Why I hate Paris

It smells, very badly. And even after decades of complaints, it seems Parisians still consider themselves too chic to pick up after their dogs. Taxis are a nightmare. The traffic makes central London seem like a village in Ireland. Uber drivers park as far away as possible from the designated pick-up point, fail to answer messages or calls, then charge a fortune in waiting time.

The expense is phenomenal. For three coffees, one mint tea and a croissant that had the texture of a carpet slipper, I was charged more than £30 ($40). And don’t get me started on the coffee: if Paris is the home of café culture, shouldn’t it also be that of good coffee? Wrong! It usually tastes like recycled dishwater, or as if it’s been dredged from the bottom of the Seine. It must be bad if it leaves me hankering after a Nespresso. I asked a Parisian (who I know, and who is less defensive than many of his compatriots) why it is so bad. He replied, “Because Parisians don’t go to cafes to drink coffee, but to socialize, read the paper and watch the world go by.”

Oh, I see! Because in other capital cities, we go into windowless booths, are served the good stuff, and leave after slugging it back without speaking a word to another soul? This arrogance about the unique, cultured “Parisian experience” drives me mad. Another example of this refusal to take criticism can be found in many travel guides: “When people hate Paris, it’s usually that they want to travel, but they want everything to be just like home at the same time,” goes the excuse.

When visitors to London say they hate the city, most Londoners will respond with a sympathetic “I don’t blame you” or “I can see why.” I am a huge fan of my city, but this doesn’t blind me to its faults.

This is more than can be said of Parisians. Mention the rude waiters and bartenders, and you will be told in no uncertain terms that this is “just their style.” Really? When I ask for something very simple, in straightforwardly accurate French – say, a glass of red wine – why do I have to be met with a blank look before the waiter switches to English in an unfriendly and dismissive manner, leaving me feeling embarrassed and reluctant to speak French again?

Despite being recommended up the wazoo in food guides, and by locals, most of the restaurants are mediocre or bad. They often give the impression that you, the customer, are bothersome, and should be very grateful to have a table, despite the ridiculous prices. If you don’t believe me, try asking for a second napkin – then resist the temptation, following the response from the waiter, to get up, cross the room and find one yourself.

God knows, Italians can be rude, too. But it seems they do it for their own amusement, and it doesn’t feel malevolent at all. However, even the French hate Parisians – possibly because of how dangerous and scary some of the central areas have become in the past decade or so. As I stepped off the train last week, I felt surrounded by groups and pairs of men, all hanging around looking for tourists, and – given that they weren’t offering cab rides or accommodation – I can only assume they were there for the pickpocketing.

The streets stink of urine, and the place is absolutely filthy, including the Métro – way worse than anything you’ve seen on the Underground in London, which is an achievement in and of itself. Locals must drop rubbish, because I have never seen as much trash on the pavement, despite the proliferation of rubbish bins in the city. I asked about this at my hotel, only to be told petulantly: “London has trash too!”

Feted in the movies and in literature, Paris has a reputation for being the most romantic city on the planet. I think this only adds to the bitter disappointment many experience when they visit. It’s high time that reputation, built on sand, was finally demolished.

Yes, there are some impressive sights, such as Montmartre and the panoramic views from the Sacré-Cœur – but up close many of those tall, impressive-at-a-distance buildings are grubby, held up by decaying cement and stone. Mildew oozes from cracks, there’s rust on the banisters and used condoms everywhere, from all the prostitution sex that happens in grubby alleyways across the city. In short, there are far nicer cities in Europe, where you will very likely get a far better cup of coffee.