I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.
Doesn't that sound lovely?
There is no internet in the French countryside, and very little spoken English. One is therefore forced to "relax," away from the computer, usually through HOURS of conversation.
Have I mentioned that I don't love French Meg?
French Meg smiles and nods a lot. She also laughs on cue. There are times when French Meg understands what you say, but she won't ask a single question. You may have covered that point already, and she probably already laughed.
Nod, smile. Ha ha HA!!
Not only am I a bit slow, I am indiscretely so. At 5'10'', I'm only slightly taller than average when playing on the home court. In France, however, I am walking talking circus show.
The result is that, in addition to babbling and smiling, I am often dressed kinda funny. It's not always my fault.
This weekend, the countryside hostess offered to lend me her slippers. I pantomimed something like "I don't think they fit!" looking at first disappointed, then smiling enormously.
She suggested that I just wear them over my toes, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.
Outside the chalet, her XS parka hit me just below the bra line. Even the mountain sheep were rolling their eyes. "It's cropped," I gestured in return, grinning madly the whole time.
My finest performance of the weekend can't be blamed on size. It came one night when I was too tired to climb the stairs for toothpaste, and instead started fishing around in the hosts' bathroom drawers.
Do I even need to type this? It's really too predictable...
We parked the car at 9pm outside a low slung cement block building. After knocking three times on a window, a man wordlessly opened the front door.
Adam appeared as my boss had descibed him: short and stocky, like a sports trainer. Not so different than the other men I'd met in Warsaw. What set Adam apart was his brow line - two hairy thickets that twisted upward toward the flourescent bulb.
A man in a suit hovered behind Adam, his function unknown. The suit motioned for me to sit down, and Joanne silently followed Adam into the bedroom. After a few minutes the suit mumbled something in French. "Not many people from Poland in Quebec," he said. Then he stood up and walked out of the apartment.
Alone now, I could examine my surroundings. In addition to the bare bulb, there were plenty of other "mood elements." A television, muted, showing rugby. A phone that rang off the hook and a cassette answering machine. Decorative knives. I heard footsteps in the hallway and then the flimsy door was flung open. Joanne emerged looking woozy, but gestured for me to go in. I followed dumbly and the door was closed behind me.
"Stand here," he said in French. "Close your eyes."
I had agreed to see the energy healer because my boss had offered to pay. She had her own appointment during my visit, and I was "lucky enough" to be added on. Adam had been in the papers recently, and was very much in demand.
At the very least, I thought, as he stood behind me doing God-knows-what, there is a blog post in this. And I began to imagine the opening lines.
"You're very sad," Adam said, interrupting.
"Am I?" I replied, imagining a serious poker face.
"This here," he said, passing open hands near my sternum, "is your (something-or-other) channel. Immediate family. Boyfriend, husband. Very ......"
The last word was represented only by a gesture. An anguished face, like he had stepped on something sharp. Or eaten Marmite.
"I see."
"This here (moving southward) is your spirit channel." He spent some time pawing the air in front of my belly, and then moved on.
He started in about digestion and I had to call him back.
"Excuse me, Adam... my spirit channel? Did you, uh, find anything there?"
His impressive brow collapsed into itself. He started to say something and then thought better of it. He moved his hands down and continued to talk about intestines.
Parlor tricks followed, with Adam pointing to my physical ailments. He correctly named all the current ones (a bad cough, a sore back) and even forecast a few that "will follow."
He then told me to sit, and looked directly into my eyes. His face hung with the over-wrought sincerity of a high school guidance counselor.
"You're very sad," he repeated.
Isn't everyone? I thought. "But what about my spirit channel?"
He started again to explain, stopped, and then called for Joanne. He took her in the corner and spoke very quickly.
My mind wandered to various versions of this story - the sad expat learning that she has, after all, no soul. It could be done like Lost in Translation with good music, Polish art students, and sexy casting. Or in a Sci-Fi direction, with a vampire soul! Or...
"It's your third eye," someone interrupted.
Joanne was explaining to me that it's broken. My third eye. And that this is very, very bad. "It's the way you relate to the world. It's the interface between you and everybody else. Or something like that. We can Google it."
The good news, she assured me, is that Adam can fix it. Only 2-3 more visits, and only 15 euros a pop. I could be a much better person before the summer.
I came back to Paris last night, dropped my bags, and went to an Andrew Bird concert. And the dashing multi-instrumentalist peered out from beneath his hair-mop, looked right into my eyes (so I imagine), and sang:
Do you wonder where the self resides Is it in the head or between your sides?
I decided this morning, after a proper night's rest and five cups of coffee, what this third eye business is really about.
It is not about me being soul-less. Or selfish. Or any other unflattering word that begins with S.
It is about grammar!
My interface with the world, like a radio dropped in water, has been cutting out. I am third eye blind mute as a result of speaking french like a six year-old.
My next trip to Warsaw is in May. This leaves me plenty of time to master the subjunctive and return triumphant to Adam's "office."
"All clear," he will say, brows twitching happily. My sternum will reveal that I am good.
Today's episode in nincompoopery unfolds with our heroine pedalling happily to work along the Canal St. Martin. The sun is shining, but not hot enough to warm the unwelcome smells of the sidewalk. Everything seems to be perfect...
When all of the sudden, Old Man appears in the bike lane. "Pardon!" I chirp, but the white hair doesn't see me. "Excusez-moi!!" I yell with more force as the distance narrows between us. It is only when I begin to squawk "Ding-DING! ding-ding-ding!!!" that Monsieur raises his head and takes the necessary steps to avoid being flattened by my machine of terror.
