French Toast

by Harriet Welty Rochefort

  When the curtain came up, everyone gasped and clapped as a line of perfectly smiling four-year-olds in pastel colored tutus began to dance. I looked at my program and saw that this was indeed the “class baby” (in English for some odd reason). I then looked around to see if anyone besides me was wondering where on earth the director or the master of ceremonies was. I couldn’t fathom that no one was there to explain about the various classes, the music chosen, the dance steps, the progression of the students during the year. When I said that to my French daughter-in-law, she replied: “But there was a program.”

  The point is that the French are not uncomfortable, are even quite comfortable, with what they call le flou artistique, which could be translated as an artistic vagueness. It means that they can handle not knowing, but just enjoying what they see. An American, or at least this American, wants more structure, more framework, more information.

  At the end of the performance a woman I presumed was the director stepped on stage. I presumed this because she was offered flowers and she then clapped her hands to applaud the performance of her students. At least, I think that’s what it was. I’ll never know. (And, hey, is it really that important?!)

  Changes

  A lot of changes have come about since I wrote this book. As I said, I changed after writing it simply because investigating topics that disturbed me dramatically dedramatized them. For example, I thought that all kinds of truly horrid things were happening in my kids’ classes at school because we parents were not exactly welcomed (see chapter on education) but when I actually got inside a classroom, I was impressed by all the good work going on in there.

  Almost all of the material in the book is timeless and I see in rereading it, that if I were to turn the clock back, essentially I’d write the exact same book. Some things that have changed since its writing are that France has gone nonsmoking so I could no longer riff on secondhand smoke, and French parents, after making fun of Americans for their laxity in child-raising, have gone the Dr. Spock way. French children can be as bratty as American children! As far as the strictness in schools that I described in the chapter on education, it still exists in some places—but there’s more and more violence in schools (with knives, not guns, since this is France with strict gun laws) and less respect for teachers. The world changed as well. With 9/11 came a lot of hate mail from many Americans who couldn’t understand why the French wouldn’t side with Bush on Iraq. Things heated up in France as well. Most, not all, of the French were against Bush and against the war in Iraq but didn’t take out their disagreement on Americans personally. An American journalist friend of mine was asked by the editor of a major U.S. news operation to do in-the-street interviews with Americans who, he was convinced, were being chastized and raked over the coals by the French. When she reported back that there was no “news” on that front, that the Americans she interviewed were pleasantly surprised that there were no tensions, he was incredulous and disappointed. That underscores another cultural difference: France is an old country which has had many wars leading to dissension among friends and within families. The French are used to debate and disagreement and capable of being in total disaccord with friends but keeping the friendship—once again, it’s that quality of being comfortable with ambiguity, the gray area.

  But Bush and the Iraq war did indeed give the French a perfect excuse to unleash a latent, generalized anti-Americanism that I had never seen before Bush, and did it ever come out. From the death penalty to the right to own guns, the French were all over us. They were right, we were wrong! (OK, all right already, but did they have to rub it in? Ouch!) And, just as quickly, when Obama won the supreme victory, we found ourselves back in favor. That was nice—I can quit saying I’m Canadian. . . .

  The Sarkozy Years

  Another factor of change since I wrote this book was the election of Nicolas Sarkozy to the presidency of France. The proof that it’s easier to write about sex than money since the French have fewer complexes about the first than the second has been proved a thousand times over by the ebullient, iconoclastic Sarkozy. His Ray Bans and Rolexes and yacht trips shook up the French much more than the coming out of President François Mitterrand’s secret love child and the view of Mitterrand’s two families—the wife and the mistress—standing together at attention at his funeral. French president Félix Faure died in the arms of his mistress, but the sexual peccadilloes of former French presidents were nothing compared to the way Sarkozy played hard and fast with his money in his nouveau riche way. In a country where wealth is best hidden, his ostentation was unseemly, even shocking. Added to that was his breaking the un-spoken pact by which French presidents kept their families in the background and their mistresses off in a corner. Sarkozy very publicly divorced and remarried in office and—who knows—perhaps he’ll be the first President to father a child while in office as well.

  So, French or American?

  French people, upon hearing my accent (hard not to), often ask me which country I like best, France or America. Americans who know I’ve lived in France longer than I’ve lived in the States ask me if I’ve “gone native,” become French. To me, the answer is clear: Although I have a French passport and French citizenship and a deep affection for my adopted country, I’m as American as apple pie, as my five ancestors who fought in the Revolutionary War, as the Fourth of July, the day I’m writing this introduction, and as Thanksgiving, my favorite American holiday, which I celebrate every year in France (French turkeys, by the way, are delicious and take half as long to bake!). I must admit I never read much of Gertrude Stein or liked what I read but I know and totally identify with her famous phrase, a phrase that provides a perfect answer to all those questions about whether I’ve gone native or which country I prefer: “America is my country and Paris is my home-town.”

