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!
Showing posts with label French attitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label French attitude. Show all posts
3.22.2010
I Got Nothin
Ever just not connected with someone on so many levels it was astounding? It doesn't happen to me often. I can normally scrap up some witty rapport finding some connection with the random stranger even if it is a common love for chewing gum or a mutual annoyance for French administration. There's always something you just have to find it.
Except when you are face to face with Anastasia*.
It all started so innocently. Anastasia was working as a cloak room hostess for my event at one of the Croisette hotels. She was polite - so polite that she tipped her head forward while placing her hand over her heart (Pledge of Allegiance style!) when guests thanked her for their coat ticket. She was that gracious. She Madamed and Monsieured everyone and when I told her she could sit down and relax, she said that by principal she simply couldn't.
Once guests were seated and the bulk of our welcome wagon was done, Anastasia and I began the kind of chit chat one normally does with staff on an event. Of course the big question Where are you from? came up right away. I don't know why we went there, but we did. Anastasia thought I was Canadian or English, but not American. Once she learned that I was the stories of her adventures as an aupair for a Fremont family poured out of her. We franglaised our way through the conversation as she emphasized parts in my native tongue. Oh non les enfants, zat geeves me a ead-ache. a rheel ead-ache!
I asked how she got into hostessing and she told me all about her sales managing job where she covered French regions in their entirety- 500 people under her - 15000 kilometers a year on her little voiture. Her dog Minty* came with her on her missions and is still her petit bébé. But as luck would have it, all of that being amazing affected her health and she had to stop. So she started hostessing. It was almost as if she was saying, I'm not really a hostess, I'm a manager in hostess' clothing...and then the cutting tag line - and you are nothing but an event organizer. I got the message loud and clear and I bowed my head and put my hand over my heart in recognition of her choice to respect her health and a lower-grade CV.
Anastasia went on to tell me how she never smokes in front of clients; she reminded me of how she asked before using her cell phone; then she showed me her running shoes that she was going to use for a midnight run home after her shift. She followed it up by explaining that the hostess agency trusted her to choose her own professional uniform for the night. The cherry on top was when she told me that she never drinks soda and only eats healthy food. She couldn't wait to run home to Minty who, according to Anastasia, gives her energy.
I was at a loss. I hate dogs, I hate running, I hate smoking, I don't bow or ask to use my cell phone.
I tried again: how did you like the staff meal Anastasia - how about that dessert?!
Well, it was a little poisseux.
Poisseux?, I asked.
Oh, she chuckled, right, I must try to use words zat are a leetle more seemple in French.
Simple? Is that what she just said? simple?
I bowed my head so she wouldn't see me roll my eyes and wished a silent curse of doggy diarrhea on Minty.
*names have been changed to protect the non-sensical
Except when you are face to face with Anastasia*.
It all started so innocently. Anastasia was working as a cloak room hostess for my event at one of the Croisette hotels. She was polite - so polite that she tipped her head forward while placing her hand over her heart (Pledge of Allegiance style!) when guests thanked her for their coat ticket. She was that gracious. She Madamed and Monsieured everyone and when I told her she could sit down and relax, she said that by principal she simply couldn't.
Once guests were seated and the bulk of our welcome wagon was done, Anastasia and I began the kind of chit chat one normally does with staff on an event. Of course the big question Where are you from? came up right away. I don't know why we went there, but we did. Anastasia thought I was Canadian or English, but not American. Once she learned that I was the stories of her adventures as an aupair for a Fremont family poured out of her. We franglaised our way through the conversation as she emphasized parts in my native tongue. Oh non les enfants, zat geeves me a ead-ache. a rheel ead-ache!
I asked how she got into hostessing and she told me all about her sales managing job where she covered French regions in their entirety- 500 people under her - 15000 kilometers a year on her little voiture. Her dog Minty* came with her on her missions and is still her petit bébé. But as luck would have it, all of that being amazing affected her health and she had to stop. So she started hostessing. It was almost as if she was saying, I'm not really a hostess, I'm a manager in hostess' clothing...and then the cutting tag line - and you are nothing but an event organizer. I got the message loud and clear and I bowed my head and put my hand over my heart in recognition of her choice to respect her health and a lower-grade CV.
Anastasia went on to tell me how she never smokes in front of clients; she reminded me of how she asked before using her cell phone; then she showed me her running shoes that she was going to use for a midnight run home after her shift. She followed it up by explaining that the hostess agency trusted her to choose her own professional uniform for the night. The cherry on top was when she told me that she never drinks soda and only eats healthy food. She couldn't wait to run home to Minty who, according to Anastasia, gives her energy.
I was at a loss. I hate dogs, I hate running, I hate smoking, I don't bow or ask to use my cell phone.
I tried again: how did you like the staff meal Anastasia - how about that dessert?!
Well, it was a little poisseux.
Poisseux?, I asked.
Oh, she chuckled, right, I must try to use words zat are a leetle more seemple in French.
Simple? Is that what she just said? simple?
I bowed my head so she wouldn't see me roll my eyes and wished a silent curse of doggy diarrhea on Minty.
