Letter From Paris
Paris Kiosque - November 1999 - Volume 6, Number 11
Copyright (c) 1999 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.
First of all, here's the Paris weather report on the day I am writing this
column - perfect. The thing about Paris in the fall is that you can have a
stretch of grey polluted fog and haze and then comes the one exquisite day
when the sun comes out, the leaves turn yellow, and there's a kind of magic
quality to the air that makes you forget about what came before - or what
may come after.
Today, in fact, is Halloween, which up until a year or two ago wasn't even
celebrated in France. When I first came here, no one could figure out why,
on October 31, a pumpkin mysteriously appeared in my window or why I walked
around with a broom and witch's hat (no, not really), but now Halloween has
taken off with a bang. Leave it to the French to take a "fête" like this
and elevate it to the status of pure chic. When I went to the butcher
store to buy meat for lunch the other day, I noted that the door was
decorated with a very spooky life-size skeleton, and that black witches'
hats and bright orange pumpkins were colorfully interspersed between the
steak and the pork chops. One of the best pastry shops in the city invented
a beautifully white (as in white like a sheet) cake called "Gaspard le
Ghost" (Caspar the Ghost) and I actually saw pumpkin PIE being sold on the
rue Montorgeuil. Now that may not seem unusual to you but I can tell you for
a fact that most French people can't stand even the IDEA of pumpkin pie.
(They do however relish pumpkin soup). I asked the fellow behind the counter
how the pie was selling. "Great", he said brightly, and proceeded to tell
me how he and the other salespeople and the "patronne" of the pastry shop
all got dressed up in various ghoulish costumes for the event and loved
every minute of the fun.
Halloween brings in November and November is a special month for me because
it is the month in which I married my French husband some 26 years ago. The
practical outcome of this decision was two half-French, half American boys
who turned out just fine (so I can recommend the combination to anyone who
is contemplating marriage to a Frenchman), and some 26 years of cultural
challenges. When an American woman marries a French man, she never knows
whether a misunderstanding is a misunderstanding because of cultural
differences or just because it is misunderstanding, plain and simple. For
example, if I break a glass and my husband has an absolute fit (which he
always does when I break a glass), is it because his parents lived through
World War II and passed on to him their horror at seeing anything broken or
damaged? Or is it because he's like every husband and just can't stand to
see a glass broken?! If we invite people for dinner and I don't want
them to smoke and he not only does but practically BEGS them to (he actually
brings out the ashtrays before anyone ASKS for one), is it because he's
French and I'm American? Or is it because he's a former smoker who still
loves to smell smoke and I'm a rabid anti-smoker who can't stand people
polluting my atmosphere?
(I have to tell you that I'm writing this column huddled in my office at the
back of our apartment with the door shut and the window wide open because he
has a friend of his here who is smoking one of the biggest cigars I have
ever seen in my life. Because of my French husband's idea of politesse, ie,
guests should be allowed to do what they want to (!!!), I'm an outcast in my
own house!)
The phone is another cultural difference battlefield. If my French
husband, whose name, by the way, is Philippe, answers and it's for me, he
passes the phone to me as if it were an exceedingly hot potato. We may be
in the hot part of our meal or I may be strangling on a piece of meat that
went down the wrong way or hosting twenty people - the phone is the phone
and the idea that I am there and don't want to take a call is an
aberration. He thinks it is unbelievably impolite. On the other hand,
he does something I find exceedingly rude which is when I finally DO take
the call, he talks to me all the time I'm talking to the other person! And
can't figure out why this upsets me! "Can't you do two things at a time? "
he asks.
As far as our sons are concerned, I do believe the French genes won. When
I tell them they should SMILE when they first meet people (and not wait a
hundred years before they get to know the person and decide whether they
like them or not), they look at me like I am certifiably insane. Invariably
one of them will pipe up with "But I don't FEEL like smiling". My
explanation - that smiling at people you don't know and just meet might make
the other person feel good - is greeted with astonishment. They're good
kids, I assure you, but stone faced they remain. The lesson to be drawn
from this is that when you first meet a French person and he/she doesn't
smile, it doesn't mean they HATE you. It just means they don't feel any
particular obligation or need to smile at you!
So although I married a Frenchman twenty-six years ago, I continue to break
glasses and smile at strangers and people I've just met and on the whole am
a totally looser sort than my French husband and sons (except for smoking of
course in which I turn into a raging harpy). I no longer shrink back
when Philippe gets hysterical over some small little matter like the
computer freezing or when he yells his head off when I've done something
only mildly offensive such as dropping an egg from the fridge or burning a
hard-boiled egg while talking on the phone (once I've decided to pick it up)
or letting the bathtub overflow. Hey, the guy's French. He's supposed to
be warm blooded, non?
In the meantime, if any of you readers out there can clue me in on which
elements of his behavior are French and which are just "universal husband",
I'd be only too delighted to know.
Harriet Welty-Rochefort, a bona fide Midwesterner from
Iowa, visited Paris for the first time while in
college. She became so completely enamored of
France that she stayed - and has been there ever since.
Married to a Frenchman and the mother of two
Franco-American boys, Harriet Welty-Rochefort writes
on business, lifestyle and travel for major U.S.
publications. Her book -
French Toast
- is a lighthearted look at
French manners and mores.
Writes Leslie Caron: French Toast includes the most delightful barbs at France's
subtle but deep-rooted codes of behaviour...I read the book on the EuroStar between
Paris and London and wished the train had not reached its top speed of 300 kph!
Reviewed in the Los Angeles Times on January 2, 1998, French Toast
is published in the U.S. by St. Martin's Press.
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
hwelty@club-internet.fr.
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 any requests
for travel information.
Thank you for your understanding.
Museum Passes