Fin

I don't think I'll ever know or understand every facet of French culture. Two months is a good amount of time, however, to notice even little differences between French and American society.

Like how French kids will hold hands with their parents, even when they're eleven or twelve years old. And French couples don't really hold hands--they just kinda "hold fingers" or "hold pinkies."

And how French people never really hug. It's always bisous, bisous, bisous.


Or how they say Bonjour to everyone when it would be equally polite in America to just stay quiet (walking into an elevator with someone, passing by the cleaning lady, getting on the bus).

How about the way they often wear the same color of shirt and pants? There's no such thing as matching too much in France.

These little differences are the really fun  things to notice. They might be insignificant things, but that nevertheless make French culture French. And it was interesting to insert myself into that mindset for a little while. I certainly didn't turn French--I'll always, in some ways, be very different from the people I met in Toulon. But there was goodness in that: even though I was American me and they were French them, we got along fine. I learned to say the Bonjours and to do the bisous. They learned (hopefully) that even an American can be cool and have a good French accent. I love French now even more than I did before, and it's great, because I don't have to stop learning from my experience in France. I get to keep going. Keep studying. Keep learning. ...And I won't let the fin of this journey stop me from going back again.

Les dragueurs

Miroslav is a little different
from the French guys.

After spending seven weeks in France, I feel there's something that must be said about French men: They are dragueurs! WordReference translates this to "pick-up artist; womanizer; ladies man," but let's be honest: when they're trying to flirt with a couple of American interns, it doesn't really work.

We've gotten used to stares as we walk down the street--everyone stares at us. I guess it's not impolite like it is in the U.S., because all sorts of people train their eyes on us as we walk to work each morning. (Is is because I'm so blonde? Is it because they think we're sister missionaries? Who knows.) The men, though, are much bolder than this. They don't whistle like construction men, but they call out as we pass from their seats in front of cafés and on park benches. We ignore them and keep walking.

Sometimes they're not so easy to avoid, though. For instance, there's a fast food place right next to our apartment building, and the guys who work there are always doing what-not when we walk past or if we come in to order. They especially try to talk to us in English. "Five minutes," one of them said once when I had finished ordering. As if that's gonna make me like him more, or be more patient for my chicken nuggets. And before we leave, they're sure to add a "See you later!" in their French accents.

It's less often (luckily) that it gets worse than that. While we were walking around lost in Marseille, for instance, one guy asked us if we wanted to go get a hot chocolate with him. Pretty direct, huh? We were just walking past and he asked us out! "Non, merci," and we kept going. That same day after we took the train home, we were on our way back to our apartment when we passed a trio of dudes. One of them leaned over as I hurried along and whispered who-knows-what in my ear (really, I didn't hear; I was trying to get out of there). I cringed and sped up a couple steps to tell Mary what had just happened. We were in the middle of the city, out in the open, not even in a sketchy part of town. I found it quite bizarre.

Let not these stereotypical instances, however, ruin your taste for foreign men. Not all French guys are like this, obviously. (Even the fast food workers are at least nice to us.) I came to very much love and appreciate the men in the Toulon ward, for example. They smiled and shook our hands and asked how we were doing with sincerity. They helped us when we needed something and welcomed us into their homes. I felt protected; I felt like I could rely on them; I felt the Spirit with them.

The difference is really intention. Those guys on the streets are just trying to get our attention and flirt; the men in our ward were trying to be kind. And that is what we should be looking for in a man, no matter where we are in the world.

Ça sent bon!

In junior high when I took my first French classes, they taught us about how the French do their food. We learned that in the morning they might just have a croissant and a café, as well as how to order a steak-frites and an eau minérale. We also talked about how the French could spend three hours at a restaurant chatting and eating with family. Now I know why.

We've never gone to a real French restaurant as we're short on euros, but this weekend we attended a swim party at the bishop's house. It included swimming, hanging out and chatting, swimming some more, eating, hanging out, eating some more, and playing a game. We were there for around seven hours total, and a couple of those were spent eating. (They didn't even bring out the food until around 9:00.)

Before starting in on the real meal, the French will lay out the apéritif--basically the appetizers. For us, the apéro included carrots, cherry tomatoes, an assortment of chips and crackers with dips, peanuts, and sweet cantaloupe. Everyone collected what they wanted from the food trays as Bishop's daughter asked what we wanted to drink. This is another French staple--the host (or the host's family in this case) takes control of the glasses and serves up the sippers. There's always an array of choices, too. Coca, orange juice, Sprite, Orangina, pineapple juice, Schweppes. Qu'est-ce que vous voulez boire? And they'll go around the circle taking orders. They don't usually, however, fill the glass to the brim like we Americans do. They pour to a safe three-fourths-of-the-cup position. Then everyone chomps and swallows over some good conversation.

