While writing this chapter, I received a telephone call from a friend of the Ducros.
“Is Jean-Marie or Monique there?” the caller asked.
“No, they are on vacation,” I reported.
“You must be one of their American friends,” the mystery man said.
“C’est ça, et qui êtes-vous?” That’s right, and who are you? I asked.
“A friend,” the man said.
“And what is the friend’s name?” I asked, knowing I was starting to get under the caller’s skin.
“We are friends of Jean-Marie and Monique,” he repeated.
Pause. I could feel him squirming.
“Alors?”
“Eh bien … je suis … Pierre, et voilà.”
That must have hurt. When I told this story to Jean-Marie, he laughed and said, “Eh oui, c’est comme ça.” That’s the way it is.
When I asked why, Jean-Marie had difficulty explaining. “C’est comme ça,” he repeated. “In business, the custom is easier to explain. One does not like to be held responsible. You see, a client doesn’t really telephone a person; he telephones a company. And you are given information from the company, not the person.”
“But a company is a thing,” I argued. “You can’t get information from a thing.”
“Eh oui,” Jean-Marie said, shrugging his shoulders in typical Midi fashion. “But one does not want to be at fault. It is never my fault. It is the fault of the patron (the boss) or the company.”
I had a follow-up question. “But why would the French want to defer responsibility?”
Jean-Marie was stymied. But I have a theory. I think it has to do with the way the French see a glass, not as half full, but as half empty.
Like my new friend, the self-deprecating marathon runner, the French are modest about praising themselves—or others for that matter. When I asked the Ducros’ son, Yann, how one says “good for you,” his response was telling.
“We don’t really say that,” Yann said. “That’s one of the big differences between Americans and us. You are very free with praise. We are not.”
Not willing to give up, I offered another alternative. “Perhaps you say ‘félicitations.’”
“Not really,” Yann said, “at least not in the sense you mean.”
“How about ‘bravo?’”
“Rarely.”
“Hum.”
Later, I discovered that Yann’s assessment of French behavior was accurate. As an entertainer and public speaker in the States, I became accustomed to receiving praise. It was a common and natural occurrence for members of the audience to slap me on the back after a performance—even performances that were less than stellar. That rarely happens in France. They are not opposed to applauding in public. That is not a problem—in fact, they can be quite raucous. But it is rare for them to seek you out, shake your hand, and say, “Great job.” That is not their way—even among close friends. If, on that rare occasion, you are praised, you can be sure that your performance was something truly extraordinary.
One night Yann and I went to a jazz club. Between sets, I congratulated a saxophonist’s performance by shaking his hand and saying, “Cela a été très bien fait.” That was very well done.
Later, Yann told me, “That is not really said, Allen.”
“Not ever?”
“If it is used, it is usually sarcastic.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“No. Imagine that a child is cautioned not to run in the house. The child ignores the warning and falls down. That’s when you might say, ‘C’est bien fait pour toi.’”
The light went on. “C’est bien fait pour toi” was equivalent to saying “serves you right” in English. “I never knew,” I said.
“And now you do.”
That conversation with Yann was my first introduction to the French malaise with praise—both given and received. Later, I learned about a major contributor to that cultural characteristic: their educational system.
As a former high school teacher, I wondered what I would find in a French lycée. After sharing my journalistic curiosity with a school principal, I was given permission to visit his school. After a few visits, I discovered that classrooms in France were dramatically different from those in the States. First, French professors are not your friends; they are your rulers. French educators have little contact with their students outside the classroom. And inside the classroom, the relationship is always formal and hierarchical—the students using the formal “you” when speaking to the instructor, the instructor using the informal “you” when addressing the student.
French students are not in class to have fun; they are there to learn—perhaps more accurately, to be drilled. As such, French students tend to possess a wealth of knowledge, but minimal creativity. (Perhaps the opposite can be said of American students.)
In French schools, papers are scored on a scale of zero to twenty. Very seldom, if ever, does a student score a perfect twenty. When I asked why, I was told that a grade of twenty is reserved for the professors. To be given a score of twenty would suggest that the student is as knowledgeable as the teacher, an untenable supposition by French standards.
When a student earns a grade of eighteen or, on rare occasions, nineteen, the paper is likely to be accompanied by a comment of “pas mal”—a negative fashion of offering congratulations.
Eventually, students learn that they can never be perfect and that even a superior performance is valued as “not bad.” With such powerful conditioning, it is not surprising to me that store clerks and business associates are reluctant to offer their names or take responsibility. Why would one choose to take responsibility when it is so easy to become a target of criticism or, at best, lukewarm approval?
I noticed early and throughout our first year that the French language and usage of language encourages negative thinking. For example, even the French idioms for saying “you’re welcome” are couched in negativism: de rien (of nothing), il n’y a pas de quoi (not at all, or it is of no matter). Indeed, the more formal je vous en prie (I beg of you) is a kind of self-deprecating means of saying “you’re welcome.”
