Mummified Fromage and Company....

Palais Royal metro station, Paris

What can I say? We keep being shaken when bad things happen closer to where we live.

For many of us cultural hybrids, there is always something sad happening close to where we live, used to live, love people who live or think about living.

So...from the lighter side of things, an essay about culture that I forgot to post...

Mummified Fromage And Company

I look "foreign" but not specifically French, so you could under-estimate how quite French I am in several ways.   For instance, you may not suspect my irrational indulgence towards objectively harrowing French cultural idiosyncrasies.

Ubiquitous second-hand smoke in Paris? Carcinogenic but… an expression of existentialistic individuality!  Dogs punctuating sidewalks with poop, while their owners are indifferently not picking up the merde? Annoying but… a refreshing expression of revolutionary spirit!  Inconsistent daily showering and deodorant use?  At least many of the French are not squeamish when it comes to bodily things!

You get the idea.

On the other hand, I must confess that I show no such generosity towards several common Americanisms. I will share five “Américanismes” that I have not fully gotten accustomed to as a French woman living in the USA. At the top are those things that I have vaguely assimilated; at the very bottom, those I am most allergic to.

1-Party Favors

Who made this up? A birthday party where you offer presents to the guests? And…you train children to expect this? And…you hand out toe-stubbing plastic junk?

I have digested this painstakingly into a somewhat chic-er version, where I offer art-deco pens, silver Indian bangles, cacti or books about good manners.

2-Lightning Quick Goodbyes

My kids tease me that the goodbyes in France are astonishingly longer than the parties. Act I: “I must leave.” Act II: “Oh, but I have not left.” Act III: “Before I leave, let’s talk.” Act IV: “I am absorbed in conversation with you.” Act V: “This IS the end, but we must kiss and hug a few times.”

 I first loathed abrupt American goodbyes, which seemed to reflect disconnectedness rather than the (dramatized) sorrow of parting.  Our lives are so busy that I have mostly gleefully gotten over that one. Nevertheless...I will still feel intense cultural nausea if a host claps his hands to signal that a party is over.

3-Frank Conversations About Money

When I was growing up in France, one never asked directly how much something cost, or at least not without the utmost discretion and embarrassment. Asking loudly was the epitome of vulgarity. One definitely did not talk either about the cost of one’s house, car, curtains, or dance lessons.

My American adaptation is partial: conversations about money still feel daring, like teenage discussions of sexuality. Some are titillating and liberating, while others feel unnecessarily crude and pornographic.

4-Cheese Wrapped in Plastic

This is blasphemy: mummified square cheese, without stench or taste.

I still regard such specimen with great contempt. I have some compassion for the many people brainwashed to perceive this as food.  However, my youngest son likes it (paternal genes) and I mostly tolerate my loved ones’ tastes. My open-mindedness has boundaries: Velveeta is persona non-grata and will be thrown out if it ever shows up at my door.

5-Interrupting Servers

If I were an actress needing to experience rage, this would serve me well.  I am referring to experiencing the interruption of any intimate conversations-romantic, friendly, intellectual or hostile-to be asked, at restaurants, either:

 “Is everything alright?”

“Not anymore!”

 or “How are we doing?”

“We are now enraged, thank you!”  

or “Are you still working on this?”

“This is work? I don’t think so.”

This is one only makes me crazier with time.

I apologize for my French snobbery. I am, in fact, not all that prickly overall.

But I might start handing out my favorite party favor to intrusive servers: “How to Behave and Why” by Munro Leaf.

Till Later,

Anne