Letter From Paris

By Harriet Welty-Rochefort

Paris Kiosque - November 2006 - Volume 13, Number 11
Copyright © 2006 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.

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You would think that after three decades of to-ing and fro-ing between France and the U.S. I'd be a jaded old-timer who easily moves between the two, shedding off the idiosyncracies and particularities of one culture one as I adopt the other.

Not so !

Every time I take an extended trip to the States (my birth and childhood « home ») and return to France (my adult « home »), I find myself in a weird twilight zone of culture shock.

While in the States, I'm always so delighted by all the positive things I encounter Ð people smiling and being friendly and wanting to help you, the buzz and hum of an upbeat, can-do nation, the look of Central Park on a crisp, fall day, even the tantalizing smell of Cinnabons in every airport I strolled through - that I would find myself wondering if I wouldn'it just like to set down my bags and stay.

But my « home », albeit an adopted one, an ocean away and too soon my U.S. sojourn was over. After a month of my favorite foods and a steady diet of smiles and ambient good will, I returned to la belle France.

Waiting for my bags at Charles de Gaulle, I couldn't help but make the observation I make every single time I return to France : Everyone looks so down at the mouth!

SMILE, I want to yell. Wake up and smell the coffee (especially French coffee !) ! Why not act like something's good in life ?

Especially because in France, life IS or should be sweet with a 35 hour work week, all kinds of perks for salaried workers, medical care for all, excellent food and drink.

You'd think everyone in this pays would be doing a jig.

Mais non !

Why do they look so unhappy ? My French husband once explained to me that since France has been invaded so many times over the centuries, the French never know who the enemy is. Never trust (or smile at) a stranger. There's something in that, I concede. Which means in practical terms, the minute I hit Roissy after these American trips, I say good-bye to that American smile I love so much.

I also say good-bye to people bagging my groceries. « Paper or plastic » must be my most favorite words in the English language, mainly because in France whether it's plastic or paper or nothing, it's YOUR job to get your purchases off the counter Ð pronto !

And good-bye to an entire smokefree nation : in France, fully one-fifth of the population smokes (and it seems to me it's always in my face ). There's talk about enforcing strict no- smoking laws in restaurants and cafŽs and workplaces by 2008 but we're not there yet Ð although I must say this was the first time I have waited for my bags in Roissy and not seen one single person light up a fag. Incroyable !

In spite of these two or three notable drawbacks, there are plenty of reasons I don't just turn around and take the next flight back to the States.

I may indeed say good-bye to many things I like but I say hello to

A sense of style everywhere : carefully restored age- old buildings and bridges that proudly defy time, slim, well-dressed Parisians, store windows so prettily decorated I want to buy everything in them - and that's just for starters. For me, France is all about style

Espresso served in a small porcelain cup as opposed to a huge cardboard one Ð and sitting down to drink it slowly

Restaurants where I'm allowed to take my time. Even when the food is good, and it was often good, the meal in U.S. restaurants is a very short affair. As I was savoring a really delicious salmon salad in a restaurant in Joplin, Missouri (yes, there are good places to eat in Joplin, Missouri !), I spied our waitperson hovering over me with the firm intention of snatching my plate away. « I like to take my time when I eat something so good, » I told her, nodding at my half-finished plate.« You are so right », she concurred, and left me alone as my fellow diners looked at each other with astonishment. They'd never heard that kind of talk before. Maybe if I stuck around long enough, I'd get everyone on my French dining timetable !

Pleasure in the process. Eating to feed the stomach but also the soul. Walking to get somewhere but enjoying the stroll. I asked my sister, who lives in a suburb of Chicago, how far the hairdresser's salon was from her place. Quite a hike, to hear her tell it, but after some persistent questioning, I learned that it was a ten minute walk. So I went on my own two feet and all was well, almost. Since hardly anyone in the suburbs walks, there's a slight sidewalk problem. Either there are no sidewalks at all or they stop abruptly and you find yourself sinking into mud. Getting across the road was another challenge. Since everything is designed for cars, you get about 15 seconds to cross the street before the little red light comes back on and you're relegated to waiting while the SUVs and other monster machines roar blithely down the road. (The French walk a lot and are less dependent on their cars. Good thing, because if you think gas in the U.S. is expensive these days, just multiply that by five to see what the French pay on a normal basis.)

So I said hello to some of these good things and reflected that there are so, so many differences between our countries, both large and small.

Take education. The French are always astonished when they learn how much Americans spend on a college education. They like to point out that a college education in France is virtually free and for everyone. What they omit to say is that you get what you pay for. For example, although there are excellent professors at the Sorbonne, they are rarely there except to give their classes for the very good reason that there is a total of 2 square meters (20 square feet) per person at the Sorbonne. How can you have office hours when there's no room for an office ? That pitiful amount of space per person, says Jean-Robert Pitte, the President of this august institution, is less than what is allotted by law to a poulet de Bresse, a high end specialty chicken that gets the best of care before it ends up on the dinner plate.

In the name of equality, any student having succeeded at the school-leaving exam called the « Bac » can go to university. They do Ð in droves. And since there's little to no orientation, they sign up in Philosophy or Psychology or languages only to find that at the end of a four year college education there's not a shadow of a job in sight for them.

So far no one in France, including the Minister of Education, has been able deal with the powerful myth of free education and the heartache it causes unsuspecting students who can't find jobs and start their adult lives. Even the students have bought into the myth, to wit, their demonstrations against a jobs law that would have allowed them to get more experience and put an end to short-term internships. They voted with their feet for the status quo !

When it comes to education, I'd take the American system. When it comes to easygoing contact with people, I'll take America. And believe me, when it comes to bagging groceries, America wins hands down !

For food, health care, and a certain je ne sais quoi in the air, France gets first prize.

I guess nothing's perfect. There is no perfect country.

One thing's sure, though,and I can attest to that.

Home is where the heart is -even if it's in two places at once.

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Harriet Welty Rochefort is the author of French Toast: An American in Paris Celebrates the Maddening Mysteries of the French and French Fried: The Culinary Capers of an American in Paris. French Toast was hailed by the Los Angeles Times as "wise and devastatingly funny". For world-famous chef Alain Ducasse, her second book French Fried "in a lively and hilarious style ... gives an inside look at the world of French cuisine and wine." Both books are published by St. Martin's Press.

Coming to Paris? Harriet gives tailormade wine and cheese tastings to individuals as well as to university groups. For more information, visit her webpages: www.hwelty.com and www.understandfrance.com .

If you've had some funny, startling, satisfying, or dismaying food experiences in France you'd like to share, you may contact Harriet directly at harriet.welty@hwelty.com.

Editor's Note: Dear Readers, while our writers are always delighted to hear and to receive comments, both about their columns in the The Paris Kiosque, as well as your experiences in Paris, they are unable to answer requests for travel information. Thank you for your understanding.