Paris - Up in smoke

The smog of cigarette smoke which greeted me outside a terminal at Charles De Gaulle International Airport was always to be expected. I'd heard how the French love their smoking. These areas at airports have been claimed by smokers desperate to in some way enforce their right to defile their bodies and the atmosphere around them. But once I'd arrived in Paris proper, the national stereotype of the French and their long-held relationship with these cancer inducing products (or as a not-so-beloved character from Guy Ritchie classic 'Rock 'n Rolla' called them, 'These little bastards'.) I can safely confirm, its more than just a stereotype. The French seem to invest as much passion into smoking as they do into being arrogant and refusing to speak English. The streets of the French capital are veritable gauntlets of cigarette smoke and butt. From early in the morning these little bastards (the cigarettes, not the people) can be seen dangling from lips and clutched between fingers. The habit doesn't keep office hours and I suspect, is even indulged inside the office. Anti-smoking laws, so eagerly embraced by other European countries, don't seem to be gaining any ground in France. It's almost as if, in true French arrogance, they are pulling the bird (with a cigarette firmly between their fingers) at the world, exclaiming amid hacking coughs and clouds of smoke, 'Screw you fascist pigs. We smoke 'coz we must' or something like that. Bars and restaurants are like minefields for zealous anti-smokers. I dare you to ask for the non-smoking area in a restaurant. They do exist, but to enquire about them is tantamount to asking Frenchman if you can sleep with his sister. Paris's cafe culture helped nurture and breed this delight in smoking. The city's pavements are lined with such cafes, populated with all kinds of tobacco-users. I watched two elderly ladies, enjoying a bottle of wine in Montmartre, their cigarette packets and lighters never too far from their gnarled hands. These two old birds gesticulated, laughed, coughed, smoked and quaffed wine as if that day was their last. Next to them your typical fashionable yuppie couple, deep in conversation, the smoking pouring from their mouths. Not far from them was a group of boisterous teenagers and, yes, most of them were revelling in the liberty of smoking. There's no time to execute the proper blow after inhaling in the city that never sleeps (or stops to properly extinguish cigarettes. Glimmering cigarette butts dot the pavements alongside dog poo. Anti-smoking legislation introduced in 2007 appears to be flagrantly ignored, as is the trend in other countries among tobacco-lovers, I suppose. The laws were met with outrage. Some believed they would be taking something away from that alluring national image of the chain-smoking French intellectual. 'Those were good times' remarked one French columnist.
But the laws, like they are here, are simply for show. I'm sure the lawmakers themselves slipped out for a quick smoke while putting the finishing touches to the legislation.
My snobby nostrils have never really taken to the noxious stench of smoking. Call me a twit, but I get annoyed at the very sight of someone smoking in an open place. I believe they are, in some way, robbing me of my right to 'clean' air. That's a desperate and rather weak argument, I know, but I'm sticking to it. While taking in the historical wonders of Paris, I'd rather not have someone puff a cancer stick next to me. It's annoying and rude. Then again, so are the French. While marvelling at the Eiffel Tower, a policeman standing near me lit up, his complete disinterest in his job and the hordes of tourists, as evident as the excited bewilderment which grips many seeing the tower for the first time.
The Metro (Paris's underground public transport system) is not even safe from the ubiquitous second hand smoke. Commuters puff away, possibly to stave off the boredom of their daily travelling.
So, my linger disenchantment with cigarette smoking followed me on holiday. Habits are hard to break. My time in Paris was as amazing, regardless. I'm not that petty that I'd allowed as how many cancer sticks one Parisian can get through in one sitting at a cafe.
As I entered Charles De Gaulle Airport to fly back home, I finally escaped the cloak of smoke. While sitting waiting to board a plane, I heard something which seemed almost foreign to me - Afrikaans. We're not in Kansas anymore. Fellow countrymen had now also converged, a not-so-nostalgic reminder of home. It wasn't the fact I was hearing one of our national languages again after many strictly English-free days. It was the words being uttered. A cantankerous, pot-bellied oaf bellowed in Afrikaans at a stewardess, "Praat a bietjie Afrikaans. Ons is siek van jou taal'. This pathetic, embaressing attempt at humour was met with giggles from fellow oafs. It was at that very moment my hatred for smoking diminished somewhat. It was replaced by a hatred for backward, myopic, intolerant and intolerable morons such as Frikkie (that's what I named him) who serve to remind travellers, like me, just how wonderful it is to briefly escape the likes of him, an unfortunate South African stereotype, much like the chain-smoking Frenchman.