  Vive la France! Vive l’Amérique!

  Paris, July 4, 2009

  The French Connection

  I arrived in France not just from the United States but from Shenandoah, a small town in Iowa. Tucked into the southwest corner of the state, near the borders of Missouri and Nebraska, Shenandoah was the center of my life until I was twenty years old. And small-town life in the Midwest has forever conditioned my reactions to what came after. Coming from Iowa, rather than New York or California, put a different spin on my experience. An example: Growing up in a small town in the Midwest, I just assumed that everyone in the entire world was friendly and straight-shooting. Quelle surprise! (What a surprise!)

  French Toast grew out of two decades of living in France with a French husband, a full-scale French family-in-law, two half-French, half-American children, and a French stepson. Rather than just gently fading into French culture—that is, adapting—I have come to realize I feel more and more American. Increasingly, I find myself trying to explain to myself why the French are the way they are, and why, in spite of “going native” in the sense of having a French spouse, speaking the language fluently, and immensely enjoying living here, I don’t feel any more French than the day I arrived. This book stemmed from a desire to write it all down. In addition to being a cathartic experience for its author, French Toast will, I hope, be informative and enjoyable for each reader while providing a few keys to the complex character of the French.

  As an Iowan freelance journalist residing in France, I have had a bird’s-eye view of the French for these past twenty years.

  Sitting astride this French-American fence has given me a privileged position of being both participant and observer. Being neither fish nor fowl has given me a constant comparative view of both life in the United States and life in France, as well as perceptions about the French that tourists rarely acquire. For example, life with the French has put a whole new meaning on the word complicated. The simplest situation in France suddenly becomes something extremely complex and detailed. The French attention to detail—from the way one cuts cheese to the color of one’s panty hose—has never ceased to fascinate me.

  Based o
n common and daily experiences, French Toast is a mixture of reflections and observations about life in France. These include all the faux-pas I have made in the past and continue to make (laughing too loudly, saying things directly instead of obliquely, cutting my lettuce leaves instead of folding them, just to mention a few examples).

  More than anything else, I think this book reflects a whole range of different emotions—affection, wonder, and, sometimes, plain exasperation. I can’t relate to the way the French drive (although my American friends tell me I drive like a real Parisian and are they ever scared), but I would much rather get into a political discussion with the French than with my compatriots, because the French basically have mastered the art of arguing politely without getting unpleasantly personal. As one recently arrived American remarked, “You can get into a violent political discussion, which is followed by a big laugh and ‘Please pass the cheese,’ and you go on to something else.”

  Come to think about it, it may seem contradictory, but I feel rather more at home sometimes with the French because of their refreshing lack of what they call “le puritanisme.” On the other hand, the minute I set foot back in the States, the tension I feel while living in Paris eases out of me as I enjoy the civility of people who aren’t afraid to be nice to one another even if their families haven’t known one another for the past two hundred years.

  In sum, I took off my rose-colored glasses a long time ago. The illusions I came with—and there were plenty—have been replaced by a rather fond and amazed look at the French (including my own children, who are so French sometimes that I can hardly believe they are my own). What follows is not a sociological study of the French, but a straightforward and personal tale of what makes the French so French.

  Meet Philippe

  During this book, I interview Philippe, my French husband, to counterbalance my typically American point of view on the French. He deserves this opportunity. After all, he’s put up with my comments for the past twenty years, so it’s only fair to give him a chance to say what he thinks about what I think.

  So who is Philippe, and is he typically French?

  Although he was born and raised in the fifteenth arrondissement of Paris, Philippe’s parents hailed from the south of France, the imposing mountains of the Auvergne and the softer scenery of the Dordogne. In spite of these rural roots, he is a “real” Parisian, having attended French public schools and then attending two years of prépa before going to a grande école (see the chapter on education to figure this out). Along the way, he also picked up a doctoral degree in economics. Extracurricular activities included playing his guitar in cafés and bass with a jazz group. Summers were spent on holidays in Spain, where he picked up Spanish, and trips to England, where he learned English with an English accent (which he had when I met him, but over the years it has been transformed into a more American accent). He has an uncanny talent for picking up accents and has been known to fool both Japanese and Arabs when speaking the one or two sentences he knows in each of these languages.

  Philippe loves history, in particular the Middle Ages, and historical monuments. He loves to cook and is a hospitable host. He likes to read, play the piano and guitar, and paint in oils. He hates cars and the consumer society. He’s not all that hot for sports (either participating or observing). He likes our cat, and, believe me, not many people do. He likes America and Americans (hey, he married me, didn’t he?). Some people say he looks like former French president Jacques Chirac—an observation he is not so sure he likes.

