Sèche / Linge

My college-self would laugh at my French self. As I hung my laundry this morning, I couldn't help but think back to the time when my roommate told me that her parents didn't have a dryer.

They what?!, I asked incredulously.

They don't have a dryer, she repeated.

Um, then how do they dry their clothes?

They have a clothesline. 

You mean, like outside? But what if they want to wear their jeans right away - what do they do then?

Well, they just have to wait for them to dry.

Yes, I seriously had this conversation and was seriously perplexed that my friend had lived her entire life drying her clothes on a clothesline.  If only she knew that my Frenchified self hasn't had a dryer for the past 7 years and that I depend on this handy-dandy contraption to air-dry my clothes...

As time goes on, I'm kind of proud of the fact that I have lived without a dryer for so long - and a dishwasher for that matter! But it also highlights how dependent I was on all of those creature comforts back when I lived in the states.  My parents' entire house smells like Bounce dryer sheets, just so you understand the severity of our / their dryer dependence.  I actually brought a few back to Paris after our last trip home to try and prevent winter static cling in my dresses.  I accidentally left the plastic baggie open with the sheets inside when I left the house one day, and when I came home, Copain asked me, "why does it smell like your parents' house in here???".

I cannot tell a lie - I do envy those rare Frenchies and expats who tell me they have dryers.  How amazing to just throw your clothes into a machine and have them come out dry and fluffy! Instead, my clothes rack takes up half of my living room for two days (or three in the winter!), while my clothes work to rid themselves of moisture.  We've even taken to turning on our dehumidifier at night so that our clothes dry faster. Oh, and I've learned to deal with crunchy towels. 

My college-self would like, so totally not get my French self. Funny what 7 years can do to a person n'est pas?

Le Vous Me Tue*

Throughout this whole vous issue I've been dealing with, I've been thinking about a good point that my Moom brought up.  I was perusing the aisles of Picard, explaining my extreme honte to my mother when she said, "how are you going to teach this concept to your children if you don't even believe in it yourself."

Oh dear. My Moom is right - if the vous were a religion, I would only use it at Christmas and Easter.  I just can't get behind this archaic institution.


Apparently my parents tried to get me to say, "Hello Mrs. Smith" and "Thank you, Mr. Jones," but the relaxed 1980's California vibe just didn't jive with the 1950's world my parents grew up in.  No one did that anymore. My friends' parents would say, "oh just call me Sally" or " Just call me Margaret" - none of this Mr. and Mrs. junk or Sir and Ma'am.  Sure, I called my teachers Mrs. Collins and Mr. Miller, but aside from that, everyone was on a first name basis with everyone else.  And I liked it that way.

During my first couple of years in France, I babysat for a family with three children. They were great kids with involved parents, but I could tell from get go that une bonne éducation was a big priority for them. The maman would ask if they had finished their devoir (homework) and when they responded "oui", she would said "comment?" (what?). They would immediately stand up a little straighter and correct themselves with the sing-song response, " Oui, Maman" (Yes, Mom).

Those kids were taught to say Oui Maman, Non merci Papa, Excusez-moi Madame, Bonjour Monsieur, Merci Madame, Aurevoir Monsieur. Never just - Yes, No, Excuse me, Hello, Thank you, Good Bye.  Without following the response by addressing the person to whom you are talking, you are clearly, mal-élévé with une mauvaise éducation. Basically, no one taught you any manners.

I certainly do not want my kids to be rude - I will always teach them to be polite and considerate of others. But, is all this formality really necessary? And what if someone with who they should normally use the "vous" (a teacher or elder, for example), talks to them badly - should they really have to maintain a certain respect level just because it's the done thing? How will I ever get a handle on this French way of interacting? If I think it's silly, how will that not rub off on my poor Franco-American (unborn) children? (I realize I am fretting over kids that are not even In Utero, but just hear me out :-)

My first response to my Moom was, "Well, that will be Copain's job." But then I thought again... of course there will be times when I am in public with my kids and Copain is not there. Though I will only speak in English with them, they will speak in French with those around them, and surely I will need to correct their levels of politesse - in French. Génial.  This means I had better figure out how I feel about all this stuff - it almost feels as important as religion - what values do you impart on your enfants? Do you both agree on the important stuff? Can I explain to my kids that to me it is a game?

