Letter From Paris
Paris Kiosque - October 2003 - Volume 10, Number 9
Copyright © 2003 Harriet Welty-Rochefort - Used with permission.
A visit to Scotland and some thoughts on French cuisine and French customer
service -- France the "enemy" of the United States (one man's view) --
France is a woman -- French education and a culture shock -- a debate on
euthanasia -- "laughter" classes in Paris
Returning to Paris from a vacation in Scotland is akin to passing
through an invisible glass wall. Two cultures, two sets of weather
conditions, two cuisines, two civilizations.
Edinburgh is only an hour and a half flight from Paris but China couldn't
have been more different.
But you're American and in Scotland they speak English, you might say!
You're right - with a Scottish accent I, for one, sometimes have a hard
time deciphering.
On the way to the airport, we asked our cheerful Scottish driver some
harmless question which set him off on a series of anecdotes, each of which
rendered him more and more hilarious - and incomprehensible.
In the midst of it all, my husband, an English-speaking Frenchman, kept
throwing imploring looks at me as he couldn't understand a word.
How could I tell him that I didn't either?
So the first cultural difference was the language. The second was the
unhurried pace of life. Compared to the fervent frenzy of life in France,
Scotland is positively bucolic. Even the drivers act as if they've all been
administered a healthy dose of Prozac. In other words, compared to their
continental counterparts, they are downright courteous and polite, something
so rare it merits observation. The third was the unspoiled scenery, not a
billboard in sight even in monstrously (pardon the pun) touristic areas like
the Loch Ness. And fourth, when it wasn't raining, the skies were clear and
unpolluted (when it doesn't rain in Paris, the skies are rarely pure and
undefiled - too many cars and trucks spewing out their noxious gases).
What a wonderful country. It makes me wonder why my ancestor, James
Anderson, left it in 1707 to sail to America. But that's another story.
Yes, Scotland's a wonderful country.
Now if the Scots would just adopt French cuisine....
For while in my book the Scots win on pace of life, lack of pollution,
unspoiled scenery, polite drivers (and polite people in general), the French
win the sweepstakes on food (and weather!).
The only thing the Scots do better than the French when it comes to food is
the Scottish breakfast which deserves three stars. With a vast choice of
courses including yoghurt, muesli, cheese, eggs, haddock, kipper, potatoes
and porridge and wonderful fresh fruit, it was the highlight of the day.
We were mystified, however, by what came afterwards. The country has fine
products but, with a few notable exceptions, the chefs don't give them the
attention they deserve. We couldn't believe that we spent 11 days in a
country of sheep and hardly ever saw lamb on the menu! Coming from France,
combinations like broccoli and Stilton soup seemed astounding and while the
lettuce leaves were fresher than most of the ones you get in French bistros,
they weren't served with vinaigrette. Even more fascinating was the amount
of starch the Scots put down. Fried scampi with French fries (excuse me,
freedom fries) seems, somehow, dietetically incorrect!
So, nothing's perfect. The Scots have wonderful breakfasts and homey homes
and a leisurely lifestyle. The French have a lot of qualities as well but
after returning to Paris and savoring the positive, I was once again struck
by how tightly woven the good sides and the bad sides of French life are:
the French may have world-class chow but oh how rushed everyone is and how
they knock you off the sidewalks (the sidewalks are too small for so many
people).
And how truly unfriendly many shopkeepers are.
This, like French cuisine, is a French specialty. The attitude of most
French tradespeople is "I DON'T NEED YOUR MONEY"!!!! Because if they did,
they'd have to make more of an effort and hey, even put on a smile!
You know that old saw about the rude French? That comes from tourists whose
only view of the French is the rude or cold or snappish conduct of SOME
French salespeople.
Things have changed, fortunately. So much so that I now regularly get
messages from visitors saying how surprised they were that the French were
"nice" and "not rude at all".
One American who doesn't think the French are "nice" is New York Times
editorialist Thomas Friedman. In a Friday, September 19 column in the
International Herald Tribune, he opined that France's attitudes and actions
on Iraq have shown beyond a doubt that "France is not just an annoying
ally. It is not just a jealous rival. France is becoming America's enemy."
As a journalist and writer, I'm sensitive to both form and content and know
how the former can influence the latter.
More than anything else, how you say something enforces and emphasizes what
you say. Choice of words, especially loaded ones, and words in quotes
reveal the deep true thoughts of the writer.
If you analyze Friendman's piece, it's safe to surmise that his deep true
thoughts about France are clear as a bell.
He hates the place.
But that's his choice and I won't get worked up into a lather about either
the French or the Americans criticizing each other.
I have noticed, however, that our styles are entirely different. French
anti-Americanism is impersonal and intellectual; Francophobia is personal
and upclose and emotional.
