your body. In Paris, if you feel like you’re foxy, then mais oui, you are.

Quatre: Of course, it does help to be bien fringuée (aka well done up). I don’t know about you, but my blazing-white gym shoes don’t look good with anything but, well, gym clothes–and the French tend to agree. They also don’t wear velour jogging suits in public unless they’re actually jogging. I know, strange concept for all us Hollywood-obsessed Americans, huh?

If you can afford the haute-couture of Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in the 8th arrondissement (district), then by all means, allez-y. I’ve got a master’s in French and Chanel still isn’t in my vocabulary. For those of you in my tax bracket, try the Marais, a funkier, more affordable district. There, you can still find designers, but you’ll also snag some neat pret-a-porter stuff, especially if you head east along the rue de Rivoli.

If you’re like me, shopping works up a good appetite. Even if you’re not really hungry (it is Paris after all, and a girl’s gotta eat) hit the street vendors. From the swank sanctum of Maxim’s to the side streets of the Marais, just about everything that’s edible is good in Paris–and it’s not hard to find healthy fare, if you watch your waistline on vacation. If not, I suggest a croque-madame (a croque-monsieur with a fried egg) followed up by a parfait or three from one of Paris’s many pâtisseries. The laid-back lady traveler can easily spend an entire day munching sweets and smoking Gaulois at a café (try Le Procope, oldest café in Paris, and don’t forget to flatter the Parisian patrons by professing your undying love of everything French, of course).

Goth girls will love P?re Lachaise, a breathtaking cemetery that houses the likes of French legends Gertrude Stein, Colette, Simone Signoret and Edith Piaf. Art and history buffs will dig tooling through one or more of Paris’s 50 plus museums (buy une carte musée at any tabac, or smoke shop, and save yourself a bundle if you plan to go museum hopping). Personally, I can’t get enough of the traditional venues —the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay–but I also like the funkier Centre Pompidou and the Dali Museum in Montmartre.

Home to Sacré Coeur, Montmartre also boasts a seven-floor sex museum, which is well worth the price of admission. Even though you can get hotel rooms by the hour in Montmartre, it’s still one of my favorite parts of the city. I’ve walked around the entire district, and while cautious and restrained, I’ve never felt threatened as a woman alone. That goes for all of Paris : be careful, be smart, but don’t be afraid to explore.

Cinq: So, you want to stick to the safer side of Paris, eh? Religious or not, you’ve got to visit a few churches–if you’ve only got time for one, skip Notre Dame and head for Sainte Chapelle. Trust me, you’re gonna need to hit a lingerie shop for a fresh pair of panties after you see all that gorgeous stained glass. If you’re a fan of the absurd, try théâtre de la Huchette, where Ionesco’s plays are performed nearly every night. One tourist trap that’s worth it is a show at Le Moulin Rouge–you’ve seen the movie, now go, order a dinner ticket, toss back the half bottle of surprisingly good champagne that comes with it and enjoy. Yes, they do have male dancers there, and yes, when I was a single gal, I lived it up like a dandyette.

Six: I can’t mention French women without bringing up French men. Many of the stereotypes are true–they’ll charm your pantalons off if you let ‘em. French men consider it their duty to whistle and hoot. Remember what my erstwhile colleague, Virginie said? It’s true. It’s also considered flattering for a man to follow you from bar to bar, store to store (I once told an intrepid young Frenchman that we have a specific term for that in the US–stalking). If you don’t want the attention, be firm–very firm. Showing your wedding ring, even if it’s a decoy, might not work. You may actually have to leave that beautiful little café and ensconce yourself elsewhere–don’t worry, you’ll find someplace, for it is Paris after all. If you do want the attention, it goes without saying but I’ll say it anyway–common sense and a condom are all you need. Well, except for one of those pay-by-the-hour rooms in Montmarte....