French Lesson #1: Manners and “La Politesse”

Somehow despite regular reminder in French class as to the hierarchy of different forms of address, I never fully realized how crucially important using “vous” is in public. I’m only beginning to make this my default mode, particularly after a slip up where “S’il te plait” earned me a very dirty look and I kicked myself for not slowing down to address them politely. The importance of being “bien élevé” (well raised) is central to the functioning of their society, and thus a constant “bonjour monsieur” or “bonsoir Madame” must be the first thing out of one’s mouth. A phrase that does work wonders for French and feeble speaker alike is, “Je suis désolée de vous déranger monsieur…” (I’m sorry to bother you sir…) This should be uttered for the smallest impractical question in a store and pre-empt your exclamations over the dead body you just found when you bother the poor policeman from his route. Likely such an emergency would be described as “j’ai une petite problème” (I have a little problem…) Thus far I’ve been most successful in the quiet stores where I’ve wondered in alone and been able to exchange appropriate greetings in a more intimate context.

My primary complaint at the moment as I go through my programs orientation is many of the Americans/girls/classmates tendencies to migrate in groups. Not only is this something that the French do not do as they navigate their way through the small, narrow streets, but the Americans haven’t developed any consciousness of the noise that they make or how much room they’re taking up when they walk side by side with lots of “personal space” bubbles that are just big enough that a French person can’t squeeze through. Being a person who even in Iowa is very conscious of the volume of conversation, it’s mortifying for me when they don’t know how to keep their voices down in the café and simply talk softly over the table. The French certainly notice and I already know the chilling affect of their icy glare, and yet I don’t quite have the courage of yet to always say to my American companions “please, hush…” I also have a harder time being with the Americans when navigating the streets because many of them look so out of place and noticeably American. When alone I can navigate quite comfortably because I’m use to the Vancouver etiquettes of not smiling at strangers or making eye contact with men, and I’d like to think that my clothes have yet to mark me as American either (something which I say with a bit more confidence because my French homestay declared, “tu t’habilles trés francaise!” (you dress very French) which at this rate feels like one of the highest compliments.)

Looking “American” might not be so painful if the tennis shoes, bell-bottom jeans, and flannel jacket didn’t make you an immediate target for the taunts of some men who walk behind you making crude propositions “parce que vous êtes anglaise.” (because you’re English- a term for any one who speaks the language). This has put me in the doubly irked position of annoyance at the torments of “les français” but also feeling like I could grasp my north American friends hand and say, “can you please try to not look to American.” As we do orientation classes on many public etiquettes, I may be experiencing double culture shock as I realize how I was truly not raised with similar values of appropriate public interaction as many of the American students, nor do I yet process all the proper formalities of functioning in France. My current strategy for social and public survival is to find those more culturally sensitive individuals with whom we can at least try to blend in together. Everything is just barely underway and I remind myself that today is in fact only the beginning of the third full day in France. If I’ve given myself a three month marker for reasonable social fluency in France, I need not panic yet that the day to day is more challenging than I anticipated.

Did I mention that the yoghurt is fantastic? OR that I’m writing this at two o’clock in the morning because my body is still not on French time… ooh lalalaa…

Waiting

Its easy not to write when waiting for inspiration. It's a very passive attendance, attuned for that moment when words run smooth. But my books of late are failing me and their words do little to generate fresh thought. I have no new secrets and I'd rather not report on the day to day- I'm left rather uninspired. I'm in a complacent limbo, waiting for life to begin. This is scheduled for 9:34 AM on Tuesday the 20th of January, my flight to a life that I've selectively chosen to fill with fine food, the revelry of youth, and the romance of another language. I wish I could encapsulate without seeming to be an indulgent epicurean how much I need carelessness and fun. Right now too much thought is wasted on life theory and not enough life living. I hope by the time I'm 30 or 80, I can look back at my self now and smile and shake my head. I hope I can say, "Me oh my, how I so needlessly fretted." I'd prefer current thoughts to be nothing but pointless flounderings and the basis of purpose to be far removed from confusion and uncertainty.

We have such a breadth of allowance for the life of each individual. To one is prescribed luck and happiness and to another only grief. It was long ago said that life is not fair, but I'm mystified more that we aren't more put off by both extremes. Within this range human life is so much harder to define and thus difficult for for the young such as myself to direct an end. I feel like we're told to feel guilt whenever prosperity affords happiness and simultaneously taught pious satisfaction as the remedy for our complaints. Perhaps our feelings might be secondary to what we do with our lives, but once again one needs a value to which one directs their end.