When in Paris, you do not grump about the Metro, and you do not give up on the Louvre just because your credit card doesn't work with Vélib. You do not forego the wine with the duck confit, should you be so lucky as to still be able, in this saturated-fat-obsessed moment, to eat duck confit, and you absolutely do not fall into a self-admiring reverie -- of your cheapness, no less -- while failing to listen to the organ at Notre Dame.
Non.
You might be pennywise, but you're missing the point.