And the conversation is a part of the meal, too. The French, even the French youth, don't tend toward light and silly subjects. Talk is pretty serious. This could mean subjects like politics, school, difficult experiences in life. It depends, of course (and that doesn't mean there's never any laughter), but the French prefer more meaningful exchanges.

After the apéritif, the real meal can begin. The host(s) sweep the finger foods from the table and roll out a formal table spread, with the forks and knives in the right place and multiple glasses if needed. Bishop had grilled beef kabobs, sausages, and chicken. Little fried potato balls accompanied the meat. Everyone was encouraged to have as much as they wanted, and again, the host served it up, spooning potatoes onto our plates and saying, Tu me dis, Stop. We ate until we were stuffed (note that the meat was quite undercooked), and then came time for dessert.

There's always dessert, which I quite appreciate. Especially this time. Bishop brought out several boxes of mini Ben & Jerry's and Häagen Dazs ice cream cartons. The cartons could only have been a couple ounces each, demonstrating another Frenchity: smaller portion sizes. We took which flavors we wanted (each carton came with its own plastic spoon!) and then munched some Haribo gummies, Sister Bishop's gift to thank us for coming.

Let's put it this way: we didn't even have bread or cheese, which can be French courses in themselves, and we were eating until a little before 11:00. Food is serious business. Food is a social affair. Food is French.

Les jeunes

There are some things that surpass the differences in culture between France and the U.S., like the youth, for example.

Kids everywhere are pretty much the same, at least in some ways that we found this week: they like to hang out with friends, be silly, listen to music, dance, eat. Like on Wednesday, for instance, we went to a concert with one of our friends from Les Petits Frères. She just finished up her civic service there about a week ago, and we've kept in touch (plans this week include seeing Le Petit Prince in theaters). A couple of her friends were visiting from Lyon and they wanted to check out a gospel band that had come to the Var, so she invited us, too.

It was like being with friends back at home. Johanna drove, her friends joked around a bit, we laughed that we couldn't find a parking place close to the venue. But as the night continued, I noticed a couple of differences between the typical American hangout versus the typical French hangout.(Granted, I'm Mormon, so that skews my perception a bit. Regardless. . .) The girls weren't as crazy as I think I would have been. With my good friends, I do all sorts of silly things, and we laugh a lot. The French girls were more 'chill', as the kids say. They didn't clap a lot or yell or dance. Also, the girls from Lyon smoked during the intermission (again, that's partly a difference because I'm Mormon; partly because French culture includes smoking and American culture doesn't).

That didn't take away, however, from the things that we did that I'm used to doing with my friends. We took a selfie with our friend before the concert started; during intermission, we listened to The Lion King songs in French and English. There was plenty of teasing and smiling, too.

Then, on Friday, we went to a Just Dance party with the young adults from the Toulon ward. Again, I
found the youth to be much calmer, much more casual--more natural in how they were dressed and in how they spoke. They definitely weren't trying to impress each other or be someone they weren't. In America, even a casual party like that is an occasion to show off or flirt or really try to make friends. In France? Everything was just...natural.

Plus, I found it very funny that they served the food and drinks as if we were at a French restaurant. Rémy--the only young adult dude in the ward--asked what we wanted to drink and then served us. They put the snacks on the table in courses: first the Bugles, then the bread, the pizza, and last the brownies. But again, the nature of the party and the food were definitely still just like anything you'd see in America. (Besides, most every song on Just Dance is in English.)

Dites-moi la vérité

If there's one thing the French don't have a problem with, it's being honest. They're gonna tell you how they feel whether you like it or not. It's a part of their (what I like to call) 'frank politeness.' They say what they think, candidly, without reserve and without apology. Not to be mean. It's just part of being French. Let me give you a few examples.

The whole time I've been here, since I speak less than my partner-in-crime Mary, people have said, Mais vous, vous êtes plus timide. AKA "You're shy, aren't you?" Kinda weird to say to a person when you don't know them that well, right? But they weren't pitying me, and they weren't trying to get me to say something. They just voiced their observations.

Next example. A week ago we went with another bénévole to a retirement home to visit three ladies, ranging from 70-something to 102 in age. The first lady was the youngest, and we watched as she expressed some concerns to the other bénévole, Aude. Aude really had to wedge her way into the conversation, as the  madame wasn't very happy about the situation. Attendez, attendez--wait, wait--she repeated several times, looking Madame straight in the face and layin' down the truth. When Madame tried to butt in again? Attendez. Attendez.

It happened again at the train station in Marseille this weekend. We needed to print out our tickets to Avignon and things weren't working, so we went to the info desk to see what to do next. When Mary explained the situation, the lady told us to go to the boutique, but that didn't seem right, since we didn't know what or where that was. Mary tried again, and the lady said bluntly, "I understood. You need to go to the boutique," and pointed again.

