courrier international

After a bad day at work , I walk to a newspaper stand and ask for the Courrier International. The newspaper-seller grins. He has dark weathered skin and his wrinkles glow golden.
"Etes-vous Parisienne?"
I smile back uneasily. I am always defensive when people inquire about my origins.
"Non. Pourquoi?"
"Bahhhh..." The newspaper-seller lifts a copy of the latest Courrier International to the light.
Les Parisiens: quelques raisons de les détester.The front cover is crowded with grumpy Parisians, like the ones I encounter on the metro every morning: the ones who never stand up to give little old ladies their seats, the ones who listen to oversized music on oversized headphones, the ones who stare unsmilingly back, who mutter "pardon" before barging past you like you're a pillar...I'm not saying all Parisians are like this all the time. It's simply commuter culture here. The morning metro's a hostile, humid rainforest peopled with commuters clutching canopies of newspapers, trying to protect themselves from others' prickly stares.

I grin back at the newspaper-seller. The characters on the cover are definitely from the metropolis, there's no doubt about it. These are Parisiens all right; and the magazine's got their ca-fait-chier attitude down to a T.

Then I realise that the newspaper guy might actually *be* a Parisian. I stifle my grin, just in case, and hand over 3 euros.
"Ne vous inquietez pas, je cache la manchette," I reassure him, folding my magazine in half so the front page is hidden. He nods, solemnly - and then grins back. Perhaps he's not a Parisian after all...