At the end of his “brainwashing tour” for the Company in 1963 Norman Crawford Smith and his wife departed on their own own “Grand Tour of Europe“. They left London in an Air France aircraft and, after a smooth and uneventful flight, landed at Orly Airport just outside Paris. Cleared through Customs, they chartered a taxi to take them to their hotel. It was a “first” for both of them so they sat like a pair of country bumpkins, soaking up the passing scene.

Norman Smith provides a melange of episodes that comprise and define an overseas trip. Partly the issues that arise are a consequence of misunderstanding of different cultures but they can also arise due to not having a lingua franca.

We arrived at the hotel. I paid off the driver and then discovered that there was one case missing from our luggage. It was the one containing Sheila’s shoes. Any box would have been a problem but she was particularly fond of her shoes.

The concierge was helpful but his call to the airline offices drew a blank so, into another taxi, we headed for Les lnvalides, the airways’ terminal. Inquiries at the Air France desk were unhelpful – the lady clerk informed us somewhat haughtily that “Air France does not lose des bagages “. Precious hours were fleeting but there was nothing for it but to catch the next bus back to Orly.

There, in the Customs arrival area, sat our fugitive case. There was no problem about going in to the enclosure and retrieving the box – however, the exit was guarded by a tall handsome gendarme. I approached him and in my carefully-accented best French I asked “Parlez-vous Anglais? “. With an expression eloquent with disdain he replied “Non!”. My heart “sank into my boots” as I groped forlornly into memory for my schoolboy French, unused for 21-odd years. (I remembered how Henry V had treated the French at Agincourt and I felt that perhaps this majestic personage had not forgotten).

Then the miracle happened. Clumsily at first but steadily improving with returning confidence I was able to explain to this impassive guardian of Gallic honour how we had arrived de Londres en avion de I’Air France”, had cleared Customs and proceeded to Paris only to discover that one of “les bagages est perdu “. How enquiries had drawn a blank and how we had come all the way out to the airport in our search “et voila! Le bagage c’est ici!”. Very gravely he gave a slight bow and said “Passez M’sieu, Madame”.

The Entente Cordiale having been re-established, we resumed our examination of Paris. An outing to the Moulin Rouge produced an interesting insight into the French outlook on life. On our way back to the hotel at about 2.30 am. our driver slowed down at a red robot.

Almost stopped, he examined the totally-deserted intersection and drove on. I commented on his ignoring a traffic light, but he replied that because there was no traffic it was quite unnecessary to sit waiting for the light to change to green. I couldn’t fault his practicality.

An interesting aspect of Parisian behaviour was that English was spoken intelligibly if not fluently by many French people in Paris but not at all by many others. Possibly the difference was associated with dependence upon linguistic ability for their livelihood. We hadn’t the opportunity, in the short time available, to travel in the countryside but I should imagine that English would be fairly thinly spread in the rural areas (as are foreign languages in England).

We had many delightful experiences in Paris, one of which was a dinner cruise on the Seine in a “Bateau Mouche” . This is a motor-driven floating restaurant with glass windows curving up over most of the roof, giving splendid views of the passing scene. ( I can’t understand why they give it such an unattractive name [ Mouche = Fly, as in insects] but maybe there’s another more attractive translation in a patois. The view of the part of Paris visible from the river, by night, was most memorable, as were the meal and the wines. Needless to say we were sorry that we hadn’t more time in this historic city.

Note on the author
Norman Smith was the son of Harold Bayldon Smith, the last owner of No. 7 Castle Hill. Writing was clearly one of his skills. I have included the articles on Port Elizabeth under Port Elizabeth of Yore whereas those of a general interest have been published under Norman’s name. In about 1949 Norman Smith graduated from UCT as an electrical engineer and before his retirement he was the planning engineer for Port Elizabeth Electricity Department.