Rue Rude

The Americans all went home

"You work too hard," I said, scolding my friendly neighborhood "arabe" as I bought some milk late last night (he's actually a Berber; but a lot of French people call the corner grocer an "arabe" --most small grocery stores in Paris are actually run by North Africans).

I really do worry about him sometimes. He smokes, and coughs, and works six days a week.

"You have to work hard," he said, shrugging. "Otherwise, you go out of business."

"Everyone else is shut," I pointed out. It was Saturday night.

"Ils sont des employés," he said.

Then we got into a discussion about the various nationalities in the neighborhood. "There used to be lots of Americans," he said. "I liked them, they were nice, polite people. Non, je ne plaisante pas. But they all went home. There aren't any now.  And the Japanese-- there are very few Japanese around here now. They are very decent people too.

"It's Spain now," he went on. "Everyone is going to Spain. Spain and la Grande Bretagne. It seems it is much easier to work and make money there.  If I were young, I'd leave too."

The fair and open face of heaven

I'm not a city-lover, even though I live in one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

On days when I long to escape, I look up.

To one who has been long in city pent,
'tis very sweet to look into the fair
and open face of heaven....

Remembering Yorktown in Paris

On Thursday it was the anniversary of the Battle of Yorktown, which won the Revolutionary War for the Americans.

I live not too far away from the statue of the Comte de Rochambeau, on the rue de Chaillot in the 16th. A few years ago, in my role as patriotic American mother overseas, I realized my France-raised kids knew virtually nothing about American history. It was up to me. I decided to teach a history lesson by explaining about Yorktown, how the Americans had the British cornered on the peninsula and how Rochambeau saved the day. "Imagine the dismay of the British as they realized that the sails belonged to the French navy and not the British!"

I bought a bouquet of flowers and dragged us all over solemnly to the little square at the rue de Chaillot, in front of the Post Office. The statue was gone from its socle. It had been taken away to be renovated.

In which I am a Case

I'm always amazed at the personal stuff I read on other people's blogs (which is why I go there, of course). A lot of the best ones wouldn't exist if people didn't write about their love lives, their kids or their jobs.

I don't usually write about my family but tonight I have nothing to say, so I will just quote a remark addressed to me.

"T'es un cas!"

I had admitted I don't recognize a single Cristina Aguilera song.

Deviance

My Australian friend Jenny and I had lunch yesterday, and I heard the saddest story about one of her best friends. But I can't tell it to you.

Jenny speaks French to her husband and children and has been in France way too long to speak perfect English any more.

"We came back from Méribel with the most wonderful souvenirs*,"she said. Later she remarked, "But I'm deviating**."

* Memories
** Changing the subject

The case for being deceived

"I hope it won't be a deception for you," said R, and everyone around the coffee table said, "Of course not!" or "No, no!"

He meant "a disappointment," but we all speak franglais too.

Our bilingual life (bis)

Making a doctor's appointment.

Receptionist: Bon, j'ai une place mercredi 24 à 14h.

Me: C'est parfait. (I give my name and phone number.) Donc, mercredi 24 à 14h.

Receptionist: Yess.

The grouchy expat

Tonight I was waiting for a taxi with some other people when a tall, well-dressed man about sixty came up. We waited for about five minutes, and then he said, "Would anyone like to share a cab?"  We wouldn't have minded, but no one was going in his direction. After exchanging a few sentences, I realized from his slight accent and button-down collar that in spite of his very European look and excellent French, he was American. The next taxi didn't come for a long time, so we griped about the mayor together. We agreed that Paris was the worst major city we knew of for finding a cab-- there are never any taxis when you need them, like in the rain, on weekends, after ten o'clock at night, and especially after the metro closes. There are fewer Paris taxis now than in 1920. Merci, Monsieur Delanoë!

The man said he had lived for thirty years in Paris, although he doesn't any more. By accident, we came to the same subject that I wrote about a couple of days ago, the requirement to say hello in France before any other communication. He was funny and had the truculent attitude some long-time expats develop. He said that when he gets in a taxi, he just gives the address where he's going: "16 rue Chaillot," for example.

"But some drivers will then turn around and say in exaggerated fashion, 'BonJOUR!' --I call them 'les Bonjouristes.' After waiting for twenty minutes for a taxi, I'm in no mood for that. I say, 'Vous allez me donner des leçons de politesse?' [Are you going to give me lessons in politeness?]. It usually degenerates from there."