But let's listen to what Francophobe Friedman says and how he says it.
On Iraq, he writes that "France wants America to sink in a quagmire in the
crazy hope that a weakened United States will pave the way for France to
assume its "rightful" place as America's equal, if not superior, in shaping
world affairs."
Note the quotes around "rightful" which emphasize that this is as clearly
crazy as the crazy hope of ever becoming America's equal.
An EQUAL? Quelle idée indeed!
Friedman does however wonder if Bush and Co. shouldn't have reached out to
Paris "magnanimously" with an offer to take part in reconstruction.
"Magnanimously" is the key word here. One is "magnanimous" to inferiors,
not partners and allies.
"Let me spell it out in English" he writes, at one point.
You "spell things out" to the village idiot. The French may be a lot of
things, but they aren't ignorant and they don't need Tom Friedman to take
them by the hand and explain U.S. policy in Iraq to them.
He then declares that "France seems to have given no thought as to how
America's being defeated in Iraq by a colition of Saddamists and Islamists
would affect France".
I beg to differ.
Since I live in France and Friedman doesn't, I'd like to say that if any
country should be and is worried about the Muslims in its midst, it's
France. One of the major challenges in France today is how to integrate its
Arab population into the mainstream and keep Muslim fundamentalists at bay.
But my arguments pale beside a ripping riposte entitled "French Fried
Friedman" by Greg Palast, author of the New York Times best-seller "The Best
Democracy Money Can Buy". Speaking of the importance of tone, Palast
adopted Friedman's disdainful one in his reply:
"Get off it, Tommy - this is not about France. This is about a bunch
of half-baked cowboys in the White House who made a mess in
Mesopotamia and now want Europe to pay the bill before an enraged,
bankrupt American electorate throws the Bushitas out on their big fat
deficit."
>
It may or may not be about France but in this affair as in so many others,
France has proved once again to be what Alexis de Toqueville qualified as
"the most brilliant and dangerous nation in Europe, best suited to become in
turn an object of admiration, hatred, pity, terror, but never of
indifference."
An original theory on the whys and wherefores of French bashing came in the
form of an article by Nina Bernstein in the September 29 International
Herald Tribune entitled "Meet Mr. Germany and Ms. France".
Bernstein's thesis, which I wished I would have dreamed up, is that in the
mind of Americans, France is a frilly, frivolous, unpredictable woman
whereas Germany is "just another guy." Sound simplistic? When you think
about it, it makes sense. Remember: the Germans took exactly the same
position as the French did on Iraq but no one got up in arms about it or
started German-bashing.
Writes Bernstein: "Sure, both countries were dubbed members of the "Axis of
Weasel" by the New York Post and scathingly dismissed as Old Europe for
opposing the war in Iraq. But no one poured schnapps down the toilet,
renamed sauerkraut or made jokes on prime-time television denigrating German
manhood. Only France can evoke that kind of sophomoric frenzy."
I thought of another example today. I'm always bashing the French for
smoking so much. What a surprise to discover in a new survey that Germans
smoke more than the French! It never would have entered my mind - and now
I think I'm beginning to understand why people always pick on the French.
Take smoking justement. Even if the Germans smoke more, they probably don't
smoke IN YOUR FACE. In restaurants they probably don't relegate their
non-smokers to unenviable places near the toilets. They probably don't light
up in non-smoking areas like the French do.
In other words, the Germans maintain a low profile, a REALLY hard thing for
the French to do.
But how can the French not be French? If nothing else, you've got to admire
their panache -- a very French word describing a very French trait.
Now that I've compared Scotland and France and Germany and France, I can
move on to the U.S. and France and their respective educational systems.
Having been educated in the U.S., I was in cultural shock for YEARS after
sending our sons to French schools.
I really thought they'd never survive - but they did and I'm here to tell
the story.
In spite of what I saw as repeated attempts to squelch their personalities,
rob them of creativity and do irremediable damage to their self-image and
self-confidence, my sons did just fine.
And I must say that the fact that a French education is virtually free (four
years of college is not something you have to start saving for from the time
the kid is born) is a major plus.
In the best of cases, you've got a) a very smart kid, b) who goes on to what
the French call "une grande école", the equivalent of our Harvard, Yale,
Columbia and M.I.T. rolled up into one. In this scenario, for almost no
money, your offspring has had a world class education and will never have
any problem finding a job because these kinds of students are in great
demand.
In the worst case, you've got a slow learner or a child who's not very
interested in school. You are then faced with a major problem as French
schools aren't equipped to deal with slow learners or learning disabiltiies.