One day, after thanking a jovial, stocky woman for teaching me the French word for zucchini (courgette), she chirped, “De rien de rien.” Wow, a double-barrel shot of negativity. “Of nothing of nothing.”
After a while Nita and I became very familiar with the French propensity for negative responses—especially responses to praise. One of our French friends, Elizabeth, a beautiful and talented artist and cook, is a master at deflecting praise.
“What a delicious soup,” I said one evening at a typical Elizabethan gourmet feast.
“Oh it’s nothing really,” Elizabeth said, actually blushing. “Just something very simple and everyday.”
“And the table setting is so elegant too,” my wife added.
“Not really,” Elizabeth said, “but I just don’t have anything finer.”
Eventually, Elizabeth’s instinct for sidestepping compliments became a running joke between our two families. Elizabeth’s daughter, Christy, was a young opera singer, who at the time was studying in London and dating an American student. One evening she brought the issue to a head.
“Maman, just take the compliment!” Christy blurted out. “That’s what my American boyfriend taught me.”
“Yeah,” I said, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand across the table, “Just take the compliment.”
To which, unbelievably, Elizabeth protested, “But I don’t deserve it.”
We all giggled over that, which of course made Elizabeth blush an even deeper rose.
I don’t think that Elizabeth is at fault (not that fault needs to be assigned). It is simply evidence of a culture that is light on receiving and giving praise.
* * *
WHEN AMERICANS CRITICIZE WHAT THEY CALL “FRENCH COOLNESS,” they often follow with querulous accusations regarding customer service. On this score, I have to side with
my American compatriots. Nita and I learned very quickly that the French have a different concept of customer service. For the French, the customers are not always right. More often than not, they are seen as gravely misguided if not flat-out wrong. But it’s not personal. Visitors from the States must recognize that clerical curtness in France is as common as Roquefort cheese and spread democratically across all clients.
After buying a used car in France, I told the car dealer that I was surprised that he had not filled the tank (the tank was only one-quarter full).
“Oh, that is not done,” he said flatly, “even with new cars.”
There was nothing apologetic about his tone—simply a dispassionate explanation of French traditions. (By the way, he made no offer to make an exception and fill the tank.)
I once went to a small shop to have a key made. The task was completed in less than three minutes.
“How much will that be?” I asked.
“Five euros, fifty centimes,” the clerk said, which at the time was approximately $6.60—a little steep I thought to have a key made, but still something I could live with.
I poured out a fistful of change from my coin purse. Finding the five euros was no problem. I had a five-euro note wadded up with the change, but I wanted to unload some of my small ten-centime pieces. As I was counting them out in my hand, the clerk reached over the counter and poked his finger at a fifty-centime piece.
“Et voilà,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “but I would like to get rid of some of my small change.”
With that the man actually clucked his tongue. “Dépêchez-vous. J’ai du travail à faire.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Hurry up, I have work to do.”
My face flushed as I handed him the fifty-centime piece. “I’m sorry that I have been so bothersome,” I said, more embarrassed than angry.
“Oh, you haven’t been bothersome,” he said. “I just have work to do.”
Even the French would find that behavior annoying. When I told the story to a twenty-year-old French friend, he said he would have taken the key, pocketed the fifty centimes, turned on his heels, and left.
On another occasion when I had become a little more aware of the game rules, I stepped into Castorama, a large hardware store akin to our Lowe’s or Home Depot. I was looking for a plastic bracket that held up a closet shoe rack. I walked up to one of the yellow-shirted employees.
“Bonjour, je …” That was all I got out.
“That is not my department. You have to go to the right department,” the man said as he swished past me.
Now, I was a little more street smart by this time, so I actually grabbed the yellow hornet by the arm, which stopped him cold. “Wait a minute,” I said. “How do you know what I want isn’t in your department?”
“J’ai du pif,” he said, tapping his nose.
A “pif” is slang for “nose.” So, when he said, “J’ai du pif,” he was saying, “I have a nose or flair (for that kind of thing).”
“You have a nose?” I repeated. Oh, brother, isn’t that cute?
“I’m gifted that way,” he said.
“Fine. I get it, you’re gifted. But look, maybe you can at least point me in the right direction. This is what I want,” I said, digging out the broken bracket from my pocket and waving it in his face. “Can you tell me where I can find this?”
“That’s not my depart …”
“Don’t even go there!” What I actually said was “Ne dites pas ça” (don’t say that), but the tone was “Don’t even go there!”
The man froze for a moment and stared right into my eyes. I thought, “Here’s a guy who would really like to deck me.” I stared right back.
“You might try the department just past the kitchen cabinets to your right.”
“Merci,” I said. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I blame that kind of cold customer service on poor management. The French are certainly capable of doing better. When I ordered my phone service from France Telecom, it was all taken care of within minutes over the phone. The representative was absolutely charming, polite, and exceedingly patient with my less than perfect French. That kind of service only comes from good training, and good training only comes from good management.
