French Toast
Page 15
If you’re really gifted, you learn to combine understatement with the negative form. For example, the day my son got 19.5 out of 20 on a math test, his teacher wrote, “Pas mal.” (“Not bad.”) You have to be French to understand and appreciate this “second-degree” humor. That is to say that in any case, the teacher might have put “Not bad,” but since the grade was so good, it was funnier and more creative to put “Not bad” than just “Great.” Get it?
But on to something more subtle still. Even if you have the language down pat, as many people do, accent and all, there is the whole problem of codes. Of all the reminders out there that I’ll never be French, this is the main one. I will never be able either to understand or deliver veiled codes. This art of double-talk, which the French have perfected is, for the moment at least, beyond my grasp. For example, you should know that when someone calls you “cher ami,” it doesn’t necessarily mean “dear friend” and could very likely mean “Drop dead,” depending on the intonation of the speaker and his accompanying facial gestures. À très bientôt, which literally means “See you very soon,” actually means “I hope we never see each other again,” as far as I can figure out. Ma chère petite dame (my dear little lady) also means “Boy, are you a creep.” All of this, of course, is exquisitely polite.
Then there is the use of the word petit in general. Everything, it would seem, is petit. I, for example, am ma petite Harriet, although I am not exactly what you would call petite by any stretch of the imagination. But unlike cher, petit is generally positive, as in a bon petit vin (a nice little wine). Nor are la petite anglaise or la petite japonaise pejorative. It would seem that all foreigners are petit.
Just as the word petit is affectionate, so is the word grand (big). If someone calls me ma grande, for example, it doesn’t mean I’m a giant; it means I’m the person’s friend. Vieux (old) can also be used affectionately, as in mon vieux, or ma vieille, but if you say this, it’s best to make sure that the person is in your age group. If not, it could be insulting.
Being from the Midwest, I’ll never get used to the haughtiness of Parisians or the lack of chitchat. When my brother, a congenial and friendly fellow, came to visit me in Paris, I took him to the beautiful Parc de Bagatelle, not far from my apartment. As we strolled down the lanes, he would spontaneously say hi to people. They looked at him as if he had just stripped off his clothes. I must admit that even after all these years, my spontaneous midwestern reflex is to smile at strangers. When I forget and do this, the reaction is the same: They look at me like I’m crazy.
Nor will I get used to French friendships, which go beyond the limits we impose upon ourselves in American friendships. A French friend will tell you your lipstick is the wrong color for your dress; she won’t hesitate to criticize because you are her friend. The implicit agreement I have with my American friends is quite the contrary: You’re my friend, so I do everything in my power to make you feel good, and ignore what is not so good.
When a friend of mine was having some real problems, my husband said to me, “Why are you being so nice to her? Why don’t you bawl her out? If she was my friend, I wouldn’t let her keep doing those things.” I had to explain that if I “bawled out” my friend, I wouldn’t have the friend much longer. For him, as for many Frenchmen, you’re not a good friend unless you intervene actively in the other person’s life. I call this over-stepping the boundaries; he calls my type of friendship indifferent and tepid.
Individualism. While it is good that no one looks down on you if you are not a joiner, it is frustrating to realize how deeply the French do not seek, and actively resent, consensus. In the United States, which has gone overboard by persecuting smokers in Salem witch trial-style, once it was decided that smoking was bad, all the good guys jumped on the bandwagon and the smokers were ostracized. In France, even though the government has put its weight behind efforts to get people to quit smoking in public places, the smokers are having none of it. Not only do they not feel guilty; they feel that they are being put upon. Or else, in a somewhat perverse way, they may feel that the law is actually a good thing—for everyone but them. “The government is just doing this to collect money in fines,” one unrepentant smoker told me.
Another episode, in which the government called on schoolchildren to bring rice to school to send to Somalia, also drew criticism. Arguments ranged from the obvious (the rice would never get there) to the less obvious (children’s innocence shouldn’t be exploited for political purposes). Meanwhile, most French kids were dutifully and even graciously giving their rice in an act of solidarity. But it is hard to muster up solidarity in a system that does not encourage links among people. And this absence of links in the form of high school football teams or choirs or theater clubs means that there is very little conviviality in the long run. Another reason I will never be French.
Negativism. The French really are a rather negative lot. Even when things are going well, they find a way to talk about le mal français (the French sickness). Many books by Frenchmen have been written on that mysterious subject. One of the reasons I’ll never be French is that I am convinced that almost everything is possible if you want it badly enough. My immediate reaction is not “No,” but “Yes,” or “Why not?” This is definitely not French.
Rules. I’ll never be French because I will never get used to the systematic breaking of rules. I think of the butcher shop where I buy meat. Before me in line was a lady with a little white poodle dressed in a red coat. Behind the cashier’s stand is a sign that says very clearly, “NOS AMIS LES ANIMAUX SONT INTERDITS” (Our animal friends are forbidden), and in case no one can read, there is a picture of a dog with a big cross painted over it. This, however, does not dissuade people like the lady with the red-coated dog from entering the store. Nor does the owner make a big fuss. After all, rules are made to be broken.
Last but not least, complication . . . and criticism. As a Dane who has been living in France for almost as long as I have remarked, “I have never in my life seen people who can take the simplest thing and make it so complicated.” Amen!
As for criticism: “In France, criticism is considered the supreme demonstration of intelligence,” wrote high school principal Marc Guiraut. I personally find that too much criticism, or mean criticism, can be stultifying and negative. But then, that is my American point of view.
Okay, so I’m not French and never will be. Even small differences underscore this fact. If I open two windows to create a cross breeze, I am accused of causing a draft. At cocktail parties, I am always backing into plants or the nearest wall because, as an American, I need more space. I still squirm at conversations that take a Rabelaisian turn—and there are plenty of them.
Finally, I’ll never be French because, unfortunately, I have never been able to find out the Frenchwoman’s secret for looking sexy even when she’s standing around in old blue jeans and a T-shirt. Is it because the old jeans are just tight enough without being vulgar and the T-shirt has just the right cut? I remember with awe my friend Chantal, who lived next to me in a maid’s room in our student days, as she waltzed up eight flights of stairs in a navy pea jacket she had transformed from a former long coat, with her scarf tied around her hair, just so. She could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue.
Not to mention Sandrine, who, although pushing her middle fifties, is the sexiest woman I know. If you manage to dissect what she has on, you still cannot figure out how she arrived at the total effect, and you certainly would never ask. So just what is that little je ne sais quoi that elevates simplicity into style, an art the French have mastered not just in clothing but in almost every detail of life? After almost twenty years, I’m still trying to figure it out.
So, in spite of the knowledge that I live in France but will never be French, little intrigues like the above, and many, many others, should keep me going for a good while to come. Someday I hope to get it all figured out. And who knows? Maybe I’ll even lose my accent along the way. Miracles do happen, n�
�est-ce pas?
About the Author
Harriet Welty Rochefort grew up in Shenandoah, Iowa. A lifelong attraction to France led her to visit Paris during college. In 1971, she hopped on a freighter to Cadiz and ended up in France once again—this time to stay. A freelance journalist, Harriet teaches journalism at the Institut d’Etudes Politiques de Paris. She regularly lectures on Franco-American cultural differences based on French Toast and her second book, French Fried. Her Web site is www.understandfrance.org.