Maybe they just need to learn how to be good players in both countries... whether they are bluffing or not.

*The Vous Kills Me

Le Vous - A Tale of Embarrassment

I've been seeing my physical therapist, my kinésithérapeute, for about two months now. 10 half-hour sessions of mini-massages and chatting about anything and everything: my back injury, good restaurants in the area, my job, how she became a kiné etc etc etc.  Bien sur, we vouvoyer each other - in other words, we use the formal "you": Le "vous".

The vous form of "you" shows respect, distance and formality. You use it with elders, people who you don't know, clients, bosses, and people who are further up the hierarchy in general.  Sometimes (often actually) even people of the same family use the vous, or for example, a doctor and a patient.  It's the done thing - ça se fait comme ça.

I've always had a respect problem - just ask my mom and dad. I was the kid, who at 12 years old, talked about how adults need to earn respect and how just because they were older didn't mean I had to respect them.  No one is due respect, it always has to be earned. I guess I still agree with 12 year-old me, and I still have trouble with the French institutions of respect.  I find them nul, studpide, archaïque and above all, hypocrite.

You can despise someone with all your might and still have to use the vous with them. To make matters worse, they may be allowed to use the tu - the informal you- with you, and depending on the situation, you may still have to use the vous with them! Ridicule, I know.

In any case, I have a huge bone to pick with the vous - I'm sure it's a futile bone, but I just can't help but be unnerved by the whole thing.  Which brings me back to my kiné session this evening...

I was lying on the table while my kiné stuck electrodes on my back. We started talking about my general practitioner, then about back surgery, and then, out of nowhere, I said: "vous savez, vous pouvez me tutoyer, si vous voulez" -"you know, you can use the tu with me, if you'd like."

I immediately wished I hadn't offered at all. She was visibly embarrassed that I had suggested it and told me that it was hard for her to use the tu with her patients.  I told her that I understood and that it was no big deal if she preferred to use the vous, but that if it was easier for her, I just wanted her to know that I was okay with it.  You see, here is the other thing about the vous - it is always the person in the position of power who can suggest that you drop the act and use the tu.  For example: an elder can tell a young person that  it's okay to use tu / a teacher can tell a student it's okay / a boss can tell an employee - but never the other way around.  I knew that since I was the patient,  the client, if you will, that it was up to me to tell her that it was okay. I didn't suggest that I would then use the tu back to her - but it is usually implied that when one person offers, both people use the tu. 


She told me that she could try but that it would be difficult and that she was "touchée" - touched- that I would offer.  I reiterated that it really was not a problem if she preferred not to, but then I also explained that I felt pretty ridiculous using the vous with her, seeing as how we are both young women who are pretty much the same age - it felt like a false air of formality that really wasn't necessary.

We'll see how my next session on Thursday goes; I'll be obligated to use the vous with her until she lets go of her obligation to French forms of respect and realizes that it's cool, she can use the tu with me and I won't think any less of her or think that we are close friends or lose any level of respect for her expertise.  She can still be the kiné and I can still be la patiente and we can use the freakin tu for goodness sakes.

For my Frenchie readers - did I completely cross the line? Was it weird to offer to use the tu seeing as how I see her twice a week and we are the same age?!  Au secours!

A Very Rude Thing - So Says Copain

After almost seven years together, Copain and I know each other pretty well. However, it does happen, as it did today, that we experience the cultural clash that is bound to happen when a Frenchie and an American decide to create a life together.

