Dear
History Doctor: We just returned from Paris, and we had some trouble in
the elevators. We finally figured out that the first floor is the
second floor, and the second floor is the third. We rode up and down
forever before we discovered this, and then we noticed “RC” on one of
the elevator's buttons. What does that mean and does it have anything
to do with history and how the floors are numbered?
Signed, Thoroughly Confused American
Dear Thoroughly:
I
will admit that this sort of terminology can lead to much confusion,
but there really is a (sort of) logical explanation. And, as with so
many other things in this life, yes indeed, it has to do with history.
That
little “RC” beside the elevator button meant rez-de-chaussee. It is
probably best for you to think of this as the entrance level, what we
might call “street level.” In France, the “first floor” is considered
to be above the entry level; what Americans would think of as the
second floor is really the first floor to the French. So, if your hotel
says you will be on the third floor, remember that to you this would
seem to be the fourth floor. (If you have ignored your companion's
advice to “pack light,” it may even seem like the tenth floor if there
is no lift.)
But I believe
that what you really wanted to know is why the French call the entry
level floor the rez-de-chaussee. This is where the history part comes
in. As I am sure you know, before France was France, it was part of the
Roman Empire. Of course, since the French language is derived from
Latin, many terms used even today reach all the way back for thousands
of years. Rez-de-chaussee is one of these terms.
The
Romans were great road builders and one of the benefits they frequently
brought to outlying parts of their empire was an improved
transportation system. Roman roads were the pride of the Empire. Many
wordsmiths would probably guess that the “chausee” part of the term
derives from CALX (“chaux”), lime, thinking that the reference was to
lime being used on Roman roads. That seems to be true, as far as it
goes. But one very authoritative text on etymology argues for a more
interesting slant.
This text
insists that a tenth century document de catalan definitively defines
VIA CALCIATA as a road that is formed out of small pieces of stone that
have been carefully crushed and consolidated. Now CALCIATA would appear
to be a past participle of the verb CALCIARE (to walk on with the feet,
to crush). That verb derives from CALCIA, which was in turn derived
from CALX, which, in this context, meant heel, not lime. So, this part
of rez-de-chaussee has to do with a road made of—or at least topped
with—finely crushed stones, compacted by having folks stomp on them.
Apparently chaussee was first used to designate roads constructed by
the Romans using crushed stones, then later it applied to the
substructure of subsequent roads, and then even later was used to refer
to dikes built of such stones
Even
today, this idea carries over into modern French, especially in
connection with feet and shoes. When the French are getting their very
young children off to school, they have to chaussent les enfants (put
on their shoes for them), and chausser du 40 means you wear a European
size 40 in shoes. And of course, chaussette is sock(s). If you are
still with me, we will move on to the “rez” part of the phrase.
The
“rez” part comes from the Latin RASUS, past participle of RADERE
(“raser”), meaning to shave. The Dictionnaire de la Langue Francaise
informs us that the use of this word was already becoming rare by the
16th century, but it survived in terms such as “raser les murs” (hug
the walls) and, of course, in rez-de-chaussee. It carries the sense of
cutting down something, of leveling something, and of being very close
to something.
Now as you
can see there are a lot of implications in this one small phrase. It
implies that the rez-de-chaussee is that part of a building which has
been “razored” so that it is level with a street which has been
constructed using crushed stones. Whew!
This
might be the time to point out that, besides roads, another great
contribution of the Romans was—concrete. Whether it is egg first and
chicken later, or the reverse, apparently the Romans learned that if
you mixed powdered limestone with water, you could produce all sorts of
solid columns, steps, and amphitheatres. On the other hand, the finely
crushed stone itself was far better for road building since it
solidified the base but still let some water drain through. It also got
better the more you tromped on it, since pressure served to compress
the stones, whereas solid concrete blocks could crack.
So
there you have it. The moral of this story is: remember to subtract one
floor when you are making your hotel reservations. And when you get
there and enter the rez-de-chaussee from the street, remember that you
may have just been standing on a piece of Roman history.
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