One last example to make my point. In researching this book, I wanted to find out a little more about the phenomenon of the French supermarché, the huge department stores that carry everything from nuts to entertainment centers. I was particularly interested in knowing the square footage (“square meters” in French). So one day I drove to Carrefour, the biggest supermarket in our area, and walked to the welcome desk.
“Bonjour,” I said. “I am writing a book about my French experience, and I am fascinated by your store. Would you be able to tell me how many square meters of space you have?”
“Ah non, that is something that only the director would know.”
“Okay. Could you call the director and ask him?”
The woman laughed out loud. You would have thought I had asked for the director’s personal bank account number. “Mais non, monsieur, not for a question like that.”
So much for the welcome desk. Later, ironically enough, I met a store department manager (we attended the same dance class). When I told him the story, he merely smiled. “Yes, that’s right. Only the director would have that information.”
The department manager was not critical of the receptionist’s behavior (as I was certain he would be). In fact, he felt just the opposite—that her action was most appropriate. She had protected her manager and that was paramount.
From my American business mentality, both the receptionist and the department manager are victims of a suffocating French business practice. At all costs maintain the sacred line of command. The tradition is so strong that, as in this case, hierarchy has usurped the organization’s mission, which, at least by American standards, is to serve the customer.
The French are not unaware of slipshod customer service. In fact, sometimes they make jokes about it. One sixty-year-old man told me, “When it comes to service, you must realize that we French adhere to the ‘five d’s.’”
“What are the five ‘d’s’?” I naturally asked.
“It works like this. You walk into a store for a specific item, and the clerk says, ‘D’accord’ (agreed). That is the first ‘d.’
“But, upon searching, the clerk discovers that he doesn’t have what you want, so he says, ‘Demain’ (tomorrow). That is the second ‘d.’
“You return the following day as instructed, and the item is still not available. The clerk’s only consolation is to say, ‘Désolé’ (sorry), the third ‘d.’ ‘Please come back tomorrow,’ you are told.
“The next day, you faithfully return and, again, the item is not in. At this point you are a little steamed, and the clerk sees it in your eyes. ‘Doucement,’ (take it easy) he says. That is the fourth ‘d.’ Still, the clerk assures you that the item will come on the following day—this time without fail.
“So, always the optimist, you arrive the next day just before closing, and before you say a word, the clerk says, ‘Débrouillez-vous’ (cope with it yourself). And that is the fifth and final ‘d.’”
I’m not trying to make the French into Americans. No one would want that, certainly not the French, I can assure you. What I have tried to do is express my wonderment toward another culture and, as in the case of marginal customer service, my admitted frustrations. When I think about it, annoyances (and, yes, happy surprises) are what drove me to live in France for a year in the first place—to be simultaneously bedazzled and puzzled. For surely, when it comes to France, there is, without a doubt, a sixth “D”: delightful.
CHAPTER 3
The Language
ONE NIGHT I WATCHED A FRENCH TELEVISION QUIZ SHOW where the following question was asked:
How do you spell “great grandfathers”?
A. arrière-grand-pères
B
. arrière-grands-pères
C. arrière-grands-père
D. arrière-grand-père
The contestant guessed “A”: arrière-grand-pères. HONK. Wrong. (The correct answer is “B.”) Although the host admitted that he, too, did not know the correct answer, the unhappy contestant lost his shot at a million-dollar jackpot.
My meaning is that the French language is a complicated web of genders, conjugations, and prepositions that even the native speakers can’t keep straight. This gives me some solace because, frankly, I speak ballpark French. My apologies to l’Académie française, but I just can’t remember if the verb préférer (to prefer) requires a preposition when followed by a second verb infinitive (it doesn’t, I looked it up).
And why is it so complicated to say the word “ninety-nine”? How complicated? Well, the answer is “quatre-vingt-dix-neuf,” which is equivalent to saying “four times twenty, plus ten, plus nine.” I don’t have enough fingers and toes to calculate all that.
Or how about this? Did you know in French you “visit a church,” but “render a visit to a person”? I didn’t know that for the longest time. So when I said I was going to “visit a friend,” it must have sounded like I was going to climb up his steeple.
Then there are les faux amis or false friends. A faux ami is a French word that looks like English but carries a different meaning. By my count, there are hundreds of these linguistic traps. For example, in French rester doesn’t mean “to repose”; it means “to stay.” A librairie is not where you go to check out books; that’s a bibliothèque. Ancien does not mean “ancient”; it means “former.”
You would think that malicieux means malicious. Nope. It means “mischievous.” When I use malicieux in French, it always sounds too harsh to me, but I shouldn’t worry. If a French friend is teasing me about, say, my American accent, I might counter with, “And why are you so malicieux?” And while I half expect him to say, “Malicious, I’m not malicious!” he doesn’t bat an eye. He just gives me a wink to let me know that it’s all in good fun.
Pardon My French Page 3