8. Americans make fun of themselves. Self-deprecation and personal foolishness are a huge part of American humor. French people are uncomfortable with both and don’t want to be subjected to either. They appreciate and enjoy Jerry Lewis, the Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello, and the Three Stooges precisely because these horrible things are not happening to them, but to someone else, like Americans or Belgians, who deserve them.
9. French people speak with great authority. No matter how circuitous the conversation or how much or little a person knows, she or he says it with great weight and command. English, at least American English—see that at least—is spoken with many qualifiers and qualifications, and the more a person knows, the more he or she tends to qualify. In France, the more a person knows, the more absolute he or she is—and tells you so.
10. French people always want to know if I’m English or American. I tell them, and I’m happy and thankful that after I say, “Je suis américain,” less is expected of me than from any other people on Earth. Knowing that sets me free, allowing me to try, and fail, and try, and fail, again, and again, and again . . .
Afterword
What began as a trip has become a journey. I’ve learned a lot about France and Brittany over the years, and also a lot about me.
When I bought my house, I thought I was being bold, brave, a pioneer, an explorer. Even now, twenty years later, I’m amazed I did it—and even more amazed it has worked out for the best. At least, I think it’s for the best. About France and things French, I’m much more forgiving and optimistic. In France, my glass is half full. In the U.S., where I know and expect so much more, it’s half empty. In the U.S., the less I know, the harsher my judgments. In France, the less I know (and I know a lot less), the more accepting and accommodating I am, as I always assume I’m wrong. In the U.S., I assume it’s the other person. In the U.S., everyone else is the problem. In France, it’s me. In the U.S., I engage, question, doubt, and dissent. In France, I’m the yes-man, “Ah, oui, oui, oui.” I’ve become bipolar: in France, I’m egoless; in the U.S., ego—super and regular—are the way I usually go.
When I bought my house, I could do little and say less. I relied on more than a bit of help from my friends. I still do. Sure, I can say and do a lot more now, but I continue to get it wrong about a third of the time. Given my language skills, that’s not surprising—but this is: never in my life could I have imagined that I’d fail so much and so often and be so accepting of it.
In the U.S., I plan things and most of the time most of them happen, even though I worry that they won’t. In France, I also plan things and worry that they won’t happen, and most of the time they don’t, at least not in the way I planned them, but then they often turn out better, or at least seem to be better, or my French definition of better is worse, less, diminished, reduced. Whatever it is, I’m happier getting what I get in France than I am when I get what I want, or think I want, in the U.S. In France, I move through the seven stages of grief, from anger and denial to acceptance, very quickly. In the U.S., it’s a Richter-scale struggle that more often than not ends short.
In the U.S., I never would have tasted oysters or langou-stine or gone alone to Jacques’s apartment after I totaled his car, and I’d be shamed and ashamed to be the know-nothing village idiot, but in France, I’m the child Picasso said it takes a lifetime to become. To me and the people who know me, it’s an amazing and startling transformation. In the U.S., fear of foolishness deters my action. In France, foolishness is my only choice, and I make it every day.
One step forward, two steps back. Two steps forward, one step back. That’s how it’s been learning new rules, customs, and traditions . . . It is like being a child again: the good part is (as Picasso meant) it is freeing; the bad part (he didn’t mention) is I’m dependent and inept. And because I’m not a child, it’s even more difficult—a slower and more humbling process—learning and attempting to speak a new language. There, it’s one step forward every summer, half a step back the other nine months, so every year I start over, unevenly making progress, relearning the same words and phrases, still unable to properly say “déliceux” or “Thierry”.
I can’t have an easy, flowing conversation with anyone, read a French newspaper with anything more than rudimentary understanding, or comprehend French packaging, instruction booklets, road signs, my electric bill, or any other official notice I receive in the mail, or worse, by phone, but I can drive, shop, bank, eat properly, cook, and get medical assistance with a tenable rate of success, and I have friends I care about, who care about me. It’s not quite mastering the art of French living, but it’s something, and certainly more than I, and probably everyone else, thought possible when I bought the house.
The biggest step is the first step, and it may actually lead to a leap, though to my greatest surprise and chagrin, I’ve discovered I’m not a leaper. I bought the house in France, and I married Donna. Those are the two great leaps in my life—and every time I enter a plane. The rest of my steps have been baby steps. In that way, I progress slowly, deliberately, inexorably, looking backward as much as forward, feeling happy and lucky to have the bolstering of my family’s, friends’, and Donna’s words and hands, sometimes even believing I’m in control of my life, and knowing—ontologically—that I’m not.
It’s a scary and exciting journey: flying blind, mapless, relying on instruments, occasionally breaking through the fog and the clouds into the clear blue sky and the light. If you’re lucky, as I’ve been, you’ll discover one or two glorious unforgettables that make and change your life for better, forever. Quel surprise!
Acknowledgements
Sometimes it takes a village to complete the task. In my case, for this book, it took four countries and a couple of continents. I want to thank the following people:
In the U.S.: Readers, helpers, commentators, kibitzers, schmoozers, and fixers; Timmie Chandler, Lucha Corpi, Bob and Loni Dantzler, Peggy De Coursey, Anne Fox, Roy Glassberg, Dorothy Greenside, Bob Grill, E. Sherman Hayman (Mur), Bruce Jacobs, Gerald and Sheryl Kramer, Marshall and Danuta Krantz, Leslie Meredith, Paula Panich, Janice and Warren Poland, Fred Setterberg, Bill and Helen Shyvers, Joanna Smith, Phillip Spitzer, Donna Umeki, Kate Vergeer, Le Roy Votto, George and Marion Wallach, Eric Weiss, and Kim Wu.
In France: Sharon Ahearn, Gilles Goulard, Bruno Lamezec, Sophie Picon, and Jean Rival for reading, editing, correcting, informing, supporting, and, to my great dismay, lamenting.
Also in France, for opening their hearts and homes and lives to me: Yvonne, Joe, Patrice, and Thierry Bastard, Eric Behar, Nicole and Jo Bellec, Val and Alan Bennett, Xavier and Martine Bourrier, Charles Castan, Eric and Marcel Claude, Ella and Richard Cole, Michelle Cooper, Judy Datesman, Yvon Derrien, Christiane Dupuis, Christian Foix, Yvonne and George Goulard, Claude and Annie Jourdren, Dominique Kermoal, Françoise Lamezec, Christine Le Bellec, Bob and Christiane Le Lionnais, Jean-Pierre, Joëlle, and Gaëlle Le Meitour, Marie and David Le Meitour-Le Carrer, Jacky Link, Tatjana Lomic, Manu Maho, Noé and Yann Rival, Catherine and Olivier Roche, Gerard and Marie-Thérèse and Michel and Francine Tricoire, Fred and Muriel Vasseur, and Beatrice Vierne.
In Poland: Anna Augustynczyk, Magdalena Hildebrand, and Malgorzata Maruszkin, my editor, translator, agent, and friend.
In Hungary: Norbert Uzseka took me under his wing and brought me back to the U.S. by introducing me to his American colleague, Taryn Fagerness.
Back in the U.S.: Taryn took me under her wing and introduced me to her colleague, Deborah Ritchken, who read the manuscript, loved it, improved it, and became my agent extraordinaire, who brought the book to Skyhorse Publishing and my editors, Joe Sverchek, who made everything easier, and Marie Lambert, who saw possibilities I didn’t see and made the book a better book.
And here we all are.
Voila!
(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living Page 23