Ah, spring! You’ve come late this year, but no matter, we all graciously welcome your return. The Durham sky seems bluer, the sun shines brighter and the grass on Main Quad is gree-…. Well, it’s being replanted.
With warmer weather upon us, student attire has changed dramatically. Just this past week, we’ve all seemed to rearrange our closets, tossing the Ugg boots and the North Face jackets to the back and dusting off our tank tops and flip-flops. The girly girls among us have delved into their summer dress collection, while the frat dudes have happily shed tops altogether, preferring the “shirts-off” look.
We runners, forced to run on the treadmill for the duration of what feels like North Carolina’s longest winter, have made a glorious return to the world of outdoor exercise. We’ve lost the long spandex and replaced them with what I believe is perhaps Nike’s most lucrative women’s clothing item: the Tempo running shorts.
You know the shorts I’m talking about—we’ve all got them. Simple, casual, comfortable and practical, Nike shorts epitomize America’s athletic female youth. With color combinations such as black/white/perfect pink or sea green/white/Baltic blue, who can resist?
Well, I couldn’t. Even after receiving an explicit warning that women in Paris do not wear shorts, I still packed my Tempos in my suitcase. Could I really spend my entire six-week summer stay abroad running in pants? I’d said non, but wished I’d said oui.
At 27 degrees Celsius (that’s more than 80 degrees Fahrenheit for you metric-system-haters), I dubbed it simply too hot to run in pants. The streets of Paris would just have to deal with Molly Lester and her American running shorts. So, one afternoon, I changed out of my jeans, proudly slipped into my Nike shorts and headed to the nearest park.
With my first steps onto the streets of Paris, I knew the shorts had been a mistake. Nevertheless, I walked as confidently as an American girl who had just committed the greatest fashion faux pas could walk. What felt like a million pairs of Parisian eyes glared at my bare legs. Their stares were quick, as if to say, “Mais oui, she’s just a silly fille américaine,” but with their stares, all of my previous efforts to immerse myself into Parisian culture were squandered.
The metro could not have come fast enough. I hoped I could sit in an empty seat and cover my legs with my jacket, but no, the French fashion gods were punishing me. The metro car was by no means crowded, but there was standing room only and as fate would have it, I was the only one standing. All eyes stared at my bare legs as I stood alone, exposed, in the middle of the metro car.
After what felt like an eternity, we reached my stop. Head hung low, I darted off the metro and into the street. I ran to the park as fast as my bare legs would carry me, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. My running locale of choice was a quiet park in the northwest corner of Paris. It was away from the Seine, away from the crowds and away from the tourists. While its isolation from the hectic summer tourism appealed to me at the time, in retrospect, I realize that it meant these park-goers were primarily Parisian locals, none of whom would accompany me in my decision to sport running shorts.
The sunshine and the fresh air bettered my mood. I put on my iPod and temporarily forgot about my previous embarrassment. Sure, no one else in the park wore shorts, but my iPod blocked their whistles and my fast pace forbade me from acknowledging their stares. I could tune out the heavy-breathers on the treadmills in Wilson, why couldn’t I do the same in Paris?
This temporary bliss suddenly came to an end. Having almost completed my second lap around the park, I was startled by a man, clearly French, running next to me, laughing, pointing at my legs, and asking me in between breaths if I would race him. “Non!” I shouted, and stopped abruptly. The man continued running along, laughing to himself and wearing… you guessed it, pants.
I was defeated. I was a naive American girl who underestimated the power of French culture. I decided to just relish in my indescribable mortification because it couldn’t get any worse, right?
Wrong. As I approached my apartment building, I felt the stare of a 14-year-old French boy. He giggled, like the others, but then stopped me. “Putain!” he screamed as he pointed at my legs. “Putain! putain! putain!”
While there is no tasteful way to translate putain, it is how I would describe Britney Spears in her “I’m a Slave 4 U” video or any of Hugh Hefner’s girls next door. And so, as I reflect on my hard lesson learned, I warn my fellow Francophiles. When in Paris, do as the Parisians do. Leave the Tempos at home. Wear pants.
Molly Lester is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Friday.
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