  Considering that there are Frenchmen who hate history, can’t stand reading, love cars, the consumer society, and sports, and are anti-American, can we say that Philippe is typically French? Let’s just say that he is very French and you’d have a hard time mistaking him for any other nationality. To begin with, he has a typical Parisian expression on his face—that is, Don’t mess with me, baby (which is great, because he scares the daylights out of panhandlers and all those people I have trouble fending off due to my big, naïve, ever-present smile). Second, he has a slight tendency to explode, only to calm down just as quickly. Third, he can carry on a conversation concerning just about anything, and fourth, he is very polite in that mysteriously hard-to-define and often inscrutable French way. Finally, like many Frenchmen, he can be France’s best critic. Deep in his heart, though, you know he couldn’t live anywhere else. He’s simply too French.

  Getting Here

  When you grow up in a small town in the southwest corner of Iowa, probably the most exotic thing you could possibly think of would be France. That is, of course, if you were of the bent to think of exotic places and people. And I was.

  As a youngster, I loved my family and friends, had no particular yearnings for anything other than what I had. What did I have? A warm, safe, loving environment far from the pressures, stress, and aspirations of city life (we didn’t even know what or where the prestigious eastern colleges were, let alone aspire to go to them). At the same time, I was fully convinced that destiny was going to tap me on the shoulder and I was going to get out of there and go a long way away. That I knew.

  I remember standing at the top of the stairs of our beautiful Victorian house and hearing a knock at the door. I was convinced that it was someone who had come for me, someone who knew that I should be somewhere else, someone who would whisk me away to a strange and foreign land. My heart quickened at the thought. It was only the mailman—and he didn’t even have anything for me!

  But I continued to know that I would end up somewhere exotic. A banal existence was not for me, child of the cornfields. (Well, not really, although both sides of my family had been in farming forever; my father and one of his brothers were the first to go to “town,” so I didn’t grow up in the country. Still, my grandparents and uncles all farmed the land around us.)

  The special thing that finally happened was that, after the death of my paternal grandmother, my grandfather remarried a woman who was a professor of French at Grinnell College. She was to have a capital influence on my life, telling me all about France, where she had lived for a time, even marrying a Frenchman, whom she eventually divorced. She brought me books about France, taught me French words. With her beautiful white hair and blue eyes and the breath of foreign air she brought with her, she totally won me over. From age eight, I knew I had to go to France, if only to have a look and come right back home.

  After college, when everyone else was headed toward jobs or marriage, I headed straight to France. Actually, I hopped on a boat in San Francisco, jumped off in Acapulco, got back on a freighter in Veracruz and traveled to ports in South America, the Canary Islands, and Spain before hitting my final destination.

  I loved Paris. It was all my stepgrandmother had told me, and more. The first night I was in Paris, I boarded a bateau-mouche to cruise down the Seine; the air was soft and warm, a man spoke some unintelligible words to me in French, and I was conquered—by the sound of the language, the way people walked and moved, even the air, which seemed different. I felt I had walked into a Toulouse-Lautrec painting. Later, I would find Paris too noisy, too traffic-filled. But that first heady moment was a strong one. I felt I should savor that moment, leave Paris in my mind as a beautiful memory, and head for a new destination—South America. I was on my way when I met Philippe.

  It’s not that he swept me off my feet. In fact, when I saw him, I thought that in my entire life I had never seen anyone with such a scowl on his face. In spite of his expression, though, he had one of the driest, funniest senses of humor I had ever encountered. This very typical, totally chauvinistic (he denies this charge) Frenchman became very good company. And then we married.

  As my husband periodically points out, I chose to come to France, and to stay. I did not arrive kicking and screaming, someone’s bride, wrested from her native land. I came of my own free will and am free to leave anytime I decide I don’t like this place anymore (he says this on days when I am making critical noises about my adopted land). True, bu
t it’s not so easy. Wherever you live becomes your home, whether you like some of it, all of it, or not much of it. My home is here and I love living in France, but that doesn’t mean that my thoughts about the French are not ambiguous. The cultural gaps, which seemed small twenty years ago, grow larger, not smaller, with time. When you’ve signed on for the long haul, you start to have a definite opinion on matters you didn’t really care all that much about and didn’t have to deal with initially (in my case, the French family, education, attitudes). You are both appreciative and critical of the host culture in a way you wouldn’t be if you had remained safely at home. Even the word home takes on a different meaning. Once when I spoke of “home,” I was referring to the United States. Now, I realize “home” is where I live—that is, France.

  As far as I can see, American couples living in France have a very different perception of France and the French. France is an interlude in their lives, but they retain their Americanness as a couple. They are a united front. The adjustments they make to the culture are the ones they wish to make, not ones they have to make.

  With a Franco-American couple, on the other hand, there is always a push and pull—over what language to speak, over what schools to put your kids in, over what religious instruction to give them, if any. Over attitudes. I call the French negative, weighed down by history. My husband says Americans are positive to the point of being naïve because, justement, they have no sense of history.