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.

Comment dit-on Nike?

I looked out the window and saw a patchwork country of some yellow, some green squares, with pockets of dark trees embracing neighborhoods of steep-roofed houses. Sheep, window boxes, balconies, graffiti, and cigarette smoke awaited me below.


But what I would learn first as I lugged my fat suitcase through the Charles de Gaulle airport was that the French are assertive. They're not going to wait to get where they're going, even if you think it'd be more polite if they did. And even more, they expect you to assert yourself, too.

That's a problem for the American girl who doesn't even take initiative with her American friends.

But she (*cough cough* who happens to be me) would soon learn that it is better to assert than to say nothing at all. ALWAYS.

The French are nice most of the time, but not always--just like most other people. But they are way more likely to lend a helping hand or forgive your bad grammar if you actually try to say something (again, a problem for moi). My first day on the job, we visited Michel, a nice old man who reminded me of my grandpa. I was essentially silent. And I felt awful. Michel was still kind, but I must have seemed rude to him and my companions. I was afraid of embarrassing myself, but I ended up embarrassing myself anyway by doing nothing at all. I saw our guide, Miroslav from the Czech Republic, struggle through each conversation: no one got upset that he slowed down the flow. Only his friends corrected him, and not unkindly. It was time to try again--and try harder.

The next day I inserted myself in conversations and asked questions (at least to Miroslav, who is learning just like I am). An amazing thing happened: People listened. People cared. And I felt a million times better.

It wasn't like I hadn't heard that advice before, but it's hard to change habits that you've held to for your entire ninteen years.

It's the same thing when you're crossing the street. Sometimes there's a nice little green light-up walky man who tells you when to go, and sometimes there's not. You just gotta go. Even when there is the walky man, the French are waiting. They turn as you're walking, inching their cars right up to your face and waiting for you to get past. The motorcyclists are even worse: they wait for no one at all, weaving in between the cars on the road like a bunch of crazies. They do what they want.

And if you want to get anything done, you have to just do it, too.