If I had to guess, I would say he had a French wife he's now divorced from. Cela explique tout!

A taxi finally came and we said goodbye. This photo was taken about 8:30 tonight, just at sunset, looking towards Invalides from the taxi window. Isn't this a beautiful city? The driver was a West African whose phone played Haydn when it rang.

We had to wait at the bar at the restaurant for a short time. Instead of taking our names to call them out later in public (I always hate that), this resto had found a more elegant solution. Each party was handed a card with the name of a musician on it. Ours was Liszt, which the girl pronounced "Litts," but I also heard Gershwin, Bach, and Mozart. We had a drink at the bar and then heard "Litts! Votre table est prête."

 

Who was rude?

A had given me her two throwaway cameras, and this morning I took them to the photo place where I always go.

A lot of people were ahead of me in line, and my heart sank when I heard the clerk say to each of them, "The film will be ready tomorrow." A was hoping to get her pictures before we left for the airport.

"Not today?" each person would say.

"Non. Demain matin, Monsieur. Tomorrow morning."

But when it was my turn I waited till the shop was empty and asked anyway. "Would it be possible to have these before three o'clock?"

"Mais bien sûr! We will have it for you in one hour, at 11h30." He wrote me out a little receipt but said, "You don't really need this. On vous connaît! We know you!"

The rewards of fidelité.

At the airport, I was at the ticket counter when a middle-aged American woman in teal nylon pants and large white sneakers strode into the office and asked in a loud voice:"WHERE'S THE TRANSFER DESK?"

The faces of the ticket agents turned to stone and no one looked up at her or answered. She stood there for a minute looking so dismayed and overwrought that I took pity on her. I went over, hoping it would help, and said in a low voice, "I think the desk is back there. You know, in France, you always have to say hello before you ask anything. They think you're being rude if you don't, and they'll be rude back to you." She nodded distractedly.

"They sent me over here! HELLO!" she called out from the middle of the floor to an agent, as loudly as before. "WHERE IS THE TRANSFER DESK?" He gestured dismissively and turned away. She stood for a minute, anxiously looking into the unfriendly faces, then ran out the door again.

Her behavior seemed so rude to me now, but I well remember being scolded in the same way by a supermarket employee in my first few months here. "They don't say 'hello' or 'excuse me' where you come from?" he said, before answering my question.

I was mystified and furious. Of course, in the U.S. it's perfectly normal to walk up to someone and ask a question!

Now I understand, too, what seemed the breathtaking rudeness of a Galeries Lafayette employee to me back then. She thought I was rude. I realize that now.

I had gone up to her as I would have in the States, and began, "I'm looking for a skirt...."

Instead of listening politely, as I expected, the woman turned back to her conversation with her co-worker. She said over her shoulder, "Je n'ai aucune objection, Madame. Cherchez-la!" ["I have no objection, Madame! Go ahead and look!"]

Our bilingual life

It is snowing again!

Today I went to visit my best friend in Paris, who unfortunately is Geographically Undesirable-- she lives outside of Paris to the southeast, exactly on the opposite side from me. Jenny usually drives into Paris, and we lunch at some little place, but it doesn't seem fair to me that she always does the traveling, so today I volunteered to go down and meet her. What an ordeal! Tonight it took me 2 1/2 hours to come home from her house. Part of that is that there was another demonstration this afternoon, thousands of students marching against the CPE, a new type of employment contract. I passed about forty police and CRS cars and buses on the way into the city.

She is an Australian who married a Frenchman and lives a totally French life-- she had been here fifteen years before she had children, and the whole household speaks French. "I'm so ashamed! It's so bad, I give Paul English lessons once a week!"

We went out to lunch at an unprepossessing farmhouse, outbuilding to a nearby chateau. The restaurant was packed when we arrived, and there was a big fire blazing in a chimney big enough to roast an ox. They actually still cook on it, for grilling and barbecue. The maître d', wearing a 1970s-style green print shirt, met my friend with a warm welcome and insisted on holding my purse while he took off my coat. "Even if I'm not that kind of guy," he said in English.

We sat near the window and caught up on two months apart.

"Your SMS [text message] was in French," I said.

"I didn't notice it till after I sent it!" she said.

"How is Nina doing in school?" I asked.

"She was having some trouble, but she fell on a good teacher this year," Jenny said.