I was coming home from my Lai Thai massage, when I saw Copain fly by on a Velib and park it in front of our apartment.  I was sure that he hadn't seen me so I yelled out his last name.  He didn't turn around, so I did it again, this time louder.  Nothing. Finally, I yelled out his first name - Copain! And this time, he turned around and said, "What did you just call me?!".  He was clearly very pissed off.

My excitement to see him dissipated as he told me how rude I had just been to call him by his last name and how much he HATES to be called by his last name.

Wait - what?

When we finally got over being mad at each other - him for me calling him by his last name, and me for him being mad about something so stupid - we sat down to talk it out.

Copain tried to explain that in France, calling someone by their last name is a Very Rude Thing to do. Then I tried to explain to him that in America, it's definitely not a Very Rude Thing to do.  Even as I type this, I'm having a hard time comprehending that calling someone by their last name can be considered rude. In the states, when I was in college, it was almost like a fun nickname we gave to people. And still, today, I call my good friend over at My Riviera Wedding by her last name! She usually joins right in and calls me by my last name...

So, I need help from any Frenchie readers out there - is this really a Very Rude Thing in the land of wine and cheese?  Have I been a rude American for the past seven years without even knowing it?  Help!

This is America

well hello there, massive cow herd

The Interstate 5 freeway in all its glory

hmmm - Frenchies, want to weigh in here on this one?

Leave it to America to put motivational quotes on Halls wrappers.

Who wants some beef jerky? I think they may have some.

If not we'll just get you corn nuts or sunflower seeds.  Please narrow it down to five flavors.

Yogurtland, how I love thee.

Man Den in full effect.

Would you like some coke with your ice?

Ok maybe this is just my brother....

Perhaps they should go into marketing n'est pas?

Yes. I ate at a country cafe. My arteries may clog at any moment.

Americana in Santa Barbara

I always wondered...

The part of America I can actually get behind...

Ah, the good ol' newspaper stand - that no one uses anymore.

Because cleanliness is close to godliness - at least in America it is.

When you can't have the real thing, at least you have the gummy version.

We wouldn't expect anything less.

Still had a dial tone - we checked.

Only in America people.

I am horrified to say that my brother ordered this - biscuits and gravy. For breakfast. And I tasted it. oh god.

Gotta love a Santa Barbara hippie at the Farmer's market.

Practicing Your B*tch Face

Living in France for almost seven years has allowed me to master my b*tch face, my "don't mess with me or I break-a-your-face" face.  It was vital to my existance as a smily American - Californian en plus - and I am convinced that I am doomed for wrinkles as a result. Despite the wrinkle factor, it has saved me from the inevitable encounters that smiling at strangers in France will bring to you.  It's like saying, hey there hot stuff, wanna share a baguette? Where any American would think, oh, she's just being nice, your Frenchie would think oh la la! Therfore: b*tch face.

So imagine my stupor when walking home, b*tch face locked and loaded, a guy smiled at me and then just kept walking.  No creepy talking to me, no weirdo Bonjour Mademoiselle lines - just a nice, friendly smile.

I was shocked.

He must not be French.

The Power Walk

Power walking is an American phenomenon if I'm not mistaken. Grannies power walk through the malls in their bright white sneakers, moms power walk through neighborhoods in pairs, even my own Moomala power walked up and down the main drag in our SUV-filled community, crossing and uncrossing her arms for toning and cardio purposes. I admit it - I've even done some power walking myself.

I obviously walk a lot more here in Paris since A. I don't have a car  B. I hate taking the metro home from work and C. I don't walk to die on a Velib.  I guess I just consider it normal now - it's my preferred method of locomotion.  Maybe that's why I go through shoes like it's my job...

In any case, maybe seven years ago my Dad's comment  last week wouldn't have struck me as strange, but today, 7 years deep in my French life, it was so...American of him.

I was walking home from work and decided to give my Dad a call (I use walking time to catch up with my peeps).
 
What are you doing?, he said.