*names have been changed to protect the non-sensical
2.02.2010
ECF - Everyone Can Fail!
I did it. I signed up for La Code de la Route. I am an official code learner and even have the book to prove it.
However the Ecole de Conduite Française managed to lose all my confidence just as fast as they managed to win me over. It was right as I was punching in my debit card code that I learned that the classes start on the hour and that they don't let people walk in late. Seeing as how I get out of work at 6pm and it takes around 10 minutes to walk to the agency, I see this as sort of a problem. The secretary, we'll call her Ann, told me that I should try and walk faster. Nice. Great solution. I'll be sure to wear my New Balances on days I have to run to class.
Next she asked me if I would stay for the famous "examen blanc" or practice test that night. Seeing as how I had never even taken a class yet, the test seemed like a far reach, but I though eh, what the heck, I'll just observe.
I crammed into a tiny room with chairs all lined up in rows facing a big TV screen. The heat was blasting and I noticed a sign on the wall conveniently stating that the toilet was en panne - broken. Wonderful. I managed to sit in the seat directly in front of the heater that blasted the back of my neck and slowly but surely dried out my contact lenses causing me to blink profusively and feel strangely thirsty.
The girl sitting next to me explained that I needed to get a test paper at the front of the room which announced to everyone around me that this was my first time. Again, the fun never ends here. The kid in front and to my right who I learned was named Isam instantly turned around and in the snidest voice he could muster said - you've just made the biggest mistake of your life - enrolling here!
I tried to take it in stride, shot him a smile and said, "please don't say that, I just paid 300 euros for this class..."
But he persisted - "How long have you been here man?" he asked, addressing the vertically challenged kid next to me.
"Uhhhh, five months," he laughed.
"See," Isam told me, "you're screwed, hahahaha."
Needless to say, I kind of wanted to kick Isam in the teeth - but he did win some points in my book when he asked Christophe, our instructor, to turn off the heat.
My heart started racing as the DVD began - DVD 10, Test number 5.
However the Ecole de Conduite Française managed to lose all my confidence just as fast as they managed to win me over. It was right as I was punching in my debit card code that I learned that the classes start on the hour and that they don't let people walk in late. Seeing as how I get out of work at 6pm and it takes around 10 minutes to walk to the agency, I see this as sort of a problem. The secretary, we'll call her Ann, told me that I should try and walk faster. Nice. Great solution. I'll be sure to wear my New Balances on days I have to run to class.
Next she asked me if I would stay for the famous "examen blanc" or practice test that night. Seeing as how I had never even taken a class yet, the test seemed like a far reach, but I though eh, what the heck, I'll just observe.
I crammed into a tiny room with chairs all lined up in rows facing a big TV screen. The heat was blasting and I noticed a sign on the wall conveniently stating that the toilet was en panne - broken. Wonderful. I managed to sit in the seat directly in front of the heater that blasted the back of my neck and slowly but surely dried out my contact lenses causing me to blink profusively and feel strangely thirsty.
The girl sitting next to me explained that I needed to get a test paper at the front of the room which announced to everyone around me that this was my first time. Again, the fun never ends here. The kid in front and to my right who I learned was named Isam instantly turned around and in the snidest voice he could muster said - you've just made the biggest mistake of your life - enrolling here!
I tried to take it in stride, shot him a smile and said, "please don't say that, I just paid 300 euros for this class..."
But he persisted - "How long have you been here man?" he asked, addressing the vertically challenged kid next to me.
"Uhhhh, five months," he laughed.
"See," Isam told me, "you're screwed, hahahaha."
Needless to say, I kind of wanted to kick Isam in the teeth - but he did win some points in my book when he asked Christophe, our instructor, to turn off the heat.
My heart started racing as the DVD began - DVD 10, Test number 5.
As you can see, I stopped answering questions after number 12. I couldn't take the stress - something about priorité à droite and I just had to put the pen down. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't a big deal - my first day in class - give yourself a break! But the combination of Isam, the heat, the priorité question - ahhhh. How am I going to DO this??!
Then came the worst.
"Ok class," said Christophe, "end of the DVD, please send your test to the front." Then he proceeded to pass them out so that we could correct our "neighor's" test. WHA??? Oh god. I hid my half-done test in my notebook.
He got to the end of the tests but there wasn't enough for everyone..."OK, who didn't turn in their test?" he asked with raised eyebrows. I tried to flash him my sweetest "I'm a nice foreigner" face, told him it was my first time and somehow I got by without complete and utter embarrassment.
We corrected the questions one by one. Then all the tests were passed forward to Christophe again. Here is where my jaw dropped. Christophe started to call out the name of each student and his or her score:
Charlotte: 33
Isam: 35
Short Kid: 32 (followed by, oh la la, you really need to work on that!)
Gaelle: 38
He went through all the tests, inspiring pride in some and complete and utter shame in others. This little charade convinced me that the examen blanc was not for me - not right away at least. I can't submit myself to this sort of humiliation right off the bat - it would ruin any spark of confidence I ever had.
And so - just to really drive the point home - why not call yourselves Everyone Can Fail! Because basically, isn't that what you're teaching kids here?
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