Everywhere in Germany the load the people are carrying is militarism. The young men of the country lose several of the best years of their life in their army service, and heavy taxes burden business and industry. The people are patriotic, and this army is necessary, for there is always the prospect of a war, and of course they want to lick the other fellow. But the newspapers are praising Taft and urging that arbitration and disarmament are practicable if the course marked out by the United States is followed. It makes an American really proud of his country and his President when he hears the praise that is everywhere bestowed on both for taking the lead in the most important movement of the times. There has been a marked change in sentiment toward Americans among the educated and upper classes the last few years. The poor people always were strong for us. But the business men and the newspapers, as well as the brass collars, sneered at Americans as mere money-makers. McKinley brought the change when the United States jumped into a war with Spain to help Cuba. Dewey at Manila pounded it into their heads with language the Europeans could understand. Roosevelt’s dashing policies and his stand for peace between Japan and Russia impressed them wonderfully. And now Taft’s policy of arbitration instead of war is receiving the commendation of uppers and lowers, and they recognize the statesmanship in the treaties. To use one of Roosevelt’s favorite words, it is bully to be an American and travel in Europe, just to see how much better it is at home and to feel the respect paid to our great nation and its leaders.
Arriving in Paris
Paris, August 11.
Paris is a good deal like a circus, a three-ringed one which strains the rubber in your neck trying to see all you can before the acts change. Even the arrival is theatrical. As the train pulled into the Gare du Nord, after making the last forty-five miles in fifty-five minutes, I passed our hand baggage out through the open car window to a porter, and, going out the door myself, told him in a confident tone “voiture,” which is the foolish French word for cab. He understood, piloted us through the big station and called a little victoria with a seat for two. The driver wears a white celluloid plug hat and a red face. He drives a horse which probably fought with Napoleon. He nods assent to the name of the hotel as I mispronounce it, takes our three grips on his seat, and away we go down the street, the Lord and the cabby only knowing where. On the sidewalks are busy people talking French, walking French, and gesturing French. The stores and shops are attractive, for the French shopkeeper puts his best stuff in the front window, whether he is selling hats or sausages. Big busses, with people on top as well as inside, motor cars and motor busses with horns and honks, loaded wagons drawn by heavy Norman horses, street sweepers with brooms, policemen in red-and-blue uniforms, maids in cap and gown, porters with their work shirts outside their trousers, restaurants and little cafés with tables and chairs on the sidewalk and French men sipping absinthe or cold coffee, buildings almost uniformly six stories high, built with courts in the center which are often seen through open doors, and everybody talking, gesticulating and screaming in a language you cannot understand,—that is the confusion through which we drive for two miles and for which journey the cabman takes off his hat when I pay him 35 cents, which includes a 4-cent tip for himself. The hotel porter, or chief clerk, the head waiter, the pages, the manager and several assistants meet us at the hotel door, and in response to inquiries assure us that there is a bath-room in the hotel and that they have a “very nice” room. As an additional and decisive argument why we should stop there the chief clerk asserts that they have ice-water, and the entire company falls back in an ecstatic gesture which evidently means “What do you think of that?” We examine the room, agree upon a price, and then and not till then do we dismiss the cabman and proceed to get settled. We are in Paris, the dirtiest and prettiest city in the world.
Of course the first thing to do is to get out and see the sights, but of course it is not. The first thing is to get the mail and the next is to clean up. After traveling eight hours on a fast train through a country which has had no rain for two months, one really does not care for the wonderful things which the world talks about. Then comes the French dinner, which is something of an affair. A dinner in France goes like this: Soup, fish or eggs, veal, beef or mutton, and a vegetable and salad, cakes or tarts, fruit or ice. No coffee is served with the meal, but it is usually taken later and is an additional charge. Any attempt to vary this bill of fare is regarded as insane. I tried my best to get string beans served with my veal course, but I couldn’t. The waiter said “Oui,” then went and called the other waiters, and I could see them looking at the crazy American. That made me persistent, and I sent for the head waiter and told him I wanted beans—and I knew they had them ready. The head waiter said “Oui” and disappeared, and soon the clerks from the office strolled by and looked in. By this time the veal was cold, and I realized that any further attempt might result in calling the police, so I gave it up. No one refused to get my beans, but each time I was told “oui,” which means “yes” and is pronounced “we,” and each time nothing further happened except the sympathizing and curious mob. Once I traveled in Europe with a friend named McGregor, who wanted his coffee served with his meal, as it is in Illinois. He was willing to pay any price and he would put in his order hours ahead of mealtime. Did he get it? Certainly not. Coffee is not served with the dinner in France, and that is all there is to it.
American travelers have won on one point—ice. Every hotel and restaurant which caters to American trade advertises ice-water. No Frenchman will drink it, but in some way the managers found that ice could be procured in the summer-time, and as a special favor to Americans, at a small increase in rates, the hotels give us ice-water.
No real French hotel has a bath-room, to say nothing of a room with bath. I suppose the French, who look clean, either go to the creek or swim in the washbowl. Again the American influence is felt. First-class hotels now have bath-rooms, or a bath-room, and when it is used the charge appears on the bill, so much for a “grand bath.”