Walking home - I just left work.

How far is the walk?

I don't know - about 1.5 miles? 


Wow, that's great exercise - I bet it helps you keep your weight down! 


Now, please take that whole weight comment with a grain of salt - my Dad used to eat an apple as his daily meal and run miles and miles per week (obviously crashing at some point during the day from lack of FOOD). Now in his late 50's - almost 60! - he is obsessed with abstaining from carbs and likes to hike the mountains behind our house a few times a week.  Just weeks after back surgery he walked 7 miles - for fun or...whatever.

I guess so, I said.  But really, it's just because I like walking.

It didn't strike me as bizarre until a few days later when I thought about how a Frenchie would never have responded in that way.  I guess exercise culture has finally hit France - people run in the parks and have gym memberships, but it's just so much more toned down than the LA Fitness, Spectrum- crazed California I come from.

Today, having promised Copain a poulet-coco dinner, I power walked home - and I guess I did raise my heart rate a bit. But really, I just enjoyed the fresh air and evening sun as it warmed the Place des Vosges and glinted off the golden statue at the top of Bastille...

Ze French Attitude, AKA: Ze Art of Being Faux Cul

I like to think I'm a nice person. I say hello, I say goodbye, I say please and thank you.  I used to smile at people for no reason in the street until I realized that the French think that's creepy at which point I stopped.  I move (most of the time) for old ladies in the metro and I always give up my seat for a mother with her child.  Even when I'm in a Pepto Bismol Head mood I am friendly to people I don't know.

Some people may call this being nice even when I'm irritated as being faux cul - quite literally, a fake ass.  Faux culs have been around since the time of  Louis XIV when the women tacked on a fake booty as a means to seduce.  Since hypocrisy was the name of the game back in Louis' day, the term has now come to designate someone as a hyprocrite - a faux cul - a fake ass.

To the French, Americans are the worst faux culs in the world - they go to a restaurant in the states and are greeted with HimynameisCindyandIamgoingtobeyourservertoday! And it takes all of their strength to keep down their burger and fries.  They think of themselves as being more honest - more expressive of what they are truly feeling.  A typical French waiter does not tell you his or her name, they may not even say hello. You come in, you sit down, you eat, and aurevoir.  If they are nice they may ask you how the food tasted - but really they don't give a flying cuss.

I have mixed feelings about the faux cul - after six years in France, I beg to differ with the consensus that the Americans are the worst.  The way the French faux cul is expressed may be different - but the essence, the hypocrisy, is still alive and well. Most French people (and I notice this primarily in bakeries for some reason) have a strong hold on the concept and have mastered the overly-polite tone that when paired up with just the right condescending phrase creates the ultimate faux cul in all of it's glory.  The real masters can even mix one truly asshole sentence into the exchange, hitting you with a double whammy faux cul! You don't even see it coming! They serve you the faux cul on a platter and wrap it up in a sing-songy Merci Madame, Aurevoir! bow at the end of the conversation.

What it comes down to is that the French faux cul is just more complex than the American one.  They manage to use a certain tone all while saying words that mean just the opposite - it's almost a wonder to watch them in action. Despite my complete and total irritation with the French faux culs, somehow I wish there were more of them in Paris.  For some reason the Parisians don't even have the energy for faux cul-ness - they just get straight to the ugly point:

You want to have a drink? Well sit over there because that table in the nice area is for 4 people and there are only 2 of you! Vous comprenez Madame! C'est comme ça - je ne peux pas faire autrement. You understand Madame, that's how it is and I can't do it any other way. 

Where I would like to be able to smile and say something equally as cutting as any well-trained Frenchman, I find myself letting out a big sigh and then an irritated oh la la! mais n'importe quoi! fly out of my mouth instead.  This reaction is certainly not American and only borderline French.  My friends, I think it might just be Parisian.

The Parisians cut in line, they push each other and they yell at you to open the metro door when you wait 2 seconds too long.  They just don't have time to be faux cul.

