Where there’s the smell of fries, however faint or overpowering, there’s sure to be at least one American nearby. And where there’s one American, there’s sure to be a few others, if not an entire gaggle. For despite being members of an individualistic society, they generally dislike being alone. That is to say, they dislike not being surrounded constantly by their own kind. Something about it makes them feel ill at ease, reminds them of how anathema they are to most other cultures. But if they’re “amongst themselves,” it isn’t as noticeable. So maybe that’s why they so often tend to travel abroad in groups. It helps to make them feel as if, even though they’re going to a foreign country, they don’t actually have to engage with it. Not “fully” anyway. They could still “be who they were” without having to compromise so long as there were enough of them clustered together.

As far as Laurent could tell, the Americans standing in line behind her as they all waited to board the plane genuinely believed that eating French fries was somehow already the height of being “cultural.” After all, they were called “French” (ergo, not American), so wasn’t that enough? Surely enough, at least, to be well on one’s way to securing personne française status. Not that any of these people would even know how to pronounce personne française, let alone what it meant (regardless of how simple a phrase it is). And never mind that during the whole post-September 11th/Iraq War “debacle,” many Americans readily agreed to call French fries “Freedom fries” in response to the French Minister of Foreign Affairs speaking on behalf of his country when he said that France would not support an invasion of Iraq. Hence, the food-oriented temper tantrum that ensued.

Somehow, after decades of the U.S. being little supported by other countries in its so-called bid to “liberate” everyone else (despite Americans themselves being the most enslaved of all), the nation of obesity and opiates still managed to be offended if anyone didn’t get behind their intentions (read: obliterating anything and anybody that “dared” to stand in the way of their “progress”). When Laurent was still in high school, her parents had commented on the hubris—the sheer ridiculousness—of this reaction to the French’s rightful stance on the matter of invading another country. It was something that had stuck with Laurent ever since. As though, in that instant, a prejudice and disdain for Americans was cemented. And there was nothing and no one that would ever change her stance. The foul, stomach-turning smell of the overly greasy fries being consumed next to her was a puissant reminder of that. For while it was a smell that most enjoyed, its pervasive presence in the U.S. is what bothered Laurent most about it. As inescapable as car exhaust.

Worse still, she would have had to walk to an entirely different boarding gate to escape its permeating, all-consuming “scent” (a noun that felt too gentle for what this smelled like to her nostrils). Obviously, Laurent wasn’t about to do that. Not only because they were already in the process of boarding, but because she felt that, if anyone ought to “move bitch, get out the way,” it should be this brood of fry-eating Americans.

Perhaps even worse than being subjected to their definition of “refined cuisine” was having to overhear their “scintillating” commentary about the type of plane they were all about to gamble their lives on riding. Because among the Americans in the queue were a mother, father and their three under-twelve children—two boys, one girl. It was one of the boys who kept peppering his father with questions about what he meant by a “777,” which he claimed was the type of plane they were about to enter. Though, in fact, it was definitely a 747. But the father’s insistence on his “correctness” in this matter just went to further prove to Laurent how confident Americans were in their “knowledge,” never imagining they might be wrong about whatever bullshit they were spouting. Mostly just for the sake of spouting, which they all appeared to glean so much joy from.

As the line moved as slowly as possible, Laurent could then hear the father mentioning “783s” as a common plane for this type of flight. It took all of Laurent’s restraint to not turn around and tell the boy the truth, which is that there was no such thing as a 783. Granted, that information probably wouldn’t have mattered to him, since the only thing he seemed to want to know was which type of plane, out of all of them, was the biggest. Like it was preprogrammed into every American’s DNA to want to know this oh so “important” tidbit, and how they could either be it or gain a hold of it. The bigger the better, as they like to say. This “philosophy,” Laurent realized, was the key to what made Americans so disgusting, so wretched. So utterly grotesque. Their need to have more, to be more, to expand—in whatever multifaceted form that might take. As if they could never and would never be contained. Absolutely refused to be because, again, it was as if this “need”—to be the biggest and have the biggest—was preprogrammed into their genetic coding. Couldn’t be helped, stopped or otherwise altered.

When Laurent at last took her seat on the plane—the 747—she knew she oughtn’t have been surprised to find that this same fry-eating group of Americans was seated both in front of and behind her, taking up so much space…as was the American way. And she could swear, on the entire ride to Paris, that she kept catching a waft of grease in her nostrils. A major feat considering that something has to smell quite potent to even be smelled at all on an airplane. But such was the “cutting through it all” force of Americans in packs. Not to mention Americans about to be in Paris.