Then, while we were in Avignon, we ducked into Naf Naf, a French clothing store. Mary came out of a try-on cabine wearing a dress just as another girl came down the hall. Chouette! (Awesome!) she said, looking Mary over. Then, when she herself had a pair of pants on, she stepped out and asked me how they looked. "Not too vulgar in the back?" Just a random girl in a random dressing room, asking us to look at her behind.

So all in all, the French are pretty comfortable expressing their feelings. They communicate in a way that is most effective, even if it doesn't seem the most polite to us Americans. They don't smile, apologize, or beat around the bush. They just tell it like it is.

Je suis fière

This week we got to participate in the celebrations for France's national holiday, the 14th of July. The fête  meant another chance to check out the differences between our two cultures.

Our lunch café of choice. Only one girl
was working there the whole day.

First of all, everything closes on holidays. None of that WalMart "Open all of Independence Day!" stuff. Shops close early here anyway (even the grocery stores; and especially the restaurants, unless it's a bar), so the streets were pretty empty. It was nice. Everyone stayed at home to relax, or else went to hang out at the beach. But even the beaches weren't swamped. The French sure do take their days off seriously.

That's not to say there wasn't any celebration going on. We went to a parade at the end of the day on Toulon's main street. But there we were greeted with another anomaly: no floats. No kids waving from firetrucks. No dancers. No Miss Toulon in a crown and gown. Just a bunch of military music playing from loudspeakers and military men lining the streets in perfect formation. Indeed, it was all about the military. We watched in amusement as one man wavered in deciding whether to cross the street, which at this point was empty of cars and pedestrians. An officer looked his way and shook his head. The man pointed to himself: You talking to me? The serviceman nodded, then shook his head again. No crossing the street during this demonstration, dude. Each branch of the military had their own representatives march down Rue Strasbourg; then it all ended with firetrucks and military trucks driving into the sunset.

We were left with a slightly disappointed feeling and a desperate need for water tugging at our throats.

Nevertheless, I couldn't help but catch the pride. I don't know if it was for my own country, for France, or for both, but I felt it. The kind of Wow, I'm a part of something bigger than myself, type of feeling. The feeling was magnified when we went to the fireworks show that night. It wasn't until 10:00, since the sun's light doesn't really dissipate until then, and we were tired. But it was worth it. It wasn't like the firework shows I've seen, where you have a few little sparks at a time and you have to wait five minutes in between each round. Nope. This was a constant spectacle, with a huge finale including Saturn's rings fireworks set up to look like the French flag. The whole thing was over within half an hour, and I loved it.


The French pride can at times, however, be marred by the scars of military excursions past. This week we also met a man who served in Algeria--the Vietnam of France. "We fought for nothing," he told us. But that was about all he said about it, and the conversation moved on. Maybe it was just because it was our first visit there, but maybe there was more behind it.

Regardless, national pride is important. It's a shame to feel shame about the place where you live, because the fact is every country has those moments. But France isn't all Algeria, just like Germany isn't all Nazi and America isn't all Watergate. There's more to our countries than our past, and even than our present. I'm proud just to be an American, and the French are proud just to be French. And that's pretty cool.

Le corps

It's pretty interesting how the French treat their bodies.

On one hand, they have the tastiest, freshest food ever. Fruit and vegetables picked just this morning, seafood caught just this morning (here in Toulon especially), and beef raised in their backyards along with their cheese. And yet! They smoke like no other. Young and old, boy do the French know how to smoke. One of our own lively personnes accompagnées, Mohamed, can't go long without popping a slim white sucker into his mouth to puff for a while. He got up several times during a luncheon in Marseilles to, as he called it with a grin cracking across his wrinkled face, "payer les impôts" (pay his taxes). He wasn't the only one there doing it, either. It doesn't make them any worse of people, of course. It's just...interesting.

Then, the French almost all have slim, sun-browned bodies. They use them to walk to and from the marché day after day for their fresh food, swim in the Mediterranean, and lift their baby strollers onto the bus. And in this 35-degree summer weather--that translates to 95 degrees Fahrenheit--they put almost nothing on them. The less, the better. That means short shorts for girls AND guys, see-through shirts, and sandals. And on the beach, that means even less. No explanation (or pictures) needed. True to form, then, at the start of our visit with feisty Marie (another personne accompagnée), she started pulling her shirt off to change into something cooler before she even got into her room.


So it seems to me that it's all about culture and comfort.

Why do the French eat good food? Because they can, because it's tradition, and because it tastes good. Simple enough. Why do the French smoke, then? Because they can, because it's normal, and because it's enjoyable. Same thing with what they wear. The current temperature along with the current French style drives their clothing choices. They think of their bodies as tools for living and as tools for enjoying life. So they use them that way.