The verdict is in on France: Oui!

The fog of jet lag and culture shock has lifted and I’m ready to report on my trip. I know you have been breathlessly awaiting my judgment on the nation of France. In case you don’t know, France is the country whose derrière we saved during WWII, only to have them refuse to kiss our own posterior forever after.

Prior to my trip, I collected various opinions about what I would find when I landed among Parisians. The French are snotty, said one friend. They will mock you if you don’t speak the language, said another. Pretend to be Canadian, said a third.

What I found were, with a few exceptions, people who were welcoming, kind, and helpful to one whose French language skills are limited to “bonjour” and “frommage.”

I’ll spare you the travelogue. Suffice it to say that the cities I visited – Paris, Toulouse, Albi, and the little fairytale village of Pulcelsi – are unbelievably beautiful and overflowing with charm and history. I could totally live there. (Don’t tell Keeper. He’s still reeling from our move to California 12 years ago.)

During the 10 days I was living in this foreign land, my training as an anthropologist kicked in and I made the following field notes.

French people love to wear scarves. Each man, woman, and child is adorned with a scarf, tied in an artistic way around their neck. Even the dogs wear scarves. Apparently there is a secret scarf-typing academy where children must master 57 ways to tie a scarf before they are released back to their parents.

It’s not just the scarves that make the French elegant. It’s the way they carry themselves. They don’t slouch, shuffle, or rush around frowning like we do. They glide along, shoulders back and head erect, carrying their stylish tote bags with a baguette and a bouquet of flowers sticking out. Yes, the stereotype is real.

Many people worried about the strikes and protests that were occurring during my trip. In the States, they were big news. In France, they were just another day at the office. French students love to protest and they do it on a weekly basis. No one gets their nose out of joint about the traffic tie-ups; they just sit in their tiny cars and smoke until it’s over.

The day I was to return to Paris from Toulouse there was a national transportation strike. I went to the airport anyway and found people lounging around, talking and laughing. The Air France agents were calm and polite. There was no yelling, no running, no threats of lawsuits. At most, the passengers sighed and raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t help imagining the chaos that would ensue at SFO if every flight were either cancelled or delayed.

Maybe it’s the cheese. The French eat cheese at every meal and perhaps it has a soporific effect. Must investigate!

Everywhere I went, the streets were clean, the landmarks were freshly scrubbed and the statues had been recently gilded. The inefficiency of the French government is legendary, but they do take good care of their infrastructure. And say what you will about Napoleon, he commissioned some great architecture.

It’s not just the wine and cheese and Napoleonic architecture that make the French happy. They actually talk to each other. The streets are lined with sidewalk cafes with all the chairs facing out to the street. There, the locals sip café from their tiny cups (if you want a large cup, you order “American coffee”) and engage in conversation with each other and with passersby. The atmosphere is relaxed, even jolly. Of course, it’s easy to be jolly when your office is closed from 12-2 every day.

At night, the French don’t go ;home to sit in front of the telly. They go out and socialize, especially the men. I stayed in the historic district of Paris (between Notre Dame and the Pompidou Centre) and I can tell you from the 9 p.m. crowd at the Bear’s Den that Parisian men are very friendly, not to mention well-groomed and handsome. They are so friendly at the Bear’s Den that there is a condom dispenser on the street.

I must say that I didn’t find the persistent rumor that the French hate Americans to be true. They may have been mocking me behind my back, but I never saw any signs of being scorned. There was one time when I pretended to be Canadian. It was when I came across Americans behaving badly.

© 2010 Mary Hanna