Leave it to Americans to make everywhere they go just as colorless and depressing as America. That’s why Paris had become so, well, un-Parisian. You couldn’t walk into any space without encountering them—automatically aware of their presence because they always had to announce themselves. Declare who they were. Simply by way of talking so goddamn loudly. As though they had a bullhorn to help better broadcast their (utterly inane) business. And what banal business it was. All the usual tired problems Americans were obsessed with. Well, really just one tired problem in particular: money. An evil entity that consistently led back to the real problem: needing to work at a job you couldn’t stand in order to secure said money. Juliet knew that was an evil one had to contend with in any country, but she also knew that the U.S. was by far the worst place to battle it in. That’s why she had come to France, initially starting out in the South. Specifically, working at a resort in Saint-Tropez. Where it seemed the only Americans she was ever exposed to were those who happened to finagle their way in on the arm of a businessman…or actor. 

And that was fine for Juliet. Mainly because she never actually had to hear them. She just cleaned up after them. Which was still gross, but truly more preferable than ever having to be in their presence. She enjoyed the cloak of invisibility that being a cleaning woman provided. Not least of which was because it spared her from having to overhear anything too egregious, the way the servers in the hotel’s restaurant had to every time they approached some asshole’s table with their latest overpriced request. 

When the money started to dry out in the fall (at the same time as “tourist season”), another girl that Juliet worked with told her she should just go to Paris until the following summer. That’s surely where another job would await her. Juliet heeded the advice, eager to leave the hyper-perfect aesthetics of Saint-Tropez behind. When she moved to Paris that fall, she never did manage to make it back to the South for summer. Why give up her “cush” position as a serving wench at a cafe in Montparnasse, after all? Tourist-y though the area might have been, at least it wasn’t on the level of Montmartre. Where she also worked a job as a burlesque dancer twice a week. Not really because she “needed” the extra money, but because it made her feel alive. And most of all, seen. For that remained the only way, apparently, to get people’s attention as a woman: to expose your body. Literally contorting it instead of the usual metaphorical contortions expected of a femme. Though there was still one way to get attention that was even less involved: invoking one’s “Americanness.” 

Juliet knew she had that “power” somewhere within her, but she couldn’t bring herself to use it. She felt it was a further discredit to her “race.” That is to say, the race of Americans. And even though she knew she had no real loyalty to them, she simply couldn’t bring herself to “lean into” the worst stereotypes about the nationality. Not the way so many of them who lived in Paris did, forcing the city to adapt to them rather than adapting to it. In the three years that passed since Juliet moved to Paris, she had noticed this phenomenon only getting worse. In fact, one evening, while riding the bus to get to Montmartre, she couldn’t deny it was as bad as ever upon hearing a grotesque exchange (and one she couldn’t avoid due to the crowdedness of the bus that placed her squarely next to them) between two white American women freely airing their business as they sat across from one another. 

Juliet got on the bus during the portion of the conversation that was initially being carried by the homelier of the two, a brown-haired woman with visible wrinkles on her face. She practically shouted, “I’m thinking of getting on Xanax again before the Christmas party.”

“Oh my god. You totally should. It’s going to be so stressful. But it’s also kind of my favorite thing, you know? Maybe one of us will end up under the mistletoe with Benoît.” She pronounced it like “Bun-wah,” which naturally made Juliet shudder. 

“Ugh. Yeah. I’m kind of nervous to start on the Xanny again though. I have such a problem with self-control. I can get really addicted…to, like, everything.”

The more “attractive” friend (who would be deemed as such because she was blonde) replied half-interestedly, “Really?”

“Oh god yes. Even at work, I’m just knocking back coffee after coffee after coffee. It’s decaf, but still.” 

That was the precise moment when Juliet really wanted to punch her in the face. And, were it not for her finally fishing her headphones out of her bag, she might have done just that. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to tune into the soothing sounds of Dua Lipa before she heard Homely Woman continue, “And I’ve also been smoking waayyyyyy too much. I’m doing it in my apartment now so there’s, like, no limit to how often I can do it.”

Blonde Woman nodded along, assuring, “I’m sure it’s no more than the average French person.” 

Homely Woman took that “observation” as an opportunity to brag, “I guess I am more French than American now.”

For Juliet, this was when wanting to punch someone gave way to wanting to vomit all over them. She couldn’t imagine what kind of company had hired such a pair of clucking hens, but she guessed it must have been an American enterprise. Maybe the last of the companies that would offer the option to transfer an employee from one major city to another. Like the one that Emily Cooper worked for. Another dumb bitch who served as “inspiration” for the Americans to come in droves. Americans just like these. The kind who thought they were special or different, but were really an exact replica of the caricatures presented to Europeans in media and beyond. And yes, if anyone could hear Juliet’s internal monologue right now, they would be inclined to ask her what she thought made her so special and different from the rest of the star-spangled chaff. She would happily tell them that, for one thing, she didn’t run her fucking mouth in public places. Yammering on either about nothing, or things that really shouldn’t be discussed in front of others. Like one’s planned dependency on Xanax so they could get through a frivolous Christmas party. And, Christmas, by the way, was still three months from arriving, which honestly made this whole exchange even more pathetic. 

Mercifully, before Homely or Blonde Woman could say anything else about addictions, Bun-wah or the Christmas party at large, Juliet managed to dig her headphones out from the bottom of her purse. She then put them on with over-the-top franticness that she hoped the Americans noticed. Because it might mean they comprehended that being able to hear their conversation was untenable for anyone who could understand English. But, of course, it wasn’t a very American quality to be aware of other people, least of all their feelings. 

After a few more minutes, Juliet was due to get off at her stop near the Haut-de-Forme. To her dismay, the Christmas party cunts were disembarking there as well. What were the odds? Except for that old adage about Americans running in packs. Juliet scuttled ahead of them, headphones still firmly entrenched. She didn’t look back once, practically sprinting to the Haut-de-Forme from her case of the heebie-jeebies incurred by proximity to annoying Americans who she did not want to see herself in. 

Entering the Haut-de-Forme was a much needed antidote. A place where all the girls spoke French, not to mention the sexist owner. Going about her usual preparations backstage, the vexation she had experienced minutes ago on the bus felt far away from her now. And would have stayed that way had she not realized, upon taking the stage, that the same two women were sitting in the audience front-and-center. Talking the whole way through her performance to Dua Lipa’s “Don’t Start Now.”