And so mes amis, I am torn. As an American, I seek out the smiling face.  I want to offer to help someone lug their suitcase up the metro stairs. I lend my cell phone to the poor foreigner whose credit card gets eaten by the ATM. I take a moment to savor every random act of kindness that I observe here because they are so rare. And so, in this city where being kind is such a rarity, I appreciate a little faux cul every once in a while - at least pretending to be nice is better than not pretending at all - right?

And yet, there is a Parisian in me just aching to get out! I want the grandma pushing 80 to WALK FASTER through the metro corridor! I want to be the next person served! I don't want the table by the bathroom door at the restaurant!
oh la la! mais n'importe quoi!

America the Air-Conditioned, America the Great

I wasn't going to blog today - I vowed I'd be in bed by 11pm.  But after reading my friend Sunny Life's post I had to blog!

Today I was speaking to an anglophone who was new to France - this person has been a little errr...challenging.  At any rate, she was jet lagged and tired and I was trying to be understanding:

"Um, so like, what kind of accommodations do they offer in the South of France? I might want to go there instead next month."

"Well, I'm not sure," I answered. "All cities have different kinds of accommodation options. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's so HOT in Paris! In the South of France it will be less hot and more bearable because the ocean is there!"

hmmmm....how to explain....

First of all, it's a sea, not an ocean, but let's not get into technicalities. Second of all, uh NO it's not less hot in the South of France!  I told her I lived there, I knew.  And then she threw this one at me:

"So do they just like, not have air conditioning here?"

"Well, as you've noticed by the way I have swamp ass, there isn't even air conditioning in our offices...no one really has air conditioning, you know, like San Francisco or Santa Barbara."  (I tried to bring it closer to home for her)

It was a ROUGH conversation.  One that I had to quickly relay to my Anglo friend as we chuckled over her uber-Americaness.  But after a five minute pause I had to bite my tongue. I was a big ol' hypocrite:

At 15, during my first trip to Europe, all I could do was complain about the lack of air conditioning and how stupid all of these Europeans were. What the eff were they thinking suffering through summer like they did? And why the eff were they making me suffer too??!!  I spent most of my vacation in Berlin at the large mall in the center of town, not because I cared to buy anything but because it was friggin air-conditioned.  Call me a spoiled Southern California girl but I just couldn't take it!  To this day, that is pretty much all I remember of Berlin.  And cold showers.

Over the course of 6 years I, like Sunny Life have gotten used to the sweaty, smelly mess that is France during the summer.  I live with swamp ass, I sweat a bead of sweaty mustache, I feel the sweat drip down the back of my legs in a store that is hotter than hell and I save money - why? Because I leave before I can pick anything out.  The heat makes me angry and I have to GO.

I give up trying to look suitable and I just deal with it - cotton and linen are de rigeur, the hair goes up in a bun, rings are totally off limits due to heat inflated sausage fingers, and makeup? makeup is a total joke! But I don't stink - I will never go that far into the French realm of summer.  C'mon people! Antiperspirant it up! Fill your pores with alluminium! For the love of déo! For the love of my nasal passages and gag reflexes on the metro!

And to continue my rant just a bit further, what really gets me are the people who stink already at 9am.  How for effs sake does that thappen?! I'm at a loss.

So where I had a little chuckle about the naive newbie who just didn't get it - I take it back. I take it allllllll back. Girlfriend is right. Get it together Frenchies.  Install the AC. And if you "get sick," as you always claim you will,  pas de stress! The government will pay for your lovely doctor bill anyways!

Survival of the Rudest

It's not just a stereotype that the French are rude - it's true. They really are quite a rude species.  They don't give a damn that you might be offended by their rudeness.  After six years in France I still don't understand it.

I pride myself on my political correctness and polite demeanor - I apologize for things that were never my fault to begin with and I am overly sensitive to other peoples' feelings.  I never cut in line and I offer for people to go ahead of me because, well you know, I'm nice. I'm so stupidly American nice it's rough sometimes.