Moments later, it occurs to me: "I could buy a bell." Epiphany strikes just as I am crossing the doorstep of Atelier Go Sport, a bike repair shop along avenue Richard-Lenoir.
I wheel my bike in and say bonjour to the repairman who is airing some tires. I select my bell for 2.90 and join the line of women at the register. It's slow-going, as each customers' purchases are taken out of the package and attached somewhere on their bike. After 20 minutes, I'm up:
"Hi," I say in french. "Would it be possible for you to mount me?"
Eyes widen. I repeat, "C'est possible de me monter?"
"You're not shy," he tells me.
Shall we review a little french?
Vocabulary: monter - to assemble... to organize, set up (hey, that's right!)... to climb; to ride (oh, Christ.) as in a horse; to go upstairs.
Grammar: direct object pronouns - the bell receives the action. Not le Meg.
What I should have said was "C'est possible de la monter pour moi?"
What I did say inaugerates a new Blagueur series, the Weekly Gaffe. Tune in next week as I continue my reign of error among the people of Paris. Ring-a-ding-ding!
Aurore, the other night at dinner, turned to Ken and asked, "so what do you think of Parisians?"
To which he replied, "Well, like anything kept in a cage, they're not friendly, they often bite, and they don't know how to feed themselves."
And then we had our little chuckle.
Complaining about Parisians seems to be a favorite pastime among those living in Paris. This isn't limited to expats. A large proportion of residents are not native to the city, and many who are born here don't consider themselves Parisiens.
American stereotypes about the French en masse are strikingly similar to the way in which les provinciaux describe native Parisians. Our Auvergnat and Breton friends have much in common with disappointed American tourists when they start throwing around words like "arrogant," and "rude."
Living here does not make one Parisian. This is entirely different from New York, which rapidly absorbs the newly-emigrated into its clubby fold. Address affords identity in NYC, but Parisians are rarely (if ever) made.
So what is it about Parisians? I can't claim to be an expert, and I hope that the comments will expand upon this, but I will begin with one stereotype: comme il faut.
Being in accord with conventions and accepted standards is, for a real Parisian, the mark of a life well-lived. This trait is widely applied but especially apparent with language and dress. To flout or be ignorant of convention is to reveal that one is pas très bien élevé (poorly-raised).
In language, this means speaking French - the good French of the Académie française. A provençal accent will raise eyebrows in many quarters, and the integration prospects among banlieue children are measured in part by their speech.
The standards in dress are narrow and change each season, but certainly exclude track suits, safari gear & fanny packs. Shifting styles are taken very seriously, and trends transcend different age groups. It was not uncommon last year to see 60-year old women wearing fishnets. This year it's Converse.
Whether or not one is fully successful with the particulars of the style sheet, one must at least make an effort. Sarah Turnbull, in her largely terrible book Almost French, got it right when she realized in horror that she could never again leave the house in sweat pants.
Standards exist in every society, but Parisians seem to have a particular affinity for them. While entrepreneurs and ingenues are greeted with indifference, the celebrated Parisian is one who has successfully executed a series of well-known steps.
Bohemians, punks, and avant-garde types seem to be flourishing in Toulouse, Marseilles, and Lille. The adolescent years of Paris are so far in the past, however, that the city has forgotten how to make fun of its squares. Even teenagers take seriously their role as standard-bearers for the republic.
The cage of Ken's joke could be the city itself - asphalt and crowding, all that. But convention, too, is a trap. French standards, born and bred in Paris, are enforced by Parisians who police both outsiders and themselves. Which puts them, to quote Henry from Barfly, in "a cage with golden bars."
Lucky for us, it's quite possible to avoid Parisians while at the same time enjoying the products of their self-discipline (art, lit, film, food...) Moreover, there are plenty of natives who through travel or cross-cultural marriage have discovered a world beyond their cage. And they, because they have a sense of humor and know where to eat, are often the best (post-) Parisians of all.
Following in the footsteps of American dieters who place carrot sticks in the fridge at eye-level, I have taken lately to leaving my grammar books on display. By fanning them attractively, the stack will someday lure me while en route to other pressing obligations (red wine, couch) and nudge me toward conjugation.
Learning a language and losing weight are not so different, in the end. Both require (I am told) some degree of self-discipline over time. Or, in my case, short bursts of super-hyped effort that will inevitably fizzle in favor of other distractions (white wine, boules).
The similarities don’t end there. Like the dieter who wears too-small jeans as a cilice, the language slacker living abroad benefits from near-constant appraisal of her “progress.” I can read this in the eyebrows of my compatriots: raised = sympathetic, as when speaking to a child; furrowed = really? Two years and this is the best you can do?
I can also measure it by the number of missing words in a conversation: “We went to Normandy over the weekend and ___ ______, then ___ my grandmother __ ___ ___ the chicken!” To which I invariably reply, “ah bon? C’est super.”
And like the waistline of the dieter, my language comprehension will advance or retreat significantly during any given month. One week I’m feeling strong; I can watch the Simpsons in french! The next week I’m straining to follow conversation for more than five minutes. Well-worn explanations include: the heat, those iron pills I’m taking, whatever Mercury’s doing, and sobriety.
This month’s scheme: total immersion! Except, of course, for really technical conversations, moments of fatigue, or, ahem, this blog. My American but french-speaking husband will indulge me, my colleagues will coddle me, my friends will be startled (or not) as to how truly un-clever I can be.
So watch this space for updated accounts of french foible-ing, and remind me from time to time about how great life will be once I fit into those jeans.
I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.
She suggested that I just wear them over my toes, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.