And in between, you've got the bright kid who does not choose to go to a
"grande école" but instead goes to the "Fac", does well, gets his Master's
degree, goes on to get the first part of the doctoral degree which will
ascertain whether he can pursue his doctoral studies. Not bad! And then
you see how the system works - or doesn't. (The "bright kid" in question is
our second son who is working on his doctoral degree in Philosophy at the
Sorbonne).
In an American university where people pay an enormous amount of money, you
cannot imagine for one moment getting to the level of a doctoral degree and
being virtually on your own. Finding a thesis director is a veritable
treasure hunt as university professors in France are either too busy or too
truly uninterested to help students.
My son actually found a professor interested in his subject - but when he
told him he would be working while writing his thesis, said professor
turned him down. "I don't take students who work," he proclaimed.
"And how are we supposed to live?" my son queried.
"That's your problem," was the answer.
Oh, I have complete faith in my son - after all, he's made his way this far
and if there's one thing the French educational system taught him, it's that
he'll have to figure things out for himself because there's no one,
including the people who are supposed to be doing it, to help him.
I'm just surprised that you can get that far in your studies and still be
dumped on.
My sons, both of whom defend the French educational system, by the way,
would tell you I'm up in arms about nothing at all.
And when I think how well they've both done and how far they've gone in
their studies and that for both of them we must have spent a total of not
even $3000 instead of $200,000 in the States, I guess I shouldn't gripe!!!
I should, however, realize, that no matter how long you live in a country,
comparisons arise.
It's called culture shock.
And even after all these years, sometimes I've still got it.
But I should be so lucky to have as my only worry whether or not my son will
find a thesis director.
In an event that shook France to its core this month, a young man the age of
my son publicly struggled with a momentous decision: how to die.
The young man's name was Vincent Humbert and up until three years ago he
was a vigorous 19-year-old firemen living the life of other young people
that age. A car accident on a road in Normandy left him paralyzed, mute,
blind, with no sense of smell or taste - and in the hospital for life.
As time passed and any hope of recovery faded, Vincent repeatedly told his
mother, Marie, that he wanted to die and entreated her to help him.
He also decided he wanted to die in France where assisted suicide is illegal
and he began a campaign to make his plea for euthanasia heard. If nothing
else, he could at least orchestrate his own death.
From his bed at a hospital in Berck-sur-Mer, the 22-year-old victim appealed
directly to the President of France to intervene. While
touched by his case, Chirac replied that the president did not have that
right.
After the request to the French President failed, Vincent's mother announced
to the media that she would take it upon herself to end her son's life at
the time of her choosing. She had promised him, and she couldn't bear to
see him suffer.
Three years to the day of his accident, Marie, a devoted mother who had
spent every day with her son, decorating a room he couldn't see with his
favorite posters, working as a cleaning lady so she could be by his side at
the hospital which was far from their home, staying by his bed for hours
holding his hand, put sedatives into his drip. Vincent was plunged into a
coma from which he never emerged. Doctors at the hospital later admitted
they made the decision not to keep him alive.
Although taken into custody by French authorities, Marie Humbert is being
treated leniently by the law.
Vincent's constant and unwavering appeal for deliverance and his mother's
courage, her dedication to the care of her son and the decision they made
together to alleviate his pain and end his life have moved the entire
nation.
There's not one mother in France who didn't put herself in Marie's place and
wonder what she would have done. Whether they are for it or against it,
Marie's selfless act has made a lot of people in this country think very
seriously about the subject of euthanasia.
In a book Vincent wrote with the help of a journalist who repeatedly went
through the alphabet so he could spell out words, he reiterated the need to
put an end to the forbiddance of euthanasia.
And he paid an ultimate tribute to his mother and asked people not to
condemn her.
"What she has done for me," he wrote of his imminent death, "is the most
beautiful proof of love in the world."
Events like the above tend to put things in perspective. I shake my head
with wonder when I see all those down-at-the-mouth Parisians quarreling
over parking places or who was first in line or some other mundane petty
matter. They're so lucky to be alive and in good physical condition!
I have a remedy for their mental health though.
They can engage in the latest rage: laughter classes. These courses, in
which students are taught to cast off their inhibitions with big belly
laughs and animal-like roars, are spreading like wildfire throughout Paris.
Paying to learn to laugh does indeed sound like a joke but in these days of
strife and stress, maybe it's not so strange after all.
Now if we could just get Bush and Chirac to sign up for a course. One big
belly laugh might make them drop all those Franco-American bones of
contention - for a second or two.
Dream on, you'll say.
Well, why not? On peut toujours rever!
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.
Harriet is currently working on her third book about the French.
For more of Harriet's prose on Paris, and ruminations of France and the French,
she and her husband Philip have a
website.
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.