Now the French don't see this as being nice as a good quality but rather as a pushover maladie.  A dumb pushover, no backbone whatsoever.  The kind of girl you can walk all over because she'll never raise her voice.

Well, a new me is slowly but surely developing and she pops out of nowhere when I least expect it.  Two such incidences happened just today:

I had to go to a cell phone store for work.  I knew they would probably close at 7pm so I left work at 6.30 and arrived at the store at 6.45.  I had fifteen minutes to get done what I needed to get done. Only, the big gate in front of the door was already halfway closed.  As I approached the gate, an employee came up to me and told me it was already closed.  "What time do you close?" I asked, clearly noting the 9am to 7pm sign on the door.   "6.45," he told me.  And instead of just walking away and letting it go, I said, "well you should change the sign on your door then!".

Normal Me would never say that. Normal Me would smile, say, "ah shucks, I guess I'll come back tomorrow then." But French Me was pissed. They clearly closed 15 minutes early and clearly lied to my face. Bastards!

I made my way home by foot only to be drawn into the organic food store BioCoop.  So fun this store of random pastas made of chestnut flour and gluten free cookies with organic cotton panty liners! I toured around and chose some organic salsa and lavender detergent and then tried to find the line to pay.  Now if there is one thing the French are horrible at it's defining and then standing in lines.  The stores don't know how to indicate where the line starts and the French people don't understand the concept of one line, multiple cashiers, when one cashier finishes the next person in line gets to go.  It's beyond me.  So, I was having trouble finding where the end of the line was located and I had to flip flop twice to feel like I had marked my spot.  However, a woman with a stroller was having the same difficulty, sort of but not completely behind me.  Now I am a softy for mothers with babies, but something in me just thought tant pis for her! I have been standing in this nondescript line! I will not apologize and let her go ahead! Stupid BioCoop and the French lines! And I held my ground and I went next - not without a slight pang of guilt, but enough was enough!

I really don't know where these outbursts are coming from but I would predict that it has a lot to do with survival of the rudest in the wilds of France.  Only the rudest will survive!

Peaches and Coconuts

The making fun of and ridiculing continues for Charlotte at work today....and it made me think of this:

Before moving to France I read lots of books written by American/French teams who tried to "figure out" the French and then write a book about it.  I loved these books and would devour them thinking to myself, I won't be one of those Americans.

I had a new appreciation for these books after having lived in France for awhile. (I like to re-read books a lot strangely enough).  I noticed all the times the authors were right and all the times I thought they were completely exagerating. 

Of all of the things that I read in those books, here is what I remember the most:

The French are like coconuts: hard on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside.  It's hard to get to know them and they will probably give off what Americans would perceive to be a gruff exterior - unfriendly- when you first meet them.  But with time (and a lot of hitting your head against the wall), the French soften up and can ultimately become your friend for life. As Americans, we don't understand this and think that French people are just rude. We often don't take the time to get to know them having been so put off by our first encounters.

Americans are like peaches.  We are soft and sweet on the outside but you may run into the hard pit on the inside.  Basically, Americans are easy to get to know, we are friendly and open with new people.  We may even be considered too friendly which leads people to believe that we want to be their good friend.  However, we don't see it that way. To us, we were just "being nice."  This is confusing to French people because they may unexpectedly encounter the pit later. The messages are incoherent to them.  This is when we Americans regret having been so nice to start out with...

I have come to realize that Charlotte goes against her French grain...she acts like an American - like a peach.  And the Frenchies in my office don't know what to make of her! How do we handle this nice person who smiles all day?  They are utterly lost.  I, like a good American, follow along, smile back and reciprocate her niceness (which I admit is a little over-the-top - even for me).  But she doesn't deserve the verbal coconuts that they seem to be throwing at her all day...vraiment.