Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years with her husband and two kids. Her daily life does not include romantic walks along the Seine, champagne picnics on the Pont des Arts, or five-star gourmet dinners. For a realistic take on life in a fantasy place, visit her blog, An American Mom in Paris.

Here I am again on The Sunbreak, a Seattle news site, talking about Europe. I’m not sure what I’m doing here, but Mr. MvB has been outrageously supportive given my complete irrelevance to his site. I like to think I provide a perspective of life outside the U.S., which, by the way, I’m enjoying watching self-destruct from afar. We return home in five months so that should be just enough time for the whole thing to really go to hell. Looking forward to viewing the carnage in person.

In this installment of “Why is this woman still talking about Europe,” I’m going to discuss the French and their aversion to standing in lines. I have so many stories of being trampled in lines in Paris–this may be a three-part series, four if you’re lucky.

I was mowed over left and right in lines when we first moved here. At first I would make excuses for the line-cutters like, “I bet that person is just in a hurry, probably late to some important meeting or they’ve learned their child is perched precariously on a ledge.” Three years later, I know it’s just the smell of weakness. If French people catch a whiff of it on you, you will become line-waiting roadkill because you are not worthy to stand in front of them.

Our family took a Paris Christmas light bus tour last year. When my son and I entered the shop to buy tickets, we walked smack into typical French “organization”–pandemonium, no line, just a big group of people pushing to get to the counter. It was a dreaded French Wedge.

There were some anglophone tourists darting about, looking panic-stricken and shouting back and forth, “What’s the SYSTEM? I don’t understand the SYSTEM!”

“Good luck people,” I thought to myself, “no way you’re making the tour if you stand around whining about a system in the middle of a French Wedge.” Then I plunged headfirst into the crowd and pushed like a seasoned professional to the front of the line with my little boy’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist. He knows the drill; when entering a French Wedge, grab mama and hang on, kind of like a baby koala but with more fear.

When it came time to get on the bus, another French Wedge formed outside the bus doors. The anglophones were very sweet, all lined up nicely on one side of the bus, but we Frenchies (I consider myself one of them now, in matters of line-waiting and enviable style only) crushed up together on the other side of the door. The anglophones looked bewildered as we steamrolled them out of the way; Americans and Canadians flew through the air yelling, “SYSTEM! There’s no SYSTEM!”

Of course there’s a system–it’s called “Smash the hell out of other people.” We got great seats on top of the bus, which was full of French people. The bottom level of the bus was full of crushed, wounded tourists applying cold compresses and band-aids.

My husband, Alex, and I recently went to a museum and stood in a lengthy line outside the most popular exhibit. This is where a lady I refer to as Helmet Hair pulled the most blatant line-cut I’ve ever seen. She just swung her foot around Alex’s body and stepped in front of him. Alex is useless in line-cutting situations because he starts sputtering indignantly but laughing at the same time, so all he accomplishes is confusing everybody about his feelings.

Then she did it to me. I whipped out my iPhone to record the elusive line-cutter at the very moment she was cutting–what a moment to capture in the Paris wilderness! Look closely because this is exactly how they do it;  they step right in front of you, but they will not look at you. They’ll look in the exact opposite direction of you, even if it means pivoting their head around 180 degrees so they’re staring directly out over their backs. Line-cutting Frenchies are like those owls with really twisty necks.

If you say something polite, you will be ignored. Your only options are to 1.) fistfight or 2.) take back your space. I chose to take back my space and stuck one of my feet in front of her feet. There wasn’t enough room for both my feet, so I straddled her for a minute and stared at her impressive helmet hair. Her head remained turned away from me, but I could tell from the stiffness of her body she knew I was making my move. It was ON.

We played footsie all the way up to the front of the line and I was winning, WINNING when I realized Alex had fallen behind by several more people. I could tell they’d cut in front of him because they were all intently staring at the ceiling and Alex was hopping around guffawing every few seconds. I lost focus. I turned to Alex and said, “What the hell are you doing all the way back there?” and WHOOSH…Helmet Head was past me and into the exhibit. I may have lived here three years now, but when it comes to the sport of lines, I’m still an amateur.

I could talk about this stuff all day but MvB gives me a word limit when discussing things on The Sunbreak not at all relevant to The Sunbreak. I look forward to returning home at the end of the year, where you’ll probably recognize me out and about. I’ll be the one steamrolling over everyone in line. It’s gonna be a cinch; the peaceful Pacific Northwesterners will never see me coming.