Six Dirty Americans Walk Into a Pool

Hygiene was one of the first things we lost in translation

My very American boys, struggling to make sense of their French-imposed bathing attire

Marching through the hot and sweaty streets of Lyon on a mid-summer morning, we were excited at the prospect of jumping into the city’s most famous and iconic pool: The Centre Nautique Tony Bertrand.

Fortunately, for us, the pool was open (you’re never sure until you get there in Europe), so we sauntered up to the counter, positive that the nautical employees would be overcome with joy at the sight of all six of us Americans wanting to swim at their establishment.

“Désolé, mais vous ne pouvez pas entrer” (translation: Get lost you big, ugly family), the stone-faced teenage cashier said, looking down at our obvious Americanness with disdain as if we were looking to smuggle chemical munitions into the place.

“Uh… pourquoi?” (translation: Seriously, you teenage version of the Soup Nazi even though you have no cultural reference of Jerry Seinfeld… why?) I humbly inquired as my sweaty children grew concerned.

“Il faut les maillots de bains,” (translation: you need swimsuits), the attendant replied straight-faced.

I glanced down to my four boys, all obviously wearing swimsuits, and wondered what planet this kid had come from. I reasoned